A; Al O! O! 1 i 4\ 2\ 3 j 2 = 1\ 5! PR 5671 T24H6 No. VI, FRENCH'S STANDARD DRAMA THE IIOIEY-MOON: 21 piaj}. IN FIVE ACTS. BY JOHN TOBIN. WITH THE STAGE BUSINESS, CAST OF CHARACTERS, SOS TUMES, RELATIVE POSITIONS, &c. NEW YORK: SAMUEL FRENCH, 122 Nassau Street, (Up Staiks.) J/p LIBRARY '1 7/ rarv^ERsn Y OF California ;, / //^ SANTA BARBARA EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION. Thekb are few more deligntful comedies in the English language than this. The language is fluent, rich, and harmonious ; the moml tone is good, and the comic incidents are exceedingly effective. John Philip Kemble gave as a reason for not accepting this play, when it was offered to him ; that it was too much of a plagiarism from Beaumont and Fletcher's " Rule a Wife and Have a Wife," Shakspeare's " Taming of the Shrew," and other old comedies. The objection is not a vaUd one ; as Tobin was less indebted to these plays for his hints, than the dramatists named were to their predecessors. He farther deserves the credit of having preserved all the spirit, without a particle of the grossness, of his favourite models. John Tobin, who wrote " The Curfew," " The Honey-Moon," and one or two other dramatic pieces, was born at Salisbury, in England, January 28th, 1770. He was educated for the law ; but his taste for dramatic writing was too predominant to be superseded by the allurements of Black- stone and Coke. " Between the opposite claims on his attention from the law and the muses," says Mrs. Inchbald, " he became negligent of all healthful exercise ; and as neither his person nor constitution was robust, progressive indisposition was the result of his incessant avocations, and soon arrived at such an alarming crisis, that, by the advice of his physi- cians, he went into Cornwall, and remained there till a warmer climate was prescribed." In 1804, the invalid embarked at Bristol for the West Indies. The ves- sel on arriving at Cork was detained for some days ; but, on the 7th of iv EDITOEIAL INTRODUCTION. December, it sailed from that port ; on whicli day — witliout any apparent change in hh disorder to indicate the approach of death, — he expired. The history of the Honey-Moon affords a remarkable instance of the fact that actors and managers are often the poorest judges of that specie.s of dramatic writing, which is destined to be effective in the representation. Poor Tobin found it impossible to persuade either actor or manager to take this piece under his protection, and produce it upon the stage ; and the disappointed author died without knowing that he had written one of the most brilliant and successful acting comedies in the English language. The Honey-Moon was not represented till the year succeeding his death ; and then its success was almost unparalleled. The part of " Juliana" has had many representatives in this country, who have won merited celebrity in the character. Mrs. Mowatt is one of the latest of these ; and we doubt if any of her predecessors have ever ;)reyented a more just, spirited and pictureaque embodiineat of the author's soat-«ptioiL CAST OF CHARACTERS. Drwy iMiie, 1824. Park, 1846. Duke Aranza, Mr. EUiMon. Mr. G. Vrndothqff, Jacques, " Harlcy. " Jjafs. Lampedo, " Oxhcrry. " Fislirr. Rolando " Rmsell. " Di/ntt. Count Montalban " Barnard. " Bbrml. Baltliazar, " Tknmvson. " Vache. Lopuz, " Knight. '■ Be Walden. Cani])illo, " Meredith. " Anderson. Servant to Balthazar " Coveney. " Ga'lot. Juliana " 3Irs. Edwin. " Mrs. Mcu-nti. Volante, " Miss F. Kelly. " Mrs. Abbott. Zamora, " Mrs. Orger. " Miss Crcckcr. Hostess, " 3Irs. Harlowc. " Mrs. Vernon. Servants to Duke, Rustics, &c. COSTUMES. DUKE. — Wedding dress. — Second dress : Peasant's grey or drab tnnick drab slouch hat, blue worsted pantaloons, and russet I)Outs. Third dress : splendid satin ducal vest, rich velvet robe trimmed with green and silver, white silk pantaloons, white shoes, &c. COUNT — A fawn-coloured jacket and tabs, with green and silver trim- ming, pantaloons of the same, hat and feathers, and rasset boots, gaunt- lets, sword and belt. Second dress : Monk's gown. ROLANDO — Messina uniform (or Pierre's dress,) russet boots and spurs, gauntlets, cap and feathers, sword and belt. BALTHAZAR Drab jackets and trunks, trimmed with green ribbon bows and tin tags, grey wig. LAMPEDO — Black close shape, red stockings, black shoes, small three- cornered hat, and cane. CAMPILLO. — Drab-coloured jerkin and trunks, blue stockings and russet .shoes. LOPEZ — A peasant jacket and trunks, light blue stockings, russet shoes, round white hat, and long light hair. JA(}UES. — Handsome velvet shape, large cloak, red stockings with silver clocks, white shoes, sword, and red curled wig. PEDRO — Jerkin and trunks, blue stockings, russet shoes. JULIANA.— Wedding dress. Rich white satin and silver, large drooping white feathers, and jewels. Second dress : light blue, or siate-colourcd liody. and i)elticoat ])lainly trimmed with black l)inding or silk, blue .'rtockings, and black shoes. Third dress : Neat white muslin. VOLANTE. — Handsome satin dress, with ornaments, and feathers. ZAJ.IORA. — Page's tunick, and pantaloons, russet ankle boots, and cap. Second d^css : handsome satin and silver dress, and large veil. HOSTESS.— Black dress, with red points, point lace apron, and cap. N. B, Passages marked xvith Inverted Commas, are usually omitted in tin representation. THE HONEYMOOK ACT I . Scene I. — A Street in Madrid. Enter Duke and Montalbax. i.. foUoived hy a Servant. He crosses behind to r. D^iike. ( Speaking to Servant.) This letter yoii will give my steward ; — this To iny old tenant, Lopez. Use despatch, sir ; Your negligence may ruin an affair Which 1 have much at heart. — (Exit Sei-vont, kJ — Why. how now, Count ! , You look but dull upon my wedding-day, Nor show the least reflection of that joy Which breaks from me, and should light up my friend. Count. (-L.) If I could set my features to my tongue, I'd give your highness joy. Still, as a friend, Whose expectation lags behind his hopes, I wish ygu happy. Duke. You shall see me so, — Is not the lady I have chosen fair? Count. Nay, she is beautiful. Duke. Of a right age ? Count. In the fresh prime of youth, and bloom of wo- manhood. Duke. A well-proportion'd form, and noble presence ? Count. True. Duke. Then her wit ? Her wit is admirable ! Count. There is a passing shrillness in her voice. Dvice. Has she nd; wit ? 8 ' THE HOXT^YMOON. [AcT 1 Count. A shai-p-edged tongue, I own ; But uses it as hravoes do their swords — Not for defence, but mischief. Then, her gentleness ! You had almost forgot to speak of that. Duke. Ay, there you touch me ! Yet though she be prouder Than the vex'd ocean at its topmost height And every breeze will chafe her to a storm, 1 love her still the better. Some prefer Smoothly o'er an unwriukled sea to glide ; Others to ride the cloud-aspiring waves. And hear, amid the rending tackles' roar, I'lie spirit of an equinoctial gale. What though a patient and enduring lover — Like a tame spaniel, that, with crouching eye, Meets buffets and caresses — I have ta'eu, With humble thanks, her kindness and her scorn : Yet, when I am her husband, she shall feel I was not born to be a woman's slave I \_Crosses, v Can you be secret ? Coiiiil. You have found me so In matters of some moment. DultC. Listen, then : " I have prepared a penance for her pride, "To which a cell and sackcloth, and and the toils " Of a oarefooted pilgrimage, were pastime." — As yet she knows me, as 1 truly am, The Duke Aranza : in which character I have fed high her proud and soaring fancy With the description of my states and fortunes, My princely mansions, my delicious gardens, My carriages, my servants, and my pomp. Now mark the contrast. — In the very height A lid fullest pride of her ambitious hopes, 1 take her to a miserable hut (■ All things are well digested for the purpose \) Where, throwing off the title of a duke, i will appear to her a low-born peasant. There, with coarse raiment, household drudgery, Laborious exercise, and cooling viands, 1 will so lower her distempered blood, And tame the devil in her, that, before Scene I.] the honeymoon. We have barnt out our happy honeymoon, She, like a well-train'd hawk, shall, at my wliistle, Quit her high fliglits, and perch upon my finger, To wait my bidding. [Crosses Count. Most excellent ! A plot of rare invention : Duke. " When, with a bold hand, I have weeded out " The rank growth of her pride,^he'll be a garden " Lovely in blossom, rich in fruit ; till then, " An unpruued wilderness." — But to your business. How thrives your suit with her fair sister. Count ? Count. The best advancement I can boast of in it Is, that it goes not backward. She's a riddle, ^Vhich he that solved the sphinx's would die guessing. If I but mention love, she starts away, And wards the subject off with so much skill, That whether she be hurt or tickled most, Iler looks leave doubtful. Yet I fondly think She keeps me (as the plover from her nest Fearful misleads the traveller) from the point "Where live her warmest wishes, that are breathed For me in secret. Duke. You've her father's voice ? Count. Yes : and we have concerted, that this eveningj Instead of Friar Dominick, her confessor, Who from his pious office is disabled By sudden sickness, I should visit her ; And, as her mind's physician, feel the pulse Of her affection, ,«^ Duke. May you quickly find ''" lier love to you the worst of her offences t For then her absolution will be certain. Farewell ! I see Kolando. He is a common railer against women ; And, on my wedding-day, I will hear none Blaspheme the seJl^ Besides, as once he failed In the same suit that I have thriven in, 'Twill look like triumph. 'Tis a grievous pity He follows them -with such a settled spleen. For he has noble c(ualities. Count. Most rare ones — A happy wit, and independent spiiit, Duke. And he is brave, too. 10 THE HONEYMOON. [AcT I. Cownt Of as tried a courage As ever walk'd up to the roaring throats Of a deep-ranged artillery ; and planted, 'Midst fire and smoke, upon an enemy's wall, The standard of his country. Duke. Farewell, Count Count. Success attend your schemes 1 Duke. Fortune crown yours I \_Exit, i. Enter Rolando, l. Count. Siguor Rolando, you seem melancholy. Rol. As an old cat in the mumps. I met three women— 1 marvel much they suffer them to walk Loose in the streets, whilst other untamed monsters. Are kept in cages — three loud talking women 1 Tliey were discoursing of the newest fashions, And their tongues went like — I have since been thinking What most that active member of a woman Of mortal things resembles. Count. Have you found it ? Rol. Umph ! Not exactly — something like a smoie- jack ; For it goes ever without winding up : But that wears out in time — there fails the simile. Next I bethought me of a water-mill ; But that stands still on Sundays ; AVoman's tongue needs no reviving sabbath. And, besides, * A mill, to give it motion, waits for grist ; Now, whether she has aught to sajF or no, A woman's tongue will go for exercise. h\ short, I came to this conclusion : Most earthly things have their similitudes, But woman's tongue is yet incomparable. Was't not the duke that lef||you ? Count. 'Twas. llol. He saw me, And hurried off ! Count. Ay ! 'Twas most wise in him, To shun the bitter flowing of your gall. — You know he's on the brink of matrimony. Rol. Why now, :n reason, what can he expect, ScF.ND I.] TIIIC HONEYMOON. 11 To marry such a ^YOlnan ? A thing so closely pack'd with her own pride, tShe has no room for any thouglit of him. Why, she ne'er threw a word of kindness at him, But wlicn she quarrell'd with her monkey. — Then, As he with nightly minstrelsy doled out A lying ballad to her })eerless beauty, Unto liis whining lute, and, at each turn, 8igird like a pavionr, the kind lady, sir, Would lift the casement up — to laugh at him, And vanish like a shooting star ; whilst he, Ijike an astronomer in an eclipse, Stood gazing on the spot whence she departed : Then, stealing home, went supperless to bed, And fed all night upon her apparition, — Now, rather tliau espouse a thing like this, I'd wed a bear that never learnt to dance. Though her first hug were mortal. Count. Peace, Rolando 1 You rail at women as priests cry down pleasure ; Who, for the penance which they do their toi:gues, Give ample license to their appetites. " Come, come, however you may mask your nature, " I know the secret pulses of your heart " Beat towards them still." A woman hater ! Pshaw I A young and handsome fellow, and a brave one — Rol. Go on. Count. Had I a sister, mother, nay, grandaui, \\\ no more trust her in a corner with thee. Than cream within the whiskers of a cat. Rol. Right ! I should beat her. You are very right, I liave a sneaking kindness for the sex ; A nd could I meet a reasonable woman. Fair witiiont vanity, rich without pride, Discreet though witty, Icarn'd, yet very humble ; Tliat has no ear for flattery, no tongue l'\)r scaudi.l ; one who never reads romances ; \Vho loves to listen better than to talk, And rather than be gadding would sit quiet ; I'd marry, certainly. You shall find two such, And we'll both wed together. Count. You are merry ,^ 13 THE HONEYMOON. _ [AcT I Where shall we dine together ? Rol. Not to-day. Comit. Nay, I insist. Kol. Where shall I meet you, then ? Count. Here at tlie Mermaid. lioL I don't like the sign ; A mermaid is half woman. Count. Pshaw, Rolando ! You strain this humour beyond sense or measure. Rol. Well, on condition that we're very private, And that we drink no toast that's feminine, I'll waste some time with you. Count. Agreed. Enter Zamora, l. (disguised as Eugenio.) Rol. Go on, then ; I will but give directions to my page, And follow you. Count. A pretty smooth-faced boy ! Rol. Tlie lad is handsome ; and for one so young — Save that his heart would flutter at a drum, And he would rather eat his sword than draw it — He is the noblest youth in Christendom. Wlien before Tunis, I got well scratch'd for leaping on the walls Too nimbly, tliat same boy attended me. 'Tvvould bring an honest tear into thine eye, To tell thee how, for ten days, without sleep. And almost nourislnnent, he waited on me ; Cheer'd the dull time, by reading merry tales ; And when my festering body smarted most, Sweeter tlian a fond mother's lullaby Over her peevish child, he sung to me. That the soft cadence of his dying tones Proj>i)'d like an oily balsam on my wounds. And breathed an healing influence throughout me. — lint this is womanish ! — Order our dinner. And I'll be with yon presently. Count. I will not fail. [E:dt Count, r (Zamora comes forward, L.) Tlol The wars are ended, boy. Zam. I'm glad of that, sir. Rol. You slioiild Ije sorry if you love your master. — SCKVE 1,] THE HONEYMOON, 13 Zam. Tlion I am very sorry. Rol. We must part, boy I ^am. Part ? Ilol. I am serious. Zam. Nay, you cannot mean it. Have I been idle, sir, or negligent ? Saucy I'm sure I have not. — If aught else, It is my first fault : chide rae gently for it- Nay, heavily ; — but do not say, we part ! livl. I'm a disbanded soldier, without pays Fit only now, with rusty swords and henilets. To hang up in the armoury, till the wars New burnisli me again ; so poor, indeed, I can but leauly cater for myself, Much less provide for thee. Zam. Let not that Divides us, sir ; the thought of how I fared Never yet troubled me, and shall not now, " Indeed, I never followed you for hire, " But for the simple and the pure delight " Of serving such a master." — If we must part^ L'^t me wear out my service by degrees ; To-day omit some sweet and sacred duty, Some dearer one to-morrow ; slowly thus My nature may be wean'd from her delight : But suddenly to quit you, sir 1 — I cannot 1— I sliould go broken-hearted. Rot. Pshaw, those tears 1 Well, well, we'll talk of this some other day. I dine with Count Montalban at the Mermaid; ill the mean time, go and amuse yourself With what is wortliiest note in this famed city. — l^ut hark, Eugenio ! Tis a wicked place ; You'll meet (for they are weeds of every soil^ Abundance here of — women ; — keep aloof ! For they are like the smooth, but brittle, ice, Tiiat tempts th' unpractised urcliin to his ruin. They are like comets, to be wonder'd at, iiut not approacii'd ; (;io not within their reach ! — {Exit, a Z'ifn. Doul)t me not, sir. — VV'h.it u hard late is mine ! — To follow thus 14 THE HONEYMOON. [AcT I. With love a geatlemau that scorus my seX; Aud swears no great or noble quality Ever yet lived in woman ! — When I read to him The story of Lucretia, o'- of Portia, Or other glorious dame, or some rare virgin. Who, cross'd in love, has died — 'mid peals of laughter. He praises the invention of the writer : Or growing angry, bids me shut the book, Xor with such dull lies wear his patience out. — What opposition has a maid like me To turn the headstrong current of his spleen I — For though he sets off with a lavish tongue My humble merits, thinking me a boy. Yet, should I stand before his jaundiced sight A woman, all that now is fair in me Might turn to ugliness ; all that is good Appear the smooth gloss of hypocrisy ; — Yet I must venture the discovery. Though 'tis a fearful hazard. This perplexity Of hopes and fears makes up too sad a life ; I will, or lose him quite, or be his wife. [JExtt, l Scene II. — A Room in Balthazars House Enter Balthazar antid Yolante, l. Bal. Not yet apparell'd ? Vol. 'Tis her wedding day, sir : On such occasions women claim some grace. Bal. How bears she The coming of her greatness ? Vol. Bravely, sir. Instead of the high honors that await her, J think that, were she now to be enthroned, Siie would become her coronation : For, when she has adjusted some stray lock. Or fix'd, at last, some sparkling ornament, She views her beauty with collected pride, Musters her whole soul iu her eyes, aud says, {^Crosses, b " Iji>ok I not like an empress?" — but she comes. — I'Jiifc.r Ji'MANA lit her •verlding dress, h. Ji'l. VVtill, sir, what think you ? Do I to the life Scene II.] the honeymooit 15 Appear a duchess, or will people say, She does but poorly play a part which nature Never design'd her for ? — But, where's the duke ? Bnl. Not come yet. Jul. How ? not come ? — the duke not come ! Vol. Patience, sweet sister ; oft without a murmur It lias been his delight to wait for you. Jul. It was his duty. — Mau was born to wait On woman, and attend her sovereign pleasure I This tardiness upon his wedding-day Is l>ut a sorry sample of obedience. Bal. Obedience, girl 1 Jul. Ay, sir, obedience ! Vol. Why, what a wire-drawn puppet you will make The man you marry ! — I suppose, ere long, You'll choose how often he shall walk abroad For recreation ; fix his diet for him ; Bespeak his clothes, and say on what occasions He may put on his finest suit — Jvl. Proceed. [Crosses, o Vol. Keep all the keys, and, when he bids his friends, ]\Iete out a modicum of wiue to each. Had you not better put him in a livery At once, and let him stand behind your chair ? Why, I would rather wed a man of dough, Such as some school-girl, when the pie is made, To amuse her childish fancy, kneads at hazard Out of the remnant paste — a paper man, (^ut by a baby. Heavens preserve me ever From that dull blessing — an obedient husband 1 Jul. And make you an obedient wife ! — A thing For lordly man to vent his humors on ; A dull domestic drudge to be abused. " If yoii think so, my dear :" and, " As you please :" And, '' You know best ;" — even when he nothing knows I have no patience — that a free-born woman Should sink the high tone of her noble nature Down to a slavish whisper, for that compound Of frail mortality they call a man, And give her charter up to niaki; a tyrant ! Bal. You talk it most heroically. — Prido May l^e a proper bait to catch a lover, 16 THE HONEYMOON. [AcT I. But, trust me, daughter, it will not hold a husband. Jul. Leave that to me — and what should I have caught, If I had fish'd with your humility ? — Some pert apprentice, or rich citizen, Who would have bought me ; some poor gentleman, AVhose high patrician blood would have descended To wed a painter's daughter and — her ducats — I felt my value, and still kept aloof ; Nor stopp'd my eye till I had met the man, Pick'd from all Spain, to be my husband, girl ; And him I have so managed, that he feels I have conferred an honour on his house, By coyly condescending to be his. {^Crosses, l. Bal. He comes. \_KiiocJdng, r. Vol. Smooth your brow, sister. Jul. For a man I He must be one not made of mortal clay, then. K. Enter Four Attendants \st, the Duke 2nd ; the Attendants remain on r. Oh ! you are come, sir ? I have waited for you ! — Is this your gallantry ? at such a time, too ? Dule. I do entreat your pardon ; — if you knew The pressing cause — Vol. Let me entreat for hira. Bal. Come, girl, be kind. Jul. Well, sir, you are forgiven. Dicke. You are all goodness ; let me on this hand — \_Crosses to }i£i\ taking her hand, which she withdraivs. Jul. Not yet, sir ; — 'tis a virgin hand as yet, And my own pro})erty : — forbear awhile, And, with this humble person, 'twill be yours. Dulx, Exquisite modesty ! — Come, let us ou ! All things are waiting for the ceremony ; And, till you grace it. Hymen's wasting torch Burns dim and sickly. — Come, my Juliana. {_Di(ke. offers Jioliana his haml, she refuses and crosses r. Balthazar howing to the Duke passes him, and leads Juliana off; Dalce goes next, Attendants follow. Lively Music. Exevnt, r. Scene I.] the honeymoon. 17 ACT II. Scene I. — A Cottage. Tahe a/n% two chairs. A door on at 1st e. h Enter tke Duke, leading in Jdliana, l. d. Duke. IB rings a chair forward, c. and sits down.] You are welcome home. Jul. [Crosses R.] Home ! You are merry ; this retired spot Would be a palace for au owl I Du/ie, 'Ti.s ours. — Jid. Ay, for the time we stay in it. Duke. By Heaven, "J'liis is the noble inanslou that I spoke of I Jul. This ! — You are not in earnest, though you bear it With such a sober brow. — Come, come, you jest. Duke. Indeed I jest not ; were it ours in jest, We siiould have none, wife. Jill. Are you serious, sir ? Duke. I swear, as I'm your husband, and no duke. Jul. No duke ? Du/ce. But of my own creation, lady. Jtd. Am I betrayed — Nay. do not play the fool 1 It i,s too keen a joke. Duke. You'll find it true. Jul. You are no duke, then ? Duke. None. Jul. Have I been cozened ? [Aside. And have you no estate, sir ? No palaces, nor houses ? Uuke. None but this : — .V small snug dwelling, and in good repair. Jul. Nor money, nor efl'ects ? Duke. None that I know of. Jul. And the attendants who have waited on us — Duke. They were my friends ; who, having done mj business, Are gone about their owu 18 ' THE HONEYMOON. [Acr If. Jd. Why, then, 'tis clear. — [Aslrh. That I was ever born ! — What are you, sir ? Duke. (Rises.) I am aa honest man — that may conteni you. Young, nor ill-favour'd — should not that content you ? I am your husband, and that must content you. Jul. I will go home ! \_Going, \,. Dtdce. You are at home, already. [ Staying /kt. Jul. I'll not endure it 1 — But remember this — Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess, sir 1 [Crosses, l. Duke. A duchess ! Y^ou shall be a queeu, — to all Who, by the courtesy, will call you so J^d. And I will have attendance 1 Duke. So you shall. When you have learnt to wait upon yourself. Jul. To wait upon myself ! Must I bear this ? I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me. And bite my tongue iu two, for saying yes ! (Crosses, r. Duke. And if you should, 'twould grow again. — I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife (^For such, my would-be duchess, you will find me,) You were cut out b^' nature. Jul. You will find, then. That education, sir, lias spoilt me for it.— Why ! do you think I'll work ? Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife. Jul. What ! Hub and scrub Your noble palace clean ? Duke. Those tajjer fingers Will do it diiintily. Jul. And dress your victuals (^If there I>e any) '{ — Oh ! I could go mad ! (Crosses, i, Duke. And mend niv hose, and darn my nightca])s neai/ ly : * Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to — Jul. Or like a clock, talk only once an hour ? Duke. Or like a dial ; for that quietly Performs its work, and never speaks at all. Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs 1 — Oh, mons- trous 1 And when I stir abroad, on great occasioui Carry a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar j SoKVl! I.] THK HONKYIIOON. 19 Or jolt with higglers' wires the market trot To sell your eggs and butter 1 ICro^ses, l. Duke. Excellent ! How well you sum the duties of a wife ! Why, what a blessing I shall have in you I Jul. A blessing 1 Duke. When they talk of you and ine, Dnrby and Joan shall no more be remembered : — • ^Ve shall be happy I Jul. Shall we ? Duke. Wondrous happy 1 Oh, yon will make an admirable wife I Jul. I'll make a devil. Duke. What ? Jv2. A very devil. Duke. Oh, no ! We'll have no devils. Jul. I'll not bear it ! I'll to my father's ! — Duke. Gently : you forget You are a perfect stranger to the road. Jul. My wrongs will find a way, or make one. Duke. Softly 1 'i'ou stir not hence, except to take the air ; And then I'll breathe it with you. Jul. What, confine me ? Duke. 'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroack Jul. Am I a truant schoolboy ? Duke. Nay, not so ; But you must keep your bounds. Jul. And if I break them Perhaps you'll beat me. — Duke. Beat you 1 The man that lays his hand upon a woman, 8;ive in the way of kindness, is a wretch \Vhom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward— I'll talk to you, lady, but not beat you. Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father I may write to him, surely 1 — And I will — If I can meet within your spacious dukedom Three such unhoped-for miracles at once, As pens, and ink, and paper. Duke. You will find Ihem 20 THE HONEYMOON-. [AcT I In the next room. — A word, before you go — You are my wife, by every tie that's sacred ; The partner of my fortune and my bed — Jul. Your fortune ! Duke. Peace ! — No fooling, idle woman 1 Beneath th' attesting eye of Heaven I've sworn To love, to honour, cherish, and protect you. No human power can part us. What remains, then ? To fret, and worry and torment each other, And give a keener edge to our hard fate By sharp upbraidings, and perpetual jars ? — Or, like a loving and a patient pair f Waked from a dream of grandeur, to depend Upon their daily labour for support,) To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment ? — Now to your cliamber — write whate'er you please ; But pause before you stain the spotless pajjer. With words that may inflame, but cannot heal ! Jul. Why, wliat a patient worm you take rae for ! Duke. I took you for a wife ; and, ere I've done. I'll know you for a good one. Jid. You shall know me For a right woman, full of her own sex ; Wlio, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger ; ^Vho feels her own prerogative, and scorns, By the proud reason of superior man, To be taagiit patience, when her swelling heart Cries out revenge 1 \_E:nt at door in a Duke. Wliy, let the flood rage on 1 There is no tide in woman's wildest passion But hath an ebb. — I've broke the ice, however. — Write (o her fatlier ! — She may write a folio — But if she send it ! — 'Twill divert her spleen, — The (low of ink may save her blood-letting. Perchance she may have fits ! — They are seldom mortal, Save when the Doctor's sent for. — Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, A woman's honour is her safest guard, Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key. [LocJcs th door. So, thus begins our honey-moon. — 'Tis well 1 For tlie first fortnight, ruder than March winds. Scene II.] the honeymoon. 21 She'll blow a hnrrrcane. The next, perhnps, Like April she may wear a changeful face Of storm and sunshine : and, when that is past, She will break glorious as unclouded May ; And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blosisoraa Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness.^ Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy. Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, That after to the very lees shall relish ; And to the close of this frail life prolong The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. I^xif, r. Scene II. — BaUhazar^s house. Enter Balthazar, followed hy the Count, disguised as a Friar, R. Bat. These things premised, you have my full consent To try my daughter's humour ; But observe me, sir ! I will use no compulsion with my cliild : If I had tendered thus her sister Zamora, 1 should not now have mourned a daughLor lost I Enter Volaxte, l. Vol. What is yonr pleasure ? Bui. Know this holy man ; [^Introducing the Count to her. It is the father confessor I spoke of. Though lie looks young, in all things which respect His sacred function he is deeply learned. Vol. It is the Count 1 [Aside. Bal. I leave you to his guidance: \_Crossts, r. To his examination and free censure. Commit yonr actions and your private thoughts. Vol. I shall o\)serve, sir— [ii.a/, Bulfhazftr, R. Nay, 'tis he, 111 swear 1 [Asjde Count. Pray Heaven she don't suspect me ! Well, youQg lady, you have heard your father's commands ? Vol. Yes : and now he has left us alone, what are we to do? Couat I am to listen and you are to coufess. 22 THE HONEYMOON. [AcT II, Vol. "What I And then you are to confoss, and I am to listen ? — Oh I I'll take care you shall do peiiauoe tiio;i;;:i Count. Pshaw ! Vol. Well ; but when am I to confess I Count. Your sins, daughter ; your sins. Vol.. What ! all of them ? Count. Only the great ones. Vol. The great ones I Oh, you must learn those of my neiglibors, whose business it is, like yours, to confess every l>ody's sins but their own, If now you would be content with a few trifling peccadilloes, I would own them to you with all the frankness of an author, who gives his reader the paltry errata of the press, but leave him to find out all the capital blunders of the work itself. Count, l^aj, lady, this is trifling : I am in haste. Vol. In haste I Then suppose I confess my virtues ? You shall have the catalogue of them in a single breath Count. Nay, then, I must call your father. Vol. Why, then, to be serious : — If you will tell me of any very enormous offences which I may have lately connnit- ted, I shall have no objection in the world to acknowledge tlieni to you. Count. It is publicly reported, daughter, you are in love. Vol. So, so 1 Are you there I (Aside') Tliat I am iu love ? Count. With a man — Vol. Why, what should a woman be in love with ? Count. You interrupt me, lady. — A young man. Vol. I'm not in love with au old one, certainly. — But \i love a crime, father ? Count. Heaven forbid ! Vol. Why, then, you have nothing to do with it. Count. Ay, but tlie concealing it is a crime. Vol. Oh, tlic concealing it is a crime ? Count. Of the lirst magnitude. Vol. Why, then, I confess — Count. Well, what? Vol. That the Count Mantalban— Count. Go on I Vol. la— Coi.nt. Proce':?d I ScRXE II."| THK HOXKVMOUN. 23 Vol. Desperately in love with me Count. Pshaw ! Tiiat's not the point 1 Vol. Well, well, I'm comiuj;^ to it : and not being able in his own person to learn the state of my affections, has taken the benefit of clergy, and assumed the disguise of a friar. Count. Discovered 1 Vol. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! — You are but a young masqrader or you wouldn't have left your vizor at home. Come, come, Count, pull off your lion's apparel, and confess yourself an ass. [ Count takes off the Friarh gown. Count. Nay, Yolante, hear me ! Vol. Not a step nearer 1 — The snake is still dangerous, though he has cast his skin. I believe you are the first lover on record, that ever attempted to gain the affections of his mistress by discovering her faults. Now, if you had found out more virtues in my mind than there will ever be room for, and more charms in my person than ever my looking- glass can create, why, then, indeed — Count. What then ? Vol. Then I might have confessed what it's now impos- sible I can ever confess ; and so farewell, my noble count confessor ! [^Exit, i,. CoiiQit. Farewell And when I've hit upon the longitude, And plumbed the yet unfathomed ocean, I'll make another venture for thy love. Here comes her father. — I'll be fooled no longer. Enter Balthazar, r. Bal. Well, sir, how thrive you ? Count. E'en as I deserve : Your daughter has discovered, mock'd at, and left me. Bal. Yet I've another scheme. Count. Whatis't? Bal. My daughter, r>eing a lover of my art, of late Has vehemently urged to see your portrait ; Wliich, now, 'tis fiuish'd, I stand pledged she shall. (lO to the pielvire ruoni — and stand there eoneeal'd : Here is the key. I'll send my daughter straight : And if, as we snsp'^et, her heart leans tow'rds you, 24 THE HO.VEMOON. [AcT II In some ung-uarded gesture, speech, or action, Her love will suddenly break out — Away ! [ Count crosses n I hear her coming. Count. There's some hope in this. BaL It shall do wonders. — Hence I ExU CouxT; h. Enter Volante, l. Vol. What, is he gone, sir ? Bill. Gone ! D'ye you think the man is made of marhle ? Yes, he is gone, VcL. For ever ? Bal. Ay, forever. Vol. Alas, poor Count ! — Or has he only lei't you To study some new character? Pray, tell me, What will he next appear iu ? Bal. This is folly. 'Tis time to call your wanton spirits home— - You are too wild of speech. Vol. My thoughts are free, sir ; And those I utter — Bal. Far too quickly, girl ; \''our shrewdness is a scarecrow to your beauty. Vot, It will fright none but fools, sir : meii of sense must naturally admire in us the quality they most value in them- selves ; a blockhead only protests against the wit of a wo- man, because he cannot answer her drafts upon his under- staudiug. But now we talk of the Count, don't you remem- ber your promise, sir ? Bal. Umr.h ! (Aside.) What promise, girl ? Vol. That I slionld see your picture of him Bal. So you shall, when you can treat the original with a little more respect. Vol. IS' ay, sir, a promise ! Bal. Well, you'll find the door open. fVoLANXK crosses n.) But, before you go, tell me honestly, how do you like the count, his person, and uiid I's a iding ? Vol. Why, as to his jjcrson, 1 dou't think he's handsome enough to pine himself to deatl) for his own shadow, like the youtii in the fountain — nor yet so ugly .as to be frighteh- ed to dissolution if he shoukl look at iiimself iu a glass. Then, as to his uud(U'slaiuliiig, he has hardly wit enough to pass for a niadiuau, nor yet so -little as to bo taken for a fool Scene III.] the hon2YMOON, 25 In short, sir, I think the Count is very well worlh any yoiiiiL,^ woman's contemplation — when she hasuo better earthly thing to think about. [Runs off, n. Bal. So the glad bird, that flutters from the net, Grown wanton with the thought of his escape, Flies to the hmed bush, and there is caught. I'll steal and watch their progress. [^E:cit, r. Scene III. — T/ie Picture Room. The Count discovered concealing himself behind his portrait. Enter Volante, r. Vol. Confess that I love the Count ! — A woman may do a more foolish thing than to fall in love with such a man, and a wiser one than to tell him of it. {Looks at the picture ) 'Tis very like him — the hair is a shade too dark — and rather too much complexion for a despairing enamorato. Confess that I love him ! — Now there is only his picture : I'll see if I can't play the confessor a little better than he did. (She advances in centre of the stage to speak the fvllowing. The Count comes from, behind the picture and listens.) " Daughter, they tell me you're in love ?" — " Well, father, there is no harm in speaking the truth." — " With the Count Montalban, daugliter ? — " Father, you are not a confessor, but a conju- ror !"— -" They add, moreover, that yon have named the day for your marriage ?" — "There, father, you arc misinformed ; for, like a discreet maiden, I have left that for him to do." Then he should throw off his disguise — I should gaze at him with astonishment — he should open his arms, whilst I sunk gently into them — (2'he Count catcJies her in his arms.) — Tlie Count 1 Enter Balthazar, r. u. e. — My father, too I Nay, then, I am fairly hunted into the toil. There, take my hand. Count, while I am free to give it. Enter Oljiedo, with a Letter, r. Olm. A letter, sir. [EjiJ.w. Bal. From Juliana. \_Opens Ine lelle\ Vol. (c.) Well, what says she, sir? 26 THE HONEYMOON. [AoT II. Count, (l.) This will spoil all. [Aside. Vol, It bears untoward news : I« she not well, sir ? Bal (r.; 'Tis not that! Vol. What then, sir?— See how he knits his brow ! Bal. Here must be throats cut I <;/. AVhat moves you thus sir ? Bill. That would stir a statue I Your friend's a villain, sir I (Crosses to the Count) Read, read it out — And you, if I mistake not, are another 1 Vol. What can this mean ? Bal. Peace I hear hiin read the letter. Count. [Reads.] Dearest father ! I am deceived, betrayed, insulted ! The man tchoni I have viarried, is no duke .'" Vol. No duke 1 Bal. I'll be revenged 1 Read, sir — read I Count. [Reads.] " He has neither fortune., family nor friends." — B(d. You must have known all this, six* — But proceed ! Count. [Reads.] " He keeps me a prisoner here, in a miser- aide hovel ; from whence, unless I am speedily rescued by your in- terference, you may never hear more of yojir forhrrn, abused, " Juliana." Bal. What answer you to this, sir ? Count. Nothing. Vol. How ! Bal. 'Tis plain you are a partner in the trick Tiuit robb'd a doting father of his child. Count. Suspend your anger but a few short days, And you shall lind, though now a mystery Involves my friend — B(d. A mystery ! What mystery I There are no mysteries in honest men : What mystery, 1 say, can salve this conduf;t ? Is he a duke '{ Count, 1 cannot answer that. [^Crosses, r Bal. Then he's a villain I Count. Nay, upon my soul, He means yon fairly, honourably, uobly. ScE>fE IV.] rHE HONKYMOOX. t^ Bid. I will away to night, — Olniedo 1 Perez ! Get my horses ! You have some mystery, too, sir ! But, ere I set My sole survivinp; hope on such an hazard, I'll look into your countship's pedigree ; And for your noble, honourable duke, I'll travel night and day until I reach him ! And he shall find I am not yet so old But that my blood will flame at such an insult, And ray sword leap into my grasp. Believe me I will have full revenge ! Count. You shall. Bal. I will, sir ! And speedily 1 Count. Proceed, then, on your journey. With your good leave, I'll bear you company. And as the traveler, perplex'd awhile In the benighting mazes of a forest. Breaks on a champaign country, smooth and level, And sees the sun shine glorious, so shall yon, sir. Behold a bright close, and a golden end. To this now dark adventure. Vol. Go, my father I Bal. Y'ou speak in riddles, sir ; yet you speak tv ■ Count. And, if I speak not truly, may my hope In this fair treasure be extinct forever ! Bal. Then quickly meet us here, prepared for travel If, from the cloud that overhangs us now. Such light shall break as you have boldly promised. My daughter and my blessing still are yours, sir. Count. Blest in that word, I quit yon. [Erit, r. Bal. Come, girl ! [Crosses, r. This shall be sifted thoroughly : till then You must remain a fresh ungather'd flower. Vol. Well, sir ; I am not yet so overblown, But I may hang some time npon the tree. And still be worth the plucking. [JExeunt, l. ScENK IV. — The cottage. — Table, ckair. Enter the Duke, r. in a peasant's Dress : he unlocks the Door in Flat. Duke. Slie hath composed a letter ; and what's worse 28 • THE HONEYMOON. [AcT II. Contrived to send it by a village boy Tliat passed the window. — Yet she now appears Profoundly penitent. It cannot be ; 'Tis a conversion too miraculous. Her cold disdain yields with too free a spirit ; Like ice, which, melted by unnatural heat — Not by the gradual and kindly thaw Of the resolving elements — give it air, Will straight congeal again. — She comes — I'll try her Enter Juliana in a Peasant's Dress, through Door in Front. Why, what's the matter now ? Jiol. That foolish letter 1 Duke. What I You repent of having written it ? Jul. I do, indeed. I could cut off my fingers For being partners in the act. DuJie. No matter ; You may indite one in a milder spirit, That shall pluck out its sting, Jul. I can — Duke. You must. Jul. I can. Dnice. You shall. Jul. I will, if 'tis your pleasure. Duke. Well replied. I now see plainly you have found your wits, And are a sober, metamorphosed woman. Jul. I am, indeed. Duke. I know it ; I can read you. There is a true contrition in your looks :— Y''ours is no penitence in masquerade — You are not playing on me ? Jul. Playing, sir. Duke. You have found out the vanity of those things For which you lately sigh'd so deep ? Jul. I have, sir. Duke. A dukedom ! — Pshaw 1 — It is an idle thmg Jul. I have begun to think so. Duke. Tiiat'.s a lie ! [AsitU. Is not this tran(]uil and retired spot More ricli in real pleasures, than a palace ? Jul. I hke it iulinitely. SCEXE IV.] THE HONEYMOON. 29 Duke. Tliat's another ! \ Aside Tiu' mansion's small, 'tis true, but vcr}' saug hd Exceediiii^ snug- ! Dni;e. The tuniiiure not splendid, But then all useful ! Jul. All exceeding useful 1 There's not a piece on't but serves twenty purposes. \^Asicle. Dwke. And, though we're seldom plagued by visitors, We have the best of company — oui"selves. >i'or, whilst our limbs are full of active youth, iSeed we loll in a carriage to provoke A lazy circulation of the blood, [ Takes Iter arvi and walks about. When walking is a nobler exercise. Jill. ]More wholesome too. Diikc. And far less dangerous. Jul. That's certain ! Duke. Then for servants, all agree, They are the greatest plagues on earth. Jul. No doubt on't ! Duke. Who, then, that has a taste for happiness, Would live in a large mansion, only fit To be an habitation for the winds ; Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spielers ; See every body, care for nobody ; When they could live as we do ? Jul. Who, radeed ? Dulie. Here we want nothing. Jul. Nothing ! — Yes, one thing. Duke. Indeed ! What's that * Jul. You will be angry I Duke. Nay — Not if it be a reasonable thing. Jul. What wants the bird, who, from his wiry prison. Sings to the passing travellers of air A wistful note — that she were with them, sir 1 Duke Umph I AVhat, your liberty ? I see it now. [^Asidt. Jul 'Twere a pity in such a paradise I should be caged ! Duke. Why, whither would you, wife ? 30 THE HONEYMOON-. [ACT III. Jul. Only to taste tlie iresliacss "■•; j.e air, That breathes a wholesome spirit froiu without ; And weave a chaplet for you, of those flowers That throw their perfume through my window bars, And then I will return, sir. Duke. Your are free ; — [Juliana crosses l., Duke takes he)' r. hand. But use your freedom wisely. Jul. Doubt me not, sir 1 — I'll use it quickly too. [Aside, and Exit, l. Duke. But I do doubt you. — There is a lurking devil in her eye, That plays at bopeep there, in spite of her.— Her anger is but smother'd not burnt out — And ready, give it vent, to blaze again. You have your liberty — But I shall watch you closely, lady, And see that you abuse it not. [Exit, u END OF ACT II. ACT III. Scene I. — An Inn. Rolando sitting at a Table with wine. — Two Chairs. Rol. 'Sdeath, that a reasonable thinking man Should leave his friend and bottle for a woman 1 — Here is the Count, now, who, in other matters, Has a true judgment, only seethe his blood With a full glass beyond his usual stint, And woman like a wildfire, runs throughout him. — Immortal man is but a shuttlecock, And wine and women are the battledores Tiiat keep him going !— What 1 Eugenio 1 Enter Zamora, (as Eugenio.) l. Znm. Your pleasure, sir ? Rol. I am alone, and wish you to finish the story you U is mournful, yet 'tis pleasing I Scene I.] the honf.tmoon. 81 Zam. It was, indeed, a melancholy tale From which I learnt it. Hoi. Lives it with you still 1 Zam. Faintly, as would an ill-remeinber'd dream, sir ; Yet so far I remember — Now my heart — \Asidt, 'Twas of a gentleman — a soldier, sir. Of a brave spirit ; and his outward form A frame to set a soul in. He had a page, Just such a boy as I, a faithful stripling, Who, out of pure affection, and true love, Follow'd his fortune to the wars. Rol. Why this Is our own history. Zam. So far indeed. But not beyond, it bore resemblance, sir. For in the sequel (so, sir, the story ran) — Turn'd out to be a woman. liol. How ! a woman ? Zam. Yes, sir, a woman. Rol. Live with him a twelvemonth, And he not find the secret out ! Zam. 'Twas strange ! Rol. Strange ! 'twas impossible ! At the first blush, A palpable and most transparent lie ! Why, if the soldier had been such an ass, She had herself betray'd it ! — Zavi. Yet, 'tis said, She kept it to her death ; — that oft as love Would heave the struggling passion to her lips. Shame set a seal upon them ; thus long time She nourish'^, in this strife of love and modesty, ^ w inward slow-cousumiug martyrdom. Till, in the sight of him her soul most cherished,— liike flow'rs, that on a river's margin fading Through lack of moisture, drop into the stream, — So, sinking in his arms, her parting breath Reveal'd her story, Rol. You have told it well, boy ! — Znm. I feel it deeply, sir ; I knew the lady Rx)l. Knew her ! You don't believe it ? Zfim. What regards 33 THE HOMEVMOOX. [AcT III. Her deatli F will not vouch for ; but the rest — Her hopeless love, tier silent patienet;, The struggle 'twixt her passion and her priUe — 1 was a witness to. — Indeed, her story Is a most true one. Rol. She should not have died ! — A wench like this were worth a soldier's love, And were she living now Enter the Count, l. Zam. (Aside.) 'Tis well 1 [ Eola ndo crosses to Count, Count. Strange things have happeu'd, since we parted, captain ! — T must away to-night. Rol. To-night and whither ? Count. 'Tis yet a secret. Thus much you shall know. If a short fifty miles you'll bear me company You shall see Rol. What ? Count. A woman tamed. Rol. No more ! I'll go a hundred 1 — Do I know the lady ? Count. What think you of our new-made duchess ? Rol. She ? What mortal man has undertaken her ? — Perhaps the keeper of the beasts, the fellow That puts his head into the lion's mouth, Or else some tiger-tamer to a nabob 1 Count. Who, but her husband ? Rol. With what weapons? Count. Words. Rol. With words ? Why, then, ne raust invent a lan- guage Which yet the learned have no glimpses of. Fasting and fustigation may do something ; I've heard that death will quiet some of them ; Jiiit words ! — mere words ! cool'd by the breath of man I— He may preach tame a howling wilderness ; Silence a fuli-month'd battery with snow-balls ; (.iuench (in; -vith oil ; with his r(>pelling breath Futr back the northern blast ; whistle 'gainst thunder : These things are feasible. — But still a woman Scene II.] the honeymoon. 33 Witli the nine parts of speech ! — [Crosses l Count. You know him not. Rol. I know the lady. Count. Yet, 1 tell you He has the trick to draw the serpent's fanjj^, And yet not spoil her beauty. Rol. Could he discourse, with fluent eloquence, More languages than Babel sent abroad, The simple rhet'ric of her mother tongue Would pose him presently ; for woman's voice Sounds like a fiddle in a concert, always The shrillest, if not the loudest, instrument. But we shall see. [J^xeunt Count and Rolando, L Zavi. He was touch'd, surely, with the piteous tale Which I deliver'd ; and but that the Count Prevented him, would have broken freely out Into a full confession of his feeling Tow'rds such a woman as I painted to him. — Why, then, ray boy's habiliments, adieu ! Henceforth, my woman's gear — I'll trust to you. \_Exit, r. Scene II. — IVie Didc's Pcdace, A Stale Chair, c. Enter Campillo, the DuLe^s Steward, and Pedro, b. Fed. But can no one tell the meaning of this fancy ? Cam. No : 'tis the Duke pleasure, and that's enough for lis. You shall hear his own words : — " For reasons, that I shall hereafter communicate, it is ne- cessary that Jaquez shoidd, in all things, at present, act as my representative; you will, therefore, command my household to I hey him as myself, until yojc hear further from ("Signedj Akanza." Fed. Well, we must wait the ui)shot. But how l)ears Jaquez his new dignity ? Cam. Like most men in whom sudden fortune combats against long-established habit [Laughing without, r. u. e. Fed. By their merriment, this shoukl be he. Ca7n. Stand aside, and let us note him. [Exit Pedro, l. Elder Jaquez, r. u. e. dressed as the Duke, folloiced by six Attendants, who in vain eiuleavour to restrain their lawghteir. 84 THE HONEYMOON. [AcT til. Jaq. Why, you ragamufiBns ! What d'ye tittei- at ? Am 1 the first great man that has been made off hand by a tailor ! Show your grinders again, and I'll hang you like onions, lifty on a rope. I can't think what they see ridiculous about me, except, indeed, that I feel as if I was in armour, and my sword has a trick of getting between my legs like a monkey's tail, as if it was determined to trip up my nobility. — And now, villains ! Don't let me see you tip the wink to each other, as I do the honours of my table. If I tell one of my best stories, don't any of yon laugh before the jest comes out, to shew that you have heard it before : — take care that you don't call me by my Christian name, and then pretend it was by accident ; that shall be transportation at least : — and when I drink a health to all friends, don't fancy that any of you are of the number.- Enter Pedro, l. Well, sir ? Fed. There is a ladv without presses vehemently to speak to your grace. Jaq. A lady ? Fed. Yes, your highness. Jnq. Is she young ? Fed. Very, your grace I Jaq. Handsome ? Fed. Beautiful, your highness I Jnq. Send her in. — {Exit Pedko, l.) — You may retire ; {The aUendaiits retire up the Stage a little.) I'll finish my instructions bye-aud-bye. — Young and handsome 1 — I'll at- tend to her business in ^propria persona. Your old and ugly ones I shall despatch by deputy. Now to alarm her with my consequence, and then sooth her with my conde- scension. I must appear important : big as a country pe- dagogue, when he enters the school room with — a-hem ! and terrifies the apple-munching urchins with the creaking of his shoes I'll swell like a shirt bleaching in a high wind ; and look burly as a Sunday beadle, when he has kicked down the unhallowed stall of a profane old apple woman. — Bring i\iy cluvir of state ! — Hush ! Th& attendamis pla<& tke statu thaiir^ c. Scene Il.J the honeymoon. 85 E7iter Pedro and Juliaxa. Pedro goes to (he ulher alien- dants. Jul. I come, great duke, for justice 1 Jaq. You shall have it. Of what do you couiplaiu ? ////. My husljaiid, sir ! Jnq I'll hang- liira instantly ! — What's his offence 1 Jul. He has deceived me. Jaq A very common case ; — few husbands answer thoit wives' expectations. Jid. He has abused your grace — Jaq Indeed ? If he has done that, he swings most lof tiiy. But how, hidy, how ? Jul. Shortly tlms, sir : Being no better than a low-born peasant, He has assumed your chai'acter and person — Enter the Duke, l. Oh ! you are here ? — This is he, my lord. \_Crosses behind chair to r. Jaq. Indeed ! (Aside.) Tlien I nuist tickle him. Why, fellow, d'ye take this for an alehouse, that you enter with such a swagger ? — Know you where you are, sir ? J}iiJ;e. The rouge reproves me well 1 I had forgot — {^Aside. Most humbly I entreat your grace's pardon, For this uuusher'd visit ; but the fear Of what this wayward woman might allege Beyond the truth — ful. I have spoken naught but truth. — Duke. Has made me thus unmannerly .Jitq. 'Tis well ! You might have used more ceremony. I'roeeed. \_To Juliana .hi. This man, my lord, as I was saying, L'-.i.^-^ing himself upon my inexperience For the right owner of this sumptuous palace, Ohtaiu'd my slow consent to be his wile : And cheated, by this shameful perlidy. Me of my hopes — my father of his child. Jaq. Why, this is swindling; — obtaining another man's goods under false pretences, — that is, if a woman be a 36 THE HONEYMOON. [ActIII, good — that will make a very intricate point for the judges. — v^ell, sir, what have you to say in your defence ? Diike. 1 do confess 1 put this trick upon her ; And lor my transient usurpation Of your most noble person, with contrition I bow me to the rigour of the law. — But for the lady, sir, she can't complain. /(//. How, not complain ? To be tiu;s vilely cozen'd, And not complain ! Juq. Peace, woman I — Though justice be blind, she is not deaf, Duke He does it to the life ! — {^Aside. Had not her most exceeding pride been doting, She might have seen the diff'rance, at a glance, Between your grace and such a man as I am. Jaq. She might have seen that certainly — Proceed. Duke. Nor did I fall so much beneath her sphere, Being what I am, as she had soar'd above it, Had I been that which I have only feigu'd. Jaq. Yet you deceived her ? Jul. Let him answer that. Duke. I did : most men in something cheat their wives, Wives gull their husbands ; 'tis the course of wooing. Now, bating that my title and my fortune Were evanescent, in all other things 1 acted like a })Iain and honest suitor. I told her she was fair, Imt very proud ; That she had taste in nnisic, but no voice ; Tliat she danced well, yet still might borrow grace From such or such a lady. To be ))rief, I ])raised her for no quality she had not, Kof over-prized the talents she posscss'd ; — Now, save in what I have before confess'd, I challenge hei worst spite to answer me. Whether, in all attentions, which a woman — A gentle and a reasonable woman — . Looks for, I have not to the height fulhll'd, If not outgoiif', her expectations? Juq. Why, if she has no cause of complaint since yoa wer(; married — Duke. I dare her to the proof ou't. J(iq, Is it so, woman ? [To Juliana. Scene II.] the honeyiwon. 37 Jul. I don't complain of what has liappen'd since ; The man lias made a tolerable husband ; But for the monstrous cheat he put upon me I claim to be divorced. J:iq. It cannot be I Jul. Cannot I my lord ? Jaq. No. — You must live with him. Jul. Never ! Dulce. Or, if your grace will give me leave — We have been wedded yet a few short days — Let us wear out a month as man and wife ; If at the end on't, with uplifted hands, Morning and ev'uing, and sometimes at uooa, And bended knees, she doesn't plead more warmly Than e're she prayed 'gainst stale virginity. To keep me for her husband — Jul. If I do !— Duke. Then let her will be done, that seeks to part us 1 Jul. I do implore your grace to let it stand Upon that footing ! Jaq. Humph I — Well, it shall be so ! — With this provi' so — tha: either of you are at liberty to hang yourselves in the mean time. \_Rises. [ The Allendnnts remove, the chair back, and exeunt, k. u. e. Duke. We tliank your providence. — Come, Juliana — Jul. Well, there's my hand — a month's soon past, and then — I am j'^our humble servant, sir. Duke. For ever. ./;//. Nay, I'll be hang'd first Duke. That may do as well. Come, you'll think better on't I Jul. By all— Duke. No swearing, Jul. No, no — no swearing. Duke. We humbly take our leaves. [E-reunt Duke and Juliana, i, Jaq. I begin to find, by the strength of my nerves, and the steadiness of my countenance, that I was certainly in- tended for a great man ; — foi' what more does it require to he a great man, than bohlly to put on the appearance of it ? — How nuiu^ sage politiciaiui are there, who can scarce 38 THE HONEYMOON. [ACT III. comprehend the mystery of a mouse-trap ; — vahant gene- rals, who wouldn't attack a bullrush unless the wind Avere in tlieir favour ; profound lawyers, who would make excel- lent wig-blocks ; — and skilfui pliysicians, whose knowl- edge extends no farther than writing death-warrants in Latin ; and are shining examples — that a man will never want gold in his pocket, who carries plenty of brass in his face ! — It will be rather awkward, to be sure, to resign at the end of a month : — but, like other great men in office, I must make the most of my time, and retire with a good grace, to avoid being turned out — as a well-bred dog always walks down stairs, when he sees preparations on foot for kicking him into the street. [ Exit, r. Scene III. — An Inn. Enter Balthazar as having fallen from his Horse, support- ed hy VoLANTE and the Count, and preceded by tlie Hos- tess, L. Hostess. This way, this way, if you please. — Alas, poor gentleman 1 {Brings a chair.) How do you feel now, sir ? [They set him doirn. Bal. I almost think my brains are where they should be Confound the jade ! — Though they dance merrily To thier own music. Count. Is the surgeon sent for ? Hostess. Here he comes, sir. E7iter Lampedo, l. Lam. Is this the gentleman ? [Advances towards Balthazar, Bal. I wi.ut no surgeon ; all my bones are whole. Vol. Pray take advice I Bal. Well ! — doctor, I have doubts Whether my soul be shaken from my body, — Else I am whole. Lavi. Tiieii yon are safe, depend on't ; Your soul and ))0(ly are not yet divorced — Though if they were, we have a remedy. Nor have you friulure, sir, simple or compound : — SCEXE II r.] THK HOXF.YMOOiX. 89 Yet very feverish ! I begin to fear Some inward bi'iiise — a very raging pulse 1— We must phlebotomize ! Bal. You won't ! Already Tiiere is too little blood in these old veins To do my cause full justice. Lam. Quick, and feverish ! — He must lie down a little ; for as yet ^Vis blood and sj)irits being all in motion, There is too great confusion in the symptoms, To judge discreetly from. Bal. I'll not lie down 1 Vol. Nay, for an hour, or so ? Well, be it so. Hostess. I'll shew you to a chamber : this way tliis way, if you please. [Exeuut all hut Lumpcdu, r. Lam. 'Tis the first patient, save the miller's mare, And an old lady's cat, that has the phthisic, That I have toach'd these six weeks. — Well, good hostess I Re-enter Hostess, r. How fares your guest ? Hostess. He must not go to night ! Lam. No ; nor to-morrow — Hostess. Nor the next day. neither ! Lam. Leave that to me. — Hostess. He has no hurt, I fear ? Lam. None : — but, as you are his cook, and I'm his doctor. Such things may happen. — You must make him ill. And I must keep him so — for, to say truth, Tis the first biped customer I've handled This many a day : they fall but slowly in- Like the subscribers to my work on fevers. Hostess. Hard times, indeed I — No business stirring my way. Lam. So I should guess, from your appearance, Hostess, You look as if, for lack of company, Yon were obliged to eat up your whole larder. Hostess. Alas ! 'Tis so — Yet I contrive to keep my spirits up. Lam. Yes : and vour fiesh too.- -Look at me I * 40 THE HOXKYMOON. [AcT TIT TTosfes'!. W!iy, truly, You look iuVVi sliirvcd. Lam. Halt' stivrvcd ! I wish you'd toll me Wliirli luili'of mo is fed. I show more i»cints Thau an old iiorsiana, l. d. Dide. Nay, no resistance ! — For a month, ut least, I am your Imsband. .lid. True ! — And what's a husband ? JJiike. ( Ptits her over to the n.) Why, as some vvive« would metamorphose him, A very miserable ass, iudeed 1 Scene IV.] the hone\iioon. il " Mere fullers' earth, to bleach their spotted credit ; -' A blotting paper to drink up their stains 1" ./id. True, there are many such. DiUce. And there are men, Wiiom not a swelling lip, or wrinkled brow, Or the loud rattle of a woman's tongue — Or what's more hard to parry, the warm close Of lips, that from the inmost heart of man riiicks out his stern resolves — can move one jot From the determined purpose of his soul, Or stir an inch from his prerogative. — Ere it be long, you'll dream of such a raaa Jul. Where, waking, shall I see him ? DiiJce. Look on me 1 Come, to your chamber 1 Jul. 1 won't be confined 1 DiiJx. Won't ! — Say you so ? Jul. Well, then, I do request You won't confine me. Duke. You'll leave me ? Jid. No indeed ! As there is truth in language, on my soul 1 will not leave you ! Duke. Y'ou've deceived me once — Jid. And, therefore, do not merit to be trusted I do confess it : — but, by all that's sacred, Give me my liberty, and I will be A patient, drudging, most obedient wife 1 Duke. Yes : but a grumbling one ? Jid. No ; on my honour, I will do all you ask, ere you have said it. Duke. And with no secret murmur of your spirit ? Jul. With none, believe me ! DitJce. Have a care ! For if 1 catch you on the wing again, I'll clip you closer than a garden hawk. And put you in a cage, where day-light comes not ; Wiiere you may fret your pride against the bars. Until your heart break. (Kicking at the doar.) See who's ' at the door ! — (She goes and opens it THE HONFA'.MOOJ*. [AcT III. Enter Lopez, l. d. My neighbor Lojez ! — Welcome, sir ; my wife — ( Indroducing her. A cliair ! (To Juliana. — She brings a chair to Lopez and throws it down, i..) Your pardon — you'll excuse lier, sir — A little awkward, but exceediiitr willing. One for your husband ! — ( S/ic brings another Chair, and is going to throw it do'W7i as before ; but the Duke looking stead fasthf at her, sh£ desists, ami places it gently by him.) Pray be seated, neighbor ! Now you may serve yourself. Jul. I tliank you, sir, I'd rather stand. Duke. I'd rather you should sit. Jul. If you will have it so — 'Would I were dead ! (Aside. — iS7;e brings a chair, and sits down, r. Duke. Though now I think again, 'tis fit you stand, That you may be more free to serve our guest. Jill. Even as you command ! (Rises. Duke. You v/ill eat something? (To Lopez. Lopez. Not a morsel, thank ye. Duke. Then you will drink ? — A glass of wine, at least ' Lopez, Well, I am warm with walking, and care not if I do taste your liquor. Duke. You have some wine, wife ? Jul. I must e'en submit I (Exit, r. Duke. This visit, sir, is kind and neighborly. Lopez. I came to ask a favor of you. We have to-day a sort of merry-making on the green hard by — 'twere *oo much to call it a dance — and as you are a stranger here— • Duke. Your patience for a moment. Re-enter Juliana with a Horn of Liquor, ii. Duke. (Taking it.) What have we here? Jul. 'Tis wine — you called for wine ! Duke. And did I bid you bring it in a nut-shell ? Lopez. Nay, there is plenty ! Duke. I can't suffer it. You must excuse me. ( To Lopez.) When friends drinV with us, SciCNE IV.] THE HONEYMOON'. 43 'Tis usual, love, to bring it in a jug, Or else they may suspect we grudge our liquor. ////. I shall remember. \_Exit, r. Lofez. I am ashamed to give so much trouble. Duke. No trouble ; she must learn her duty, sir ; I'm only sorry you should be kept waiting. But you were speaking — Lopez. As I was saying, it being the ,conclnsiou of our vintage, we have assembled the lads and lasses of the vil- lage — Re-enter Juliaxa, r. Duke. Xow we shall do ! Why, what the devil's this ? Jul. Wine, sir. Duke. This wine ? — 'Tis foul as ditch-water I — Did you shake the cask ? Jul. What shall I say ? {Aside.) Yes, sir. Duke. You did ? ■Jul. I did, Duke. I thought so ! Why, do you think, my love, that wine is physic, That must be shook before 'tis swallowed ? — Come, try again 1 M. I'll go no more ! {^Puts down the wine on the ground. Duke. You won't ? Jul. I won't. \_Showing the Key. Duke. You won't ? You had forgot yourself, my love. Jul. Well, I obey 1 [ Takes up the wine, and exit, r. Duke. Was ever man so plagued 1 " You have a wife, no doubt, of more experience " Who would not by her awkwardness disgrace " Her husband thus ? This 'tis to marry " An inexperienced girl !" I'm ashamed to try your patience, sir ; But women, like watches, must be set W tb care to make them go well. Enter Juliana, r. A.y this looks well I {Pouring it out 44 THE HONEYMOON. [AcT III. Jul. The heavens be praised ! Duke. Come, sir, your judgment ? Lopez. 'Tis excellent ! — But, as I was saying, to-day we have some country pastimes on the green. — Will it please you both to join our simple recreations ? Duke. We will attend you. Come, renew your draught sir ! Lopez. We shall expect you presently ; till then, good even, sir ! Duke. Good even, neighbor. (Exit, Lopez, l. d. j Go and make you ready. Jul.. I take no pleasure in these rural sports. Duke. Tlien you shall go to please your husband. Hold ! I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you, To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, And make men stare upon a piece of earth As on the star-wrought firmament — " no feathers "To wave as streamers to your vanity — " Nor cum'orous silk, that with its rustling sound " IVlake proud the ilesh that bears it.'^ She's adorned Amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely — The truest mirror that an honest wife Can see her beauty in ! Jul. I shall oliserve sir. Duke. I should like to see you in the dress I last presented you. Jul. The blue one, sir ? Duke. No, love, the wiiite. — Thus modestly attired, An half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair. With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, No deeper rul)ies than compose thy lips, Nor pearls more precious than inhabit tliem, With the pure red and white, which tliat same hand Wiiich l)lends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks : This well proportioned form, fthink not I flatter,^ In graceful motion to iiarmoiiious sounds. And thy free tresses dancing in the wind : — Tliou'lt lix as nuich observance, as chaste dames C;!n meet without a l)lush. \_E.ut .Juliana, door injtat. I'll ti'ust her with these bumpkins There uo coxcomb Sliall buz his fulsome praises in her ear, And swear she has in all things, save myself, Scene I.] the honevmoun. 45 A most especial taste, No meddling gossip " (Who, having claw'd or cuddled into bondage " Tlie thing misnamed a husband, privately " Instructs less daring spirits to revolt)" Shall, from the fund of her experience, teach her AVhen lordly man can best be mrde a fool of. Yet that would have obedien-", wives, beware Of meddling woman's- kind officious care, [Esit, u END OP ACT III. ACT lY. Scene I. — 2 he Inn. Enter Lamped 1st ; and Hostess 'ind, r. Hostess. Nay, nay, another fortnight. Lam. It can't be. Tiie man's as well as I am : — have some mercy ! — He hath been here almost three weeks already. Hostess. Well, then, a week ? Lam. We may detain him a week. Enter Balthazar behind from door in fiat, r, tn his Night gown with a drawn Sword. You talk now like a reasonable hostess, That sometimes has a reck'ning — with her conscience. Hostess. He still believes he has an inward bruise. Lam. I would to Heaven he had 1 Or that he'd slipt His shoulder blade, or broke a leg or two, (Not that I bear his person any malice) Or Inx'd an arm, or even sprain'd his ankle ! Hostess. Ay, broken anything except his neck. Lam. However, for a week I'll manage him, Though he has the constitution of a horse — A farrier should prescribe for him 1 Bid. A farrier ! ^Asidc Lam. To-morrow we pelobotomize again ; Next day my U3w-invent*d patent draught :— 46 THE HONEYXfOOK. [AcT TV, Then I have some pills prepared. On Thirsday we throw in the t)ark ; on Friday ? — Bal. ( Coming forward, c.) Weil, sir, on Fi-idny ? — what on Friday ? come, Proceed Lnm. Discovered ! Hostess. Mercy, noble sir ! \_T/iey fall on their knees. Lnm. We crave yonr mercy. Bal. On your knees ? 'tis well ! Pray, for your time is short. Hostess. Nay, do not kill us 1 Bal. You have been tried, condemned, and only wait For execution. Which shall I begin with ? Lam. The lady, by all means, sir ! Bal. Come, prepare. [ To the Hostess. Hostess. Have pity on the weakness of my sex ! Bal. Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross flesh. Tell me, and in a breath, how many poisons — If you attempt it ! — (To Lampedo, who is endonroring to make (iff', i..) — you have cooked up for me ? Hostess. None, as I hope for meniy I Bal. Is not thy wine a poison ? Hostess. No, indeed, sir I 'Tis not, I own of the first quality : • But Bal. What ? Hostess. I always give short measure, sir. And ease my conscience that way. Bal. Ease your conscience ! I'll ease your conscience for you 1 Hostess. Mercy, sir 1 Bal. Rise, if thou canst, and hear me. Hostess. Your commands, sir ? Bal. If in live minutes all things are prepared For my departure, you may yet survive. Hostess. It shall be done in less. Bal. Away, thou lump-iish ! \_E.dt Hostess. Lam. So, now comes my turn ! — 'tis all over with nte I — There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane in his looks ! Bal. And now, thou sketch and outline of a man I Thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun 1 Tlion eul in a consumption, eldest born Scene 1.] the honeymoon. 47 Of Death on Famine 1 Thou anatomy. 01" a starved pilchard ! — Lam. I do confess my leanness. — I am spare I And tiierej'ore spare me ! Hal. Why, wouidst thou have made me A thorouglifare for thy whole shop to pass through I Lam. Man, you know, must live 1 Bal. Yes : he must die, too. Lam. For my patients' sake ! Bal. I'll send you to the major part of them — The window, sir, is open ; — come, prepare — Lam. Pray consider 1 I may hurt some one in the street. Bal. Why, then, I'll rattle thee to pieces in a dice-box. Or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder ; For thou must sup with Pluto : — So, make ready 1 Whilst J, with this good small-sword for a lancet, Let thy starved spirit out — for blood thou hast none — And nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look Like a dried beetle with a pin stuck through him. Lam. Consider my poor wife 1 Bal. Thy wife ! Lam. My wife, sir 1 Bal. Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too ? No flesh upon thy bones, and take a wife I Lam. I took a wife, because I wanted flesh. 1 have a wife and three angelic babes. Who, by those looks are well nigh fatherless ! Bal. Well, well 1 Your wife and children shall plead for you. Come, come, the pills I Where are the pills ? Produce them ? LMm. Here is the box Bal. Were it Pandora's, and each single pill Had ten diseases in it, you should take them. Lam. What, all ? Bal. Ay, all ; and quickly too? — Come, sir, begin? (Lampedo lakes one.) That's well : — another. Lam. One's a dose ! Bal. Proceed, sir ! Lam. What will become of me ? Let me go home, and set ray shop to rights, 48 THE HONEYMOON [AcT IV. Awi, like iniHiOrtal Ca3sai', die wilii decency ! Bed. Away ! Aii