ALBATROSS INN LIBRAR
 
 I irBRARYj 
 
 ' UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 I CALIFORNIA 
 
 I SAN DIEGO ! 
 
 presented to the 
 UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 
 Mrs. Griff ing Bancroft
 
 Mb
 
 MORLEVS UNIVERSAL LIBRARY. 
 
 1. Sheridan's Plays. 
 
 2. Plays from Moliere. By 
 
 English Dramatists. 
 
 3. Marlowe's Faustus and 
 
 Goethe's Faust. 
 
 4. Chronicle of the Cid. 
 
 5. Rabelais' 'Gargantuaa.nd.the 
 
 Heroic Deeds of Pantagrvel. 
 
 6. Machiavellfs Prince. 
 
 7. Bacon's Essays. 
 
 8. Defoe's Journal oj the 
 
 PI*fi" year. 
 
 9. Locke on Civil Government 
 
 and Filmer's "Patriarcha." 
 
 10. Butler's Analogy of Religion. 
 
 11. Dry den's Virgil. 
 
 12. Scoffs Demonology and 
 
 Witchcraft. 
 
 13. Herrick's Hesperides. 
 
 14. Coleridge's Table-Talk. 
 
 15. Boccaccio's Decameron. 
 
 1 6. Sterne's Tristram Shandy. 
 
 17. Chapman's Homer's Iliad. 
 
 1 8. Medieval Tales. 
 
 19. Voltaire's Candide, and 
 
 yohnson's Rasselas. 
 
 20. Jonson's Plays and Poems. 
 
 21. Hobbes's Leviathan. 
 
 22. Samuel Butler's Hudibras. 
 
 23. Ideal Commonwealths. 
 
 24. Cavendish's Life of Wolsey. 
 25 & 26. Z?0n Quixote. 
 
 27 . Burlesque Plays and Poems. 
 
 28. Dante s Divine Comedy. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S Translation. 
 
 29. Goldsmith's Vicar of Wake- 
 
 field, Plays, and Poetftf. 
 
 30. fables and Proverbs from 
 
 tkt Santkrit. (Hitofadeta.) 
 
 31. Lamb's Essays of Elia. 
 
 32. The History of Thomas 
 
 Ellwood. 
 
 33. Emerson's Essays, &*c. 
 
 34. SoMthey's Life of Nelson. 
 
 " Marvels of clear type ind general neatness." Da 
 
 35. De Quincey's Confessions 
 
 of an Opium-Eater, frc. 
 
 36. Stories of Ireland. By Miss 
 
 EDGEWORTH. 
 
 37. Frere's Aristophanes: 
 
 Achartoians, Knights, Birds. 
 
 38. Burke' s Speeches and Letters. 
 
 39. Thomas a Kempis. 
 
 40. Popular Songs of Ireland. 
 
 41. Potter's ALschylus. 
 
 42. Goethe's Faust: Part II. 
 
 ANSTER'S Translation. 
 
 43. Famous Pamphlets. 
 
 44. Francklin's Sophocles. 
 
 45. M. G. Lewis s Tales of 
 
 Terror and Wonder. 
 
 46. Vestiges of the Natural 
 
 History of Creation. 
 
 47. Draytons Barons' Wars, 
 
 Nytnphidia, fy*c. 
 
 48. Cobbetfs Advice to Young 
 
 Men. 
 
 49. The Banquet of Dante. 
 
 50. Walker's Original. 
 
 51. Schiller' s Poems and 
 
 Ballads. 
 
 52. Peele's Plays and Poems. 
 
 53. Harrington's Oceana. 
 
 54. Euripides : Alcestis and 
 
 other Plays. 
 
 55. Praed"s Essays. 
 
 56. Traditional Tales. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 57. Hooker's Ecclesiastical 
 
 Polity. Books I. -IV. 
 
 58. Euripides: The Bacchanals 
 
 and other Plays. 
 
 59. Izaak Walton's Lives. 
 
 60. Aristotle's Politics. 
 
 61. Euripides: Hecuba and 
 
 oth>r Plays. 
 
 62. Rabelais Sequel to Panta- 
 gruel. 
 
 63. A Miscellany.
 
 PLAYS 
 
 FROM 
 
 M O L I E R E 
 
 W11H AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY 
 
 I.L.D., PROFESSOR OK ENGLISH LITERATURE AT 
 UNIVERSITY COLl-ECE. LONDON 
 
 LONDON 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 BROAL.WAY, LUDGATE HILL 
 
 GLASGOW, MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK 
 1889
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MM 
 
 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL, by J^ohn Dryden 9 
 
 THE MISTAKE, by Sir J"ohn Vanbrugh 57 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER, by William Wycherley .... 96 
 
 THE MOCK DOCTOR, by Henry Fielding 180 
 
 THE MISER, by Henry Fielding 201 
 
 THE NON-JUROR, by Colley Gibber 261
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 JEAN-BAPTISTE POQUELIN, upholsterer to King Louis XIII., gave his 
 name, Jean-Baptiste, to a son born at Paris in January, 1622. That son, 
 when he became player and dramatist, assumed the name of Moliere. 
 Until he was fourteen years old his education was neglected. His father 
 sought to direct his mind to upholstery, and secured for him succession 
 to his own Court office of valet de chambre tapissier. The boy had a 
 grandfather who liked comedy, and who took him sometimes to the 
 plays at the Hotel de Bourgogne. 
 
 In 1543, when Francis I. ordered the sale and demolition of the 
 Hotel de Bourgogne, and other houses, the players bought it, to build, 
 at their own cost, a theatre upon its site. They opened it in 1548, but 
 were no longer allowed to act plays on the mysteries of religion. They 
 had among their farces Patelin, born in the fifteenth century, fore- 
 father of Tartufe. Translations from Plautus and Terence, from 
 Seneca and from the first plays of the Italians, then enlarged the con- 
 ception of dramatic art. Jodelle and Gamier, before 1580. laid the 
 foundation of French classical tragedy. Pierre de Larivey, of whose 
 comedies, all adapted from Italian writers, six were published in 1579 
 and three in 1611, wrote in prose and justified abandonment of verse 
 by arguments like those in Cardinal Bibbiena's prologue to Calandra. 
 His example was little followed even farce held to its octosyllabics 
 and it remained for Moliere not only to perfect the form of comic 
 dialogue in verse, but also to show how wit and wisdom could point 
 every phrase in lightest dialogue of prose. The plays seen at the 
 Hotel de Bourgogne by Moliere in his boyhood were of all kinds, and 
 most of them were loosely and carelessly constructed. Hardy and 
 others, by their want of art, aided those tendencies of the times which 
 were provoking a new plea for classical rule. Pierre Corneille, who 
 was fourteen years older than Moliere, produced his OV/when Jean- 
 Baptiste Poquelin, not yet Moliere, was a boy of fourteen. Made- 
 moiselle Beaupre', one of the actresses at the Hotel de Bourgogne, said 
 of Corneille, in those days, that he had done the actors a great wrong. 
 Before his coming they could play pieces that cost but three dollars, 
 and were written in one night ; the public was used to them, and they 
 brought much profit to the house ; but now the pieces of M. Corneille 
 cost them much more and brpught in little gain. 
 
 Jean-Baptiste Poquelin had more mind for the theatre than for the 
 shop. He had a mind for it, but a mind untrained, till his father was 
 persuaded to ruin his chance of success as a Court upholsterer, by send- 
 ing hin to school. He went to a Jesuit college, where he had for one
 
 6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of his teachers Pierre Gassendi, whose philosophy was based on that 
 of Epicurus, and who then divided with Descartes dominion over the 
 philosophers of France. His father being infirm, young Poquclin, at 
 the age of nineteen, took his father's place in the retinue of Louis XIII., 
 during the king's visit to Languedoc in 1641. When he came back, 
 his bent for the stage caused him to join a band of young associates 
 who called themselves L'lllustrc Tht'Atrc. A tragedy of Artaxerce \\-AS, 
 printed in 1645, as presented by this illustrious theatre. Money left 
 by his mother came to him when he was of age. Resolved to give his 
 whole mind as actor and author to the drama, Jean-Baptiste Poquclin 
 now followed an example set already by other actors in taking a new 
 name, and became Moliere. 
 
 At first Moliere produced, and acted in the provinces, slight piece* 
 imitated from the Italian. He was away with a company of actors in 
 the provinces, acting at Grenoble, Lyons, Rouen, and other places, 
 from 1646 to 1658. At Beziers was the Prince of Conti, who had 
 known Poquelin at college, and was his chief patron before he settled 
 in Paris. Within the five years before 1658, Moliere and his company 
 acted before the Prince of Conti the two plays that now represent his 
 earliest dramatic work, L'Etourdi and Le Dtpit Amoureux. Versions 
 of both are given in this volume, one by John Dryden, the other by 
 Sir John Vanbrugh. 
 
 In 1658, when Louis XIV. was a youth of twenty, Moliere came to 
 Paris, with an introduction from the Prince of Conti to Monsieur the 
 King's only brother, by whom he was presented to the King and the 
 Queen-mother. His company acted that year before their Majesties, 
 on a stage built in a guard-room of the old palace of the Louvre. He 
 and his company were then allowed to settle in Paris ; and they 
 played on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, in the TJudtre du 
 Petit- Bourbon, which was occupied by Italian comedians on the 
 other days. Even the company at the Hotel de Bourgogne played only 
 three times a week, unless they were drawing the town with a new 
 play. The King's brother gave Moliere his patronage, and permitted 
 him to call his actors La Troupe de Monsieur. In 1660 Monsieur 
 established them in the Palais Royal, on a stage built by Richelieu 
 for the acting of a tragedy to which Richelieu himself had contributed 
 five hundred verses. Here they remained until the death of Moliere. 
 The King came often to sec Moliere act in his own plays, and the 
 dramatist, who never had been poor, grew rich. In 1661, when his 
 age was about forty, MoliOrc married Armande Bejart, many years 
 younger than himself, who did not add to his happiness. 
 
 Moliere was of good form and stature ; brown of complexion, with 
 strongly marked black eyebrows, nose and mouth large, lips thick. 
 There was dignity in his movements, gravity in his whole air, but his 
 mobile features lightened readily into comic expression, and his 
 thoughtful look vas softened by habitual kindliness and generosity. He 
 lived in companionship with men of genius, and was a ready friend to 
 poorer comrades in their hours of need. 
 
 Moliere's three best comedies, Le Tarttife, Le Misanthrope, and 
 f, were produced in the years 1666 and 1667. This volume
 
 INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 contains the Tartufe as turned by Gibber into the Non-Juror, Wycher- 
 ley's version of Le Misanthrope as The Plain Dealer, and Fielding's 
 version of The Miser. The lively farce-comedy of La Mtdecin MnlgrJ 
 Lui belongs to the same period of Moliere's best strength. It follow?.: i 
 the Misanthrope t and preceded Tartufe, for the acting of Tartufe hau 
 been delayed by objections of feeble minds that saw an attack upon the 
 gold itself in nailing false coins to the counter. 
 
 Moliere died on the I7th of February, 1673, a g fi d fifty-one. He had 
 been coughing and spitting blood before he produced his last comedy, 
 Le Malade Imaginaire, in which he himself acted. Before the third 
 representation he was so ill that he was advised not to act, but he dM 
 act, was seized with a convulsion during the performance, and was 
 taken away dying. He had lived as he died, faithful to his rrt. 
 Although, like Fielding, he was not a poet, his genius like Fielding'':, 
 touched the deeper truths of life, and put the dignity of a true aim info 
 the lightest play of wit. No greater writer of prose comedy has ever 
 lived. 
 
 This volume partly represents the influence of Moliere on English 
 literature. At the Restoration, in 1660, courtiers who came from Paris 
 knew Moliere as actor and dramatist, chief of a troupe which had been 
 in Paris for about two years. They had seen his DEtoiirdi and his 
 Prtcieuses Ridicules, which was first acted in Paris in 1659. Moliere's 
 age was, in 1660, thirty-eight, and Dryden's twenty-nine. Drydcn 
 began to write plays, with the comedy of the Wild Gallant, in 1663. 
 He wanted the light touch of a fashionable libertine that, in comedy, 
 best pleased the Court of Charles the Second. The Wild Gallant w;is 
 not elegantly but vilely coarse Priapus unpossessed of a Court dress. 
 Dryden's strength was not in writing of this sort. His version of 
 LlEtourdi, as Sir Martin Marr-all, was produced in London at the time 
 when Moliere produced in Paris his Tartufe. Moliere's own LEtourdi 
 is in excellent dramatic couplets. Dryden, in part imitation, attempted 
 to intermix blank verse with prose at a. time when the art of writing 
 blank verse, developed by Marlowe and perfected by Shakespeare, had 
 been lost among us. But in that year, 1667, the appearance of" Para- 
 dise Lost" set English blank verse on her feet again. In some places, 
 where the blank verse lines are peculiarly irritating, I have printed 
 them as prose. Dryden's play is best where it departs least from its 
 original, and worst in the interwoven scenes of " The Feigned Inno- 
 cence," which are all his own. In these I have found some omissions 
 to be necessary. 
 
 William Wycherley, born in 1640, was educated in France, and 
 returned to England at the Restoration. His version of Le Misanthrope 
 as The Plain Dealer is said to have been made in the year of its first 
 production in Paris, but it was not acted until 1677, four years after 
 the death of Moliere. Wycherley was the founder of what is known 
 as the " Prose Comedy of Manners" in our dramatic literature : that is 
 to say, he learnt from the plays of Moliere to put thought into his 
 work, and earn the praise of Drydcn with a glance in the word 
 " Manly," at the hero of The Plain Dealer for " the satire, wit and 
 strength of Manly Wycherley." Wycherley, like Dryden, not only
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Englished Molierc, by a free adaptation of the story to the English 
 life and manners of his time, but he also interwove new characters and 
 incidents. In this, however, William Wycherley succeeded as com- 
 pletely as John Dryden failed. The widow Blackacre and her minor, 
 Wycherley's invention, would have contented Moliere himself. 
 
 John Vanbrugh was nearly thirty years younger than Wycherley, to 
 whose school he belongs, and he too drew strength from Moliere. 
 Vanbrugh was dramatist and architect. On his behalf the playful 
 epitaph advised, 
 
 Lie heavy on him, Earth ! for he 
 
 Laid ir.any heavy loads on thee. 
 
 He was both builder and manager of the first house upon the site of 
 what is now known as Her Majesty's Theatre, in the Haymarket. 
 When his management was failing, he sought success by translating 
 for his new theatre, in one season, three plays of Moliere. One of them 
 was Le Dtyit Amoureux, translated as The Mistake, which is the play 
 given in this volume. Soon afterwards, in 1706 he was then building 
 Blenheim Vanbrugh gave himself wholly to his work as architect. 
 
 Henry Fielding, before he found his full strength as the author of 
 Tom Jones, wrote for the stage. His version of Le Me"decin Malgre' 
 Lui was first produced in the autumn of 1732, when he was twenty-five 
 years old. " One pleasure I enjoy," he said, " from the success of this 
 piece, is a prospect of transplanting successfully some others of Moliere's 
 of great value." Accordingly there was produced, on the I7th of Fe- 
 bruary, 1733, Fielding's version of LAvare, or The Miser. This was 
 Fielding's best piece of dramatic work. 
 
 Colley Gibber was born only two years before Moliere's death. His 
 father was a sculptor from Holstein, who designed and executed the 
 bas-relief upon the monument by which the Fire of London was com- 
 memorated. Colley Gibber went on the stage when a youth of eighteen, 
 and had produced several plays before he attained his great success 
 with a version of Tartufe, that applied, in The Non-Juror, with Whig 
 bitterness of party feeling, a general satire on hypocrisy in sacred things 
 to the religion of political opponents. It was directed against Roman 
 Catholics and Non-Jurors, who had sympathized with the Jacobite 
 insurrection of 1715. It was produced while all the passions of the 
 strife were fresh, and it had a success rather political than literary. 
 Pope was of Roman Catholic family, and Gibber's play contained an 
 insult to the Roman Catholics. Its factious loyalty obtained for Colley 
 Cibber the office of Poet Laureate, and its intolerance secured for him 
 the highest gibbet in the " Dunciad." 
 
 HENRY MORLEY. 
 June, 1883.
 
 Plays from Moliere 
 
 By English Dramatists. 
 
 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 
 
 (MOLIERE'S "DETOURDL"} 
 BY JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 LORD DARTMOUTH, in love with 
 
 MRS. CHRISTIAN. 
 MR. MOODY, the swash-buckler. 
 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL, afool. 
 WARNER, his man. 
 SIR JOHN SWALLOW, a Kentish 
 
 knight. 
 LADY DUPE, the old lady. 
 
 MRS. CHRISTIAN, her young niece. 
 MRS. MILLICENT, the swash-buckler's 
 
 daughter. 
 ROSE, her maid. 
 MRS. PREPARATION, woman to thi 
 
 old lady. 
 
 Other Servants, Men and Women. 
 A Carrier. Bailiffs. 
 
 SCENE. COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 Enter WARNER solus. 
 
 Warn. Where is this master of mine ? He is ever out of the 
 way when he should do himself good. This 'tis to serve a coxcomb, 
 one that has no more brains than just those I carry for him. Well, 
 of all fops commend me to him for the greatest ; he's so opinioncd of 
 his own abilities, that he is ever designing somewhat, and yet he 
 sows his stratagems so shallow, that every daw can pick 'em up : 
 from a plotting fool the Lord deliver me ! Here he comes, O ! it 
 seems his cousin's with him, then it is not so bad as I imagined. 
 
 Enter SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL and LADY DUPE. 
 
 Lady Dupe. I think it was well contrived for your access, to lodge 
 her in the same house with you. 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis pretty well, I must con/ess. 
 
 Warn. Had he plotted it himself, it had been admirable. [Aside*
 
 io SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT I. 
 
 Lady Dupe. For when her father Moody wrote to me to take him 
 lodgings, I so ordered it, the choice seemed his, not mine. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have hit of a thing myself sometimes, when wiser 
 heads have missed it ; but that might be mere luck. 
 
 iMdy Dupe. Fortune does more than wisdom. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, for that you shall excuse me ; I will not value 
 any man's fortune at a rush. Except he have wit and parts to bear 
 him out. But when do you expect 'em ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. This tide will bring them from Gravesend. You had 
 best let your man go as from me, and wait them at the stairs in 
 Durham Yard. 
 
 Sir Mart. Lord, cousin, what a do is here with your counsel \ 
 As though I could not have thought of that myself. I could find in 
 my heart not to send him now stay a little, I could soon 
 find out some other way. 
 
 Warn. A minute's stay may lose your business. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, go then, but you must grant, if he had 
 stayed I could have found a better way, you grant it ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. For once I will not stand with you. [Ex-it WARNER.] 
 'Tis a sweet gentlewoman, this Mrs. Millicent, if you can get her. 
 
 Sir Mart. Let me alone for plotting. 
 
 Lady Dupe. But, by your favour, sir, 'tis not so easy. Her 
 father has already promised her ; and the young gentleman comes 
 up with them. I partly know the man ; but the old Squire 
 is humorsome. He's stout, and plain in speech, and in behaviour ; 
 he loves none of the fine town-tricks of breeding, but stands up for 
 the old Elizabeth way in all things. This we must work upon. 
 
 Sir Mart. Sure, you think you have to deal with a fool, cousin ? 
 
 Enter MRS. CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Lady Dupe. O, my dear niece, I have some business with you. 
 
 [ Whispers. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, madam, I'll take one turn here in the Piazzas ; 
 a thousand things are hammering in this head ; 'tis a fruitful noddle, 
 though I say it. \Exit. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Go thy ways, for a most conceited fool. But to 
 our business, cousin ; you are young, but I am old, and have had 
 all the love experience that a discreet lady ought to have ; and 
 therefore let me instruct you about the love this rich lord makes to 
 you. 
 
 C'/tr. You know, madam, he's married, so that we cannot work 
 upon that ground of matrimony. 
 
 Lady Dupe. P>ut there are advantages enough for you, if you will 
 be wise, and follow my advice. 
 
 Clir. Madam, my friends left me to your care, therefore 1 will 
 wholly follow your counsel with secrecy and obedience. 
 
 Lady Ditf>t\ Sweetheart, it shall be the better for you another 
 4ay. Well then, this Lord that pretends to you, is crafty and false,
 
 SCENE I.] SfR MARTIN MARK-ALL. n 
 
 as most men are, especially in love; therefore we must be 
 subtle to meet with all his plots, and have countermines against his 
 works to blow him up. 
 
 Chr. As how, madam ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. Why, girl, he'll make fierce love to you, but you 
 must not suffer him to ruffle you, or steal a kiss ; but you must .weep 
 and sigh, and say you'll tell me of it, and that you will not be used 
 so ; and play the innocent just like a child, and seem ignorant 
 of all. 
 
 Chr. I warrant you I'll be very ignorant, madam. 
 
 Lady Ditpe. And be sure, when he has towsed you, not to appear 
 at supper that night, that you may fright him. 
 
 Chr. No, madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. That he may think you have told me. 
 
 Chr. Ay, madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. And keep your chamber, and say your head aches. 
 
 Chr. O, most extremely, madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. And lock the door, and admit of no night visits ; 
 at supper I'll ask, where's my cousin ; and being told you are not 
 well, I'll start f om the table to visit you, desiring his Lordship not 
 to inco/nmodc himself : for I will presently wait on him again. 
 
 Chr. But how, when you are returned, madam ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. Then somewhat discomposed, I'll say, I doubt the 
 measles or small-pox will seize on you, and then the girl is spoiled ; 
 saying, poor thing, her portion is her beauty and her virtue ; and 
 often send to see how you do, by whispers in my servants' ears, and 
 have those whispers of your health returned to mine ; if his Lord- 
 ship thereupon asks how you do, I will pretend it was some other 
 thing. 
 
 Chr. Right, madam, for that will bring him further in suspense. 
 
 Lady Dupe. A hopeful girl ! Then will I eat nothing that night, 
 feigning my grief for you ; but keep his Lordship company at meal, 
 and seem to strive to put my passion off, yet show it still by small 
 mistakes. 
 
 Chr. And broken sentences. 
 
 Lady Dupe. A dainty girl ! And after supper visit you again, with 
 promise to return straight to his Lordship ; but after I am gone, send 
 an excuse, that I have given you a cordial, and mean to watch that 
 night in person with you. 
 
 Chr. His Lordship then will find the prologue of his trouble, 
 doubting I have told you of his ruffling. 
 
 Lady Dupe. And more than that, fearing his father should know 
 of it, and his wife, who is a termagant lady ; but when he finds the 
 coast is clear, and his late ruffling known to none but you, he will 
 be drunk with joy. 
 
 Chr. Finding my simple innocence, which will inflame him more. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Then, what the lion's skin has failed him in, the fox's 
 subtlety must next supply, and that is just, sweetheart, as I would 
 have it ; for crafty folks' treaties are their advantage, especially
 
 12 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACTL 
 
 when his passion must be satisfied at any rate, and you keep shop 
 to set the price of love : so now you see the market is your own. 
 
 Chr. Truly, madam, this is very rational ; and, by the blessing of 
 Heaven upon my poor endeavours, I do not doubt to play my part. 
 
 Lady Dupe. My blessing and my prayers go along with thee. 
 Enter SIR JOHN SWALLOW, MRS. MlLLICENT, and ROSE her Maid. 
 
 Chr. I believe, madam, here is the young heiress you expect, and 
 with her he who is to marry her. 
 
 Lady Dupe. However, I am Sir Martin's friend, I must not seem 
 his enemy. 
 
 Sir John. Madam, this fair young lady begs the honour to be 
 known to you. 
 
 Mill. My father made me hope it, madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Sweet lady, I believe you have brought all the 
 freshness of the country up to town with you. [They salute. 
 
 Mill. I came up, mad im, as we country gentlewomen use, at an 
 Easter Term, to the destruction of tarts and cheesecakes, to see a 
 new play, buy a new gown, take a turn in the park, and so down 
 again to sleep with my forefathers. 
 
 Sir John. Rather, madam, you are come up to the breaking of 
 many a poor heart, that like mine will languish for you. 
 
 Chr. I doubt, madam, you are indisposed with your voyage ; will 
 you please to see the lodgings your father has provided for you ? 
 
 Mill. To wait upon you, madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. This is the door ; there is a gentleman will wait you 
 immediately in your lodging, if he might presume on your com- 
 mands. [Whispers. 
 
 Mill. You mean Sir Martin Marr-all ? I am glad he has entrusted 
 his passion with so discreet a person. [Whispers. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Sir John, let me entreat you to stay here, that my 
 father may have intelligence where to find us. 
 
 Sir John. I shall obey you, madam. \Exeunt -women. 
 
 Enter SIR MARTIN. 
 
 Sir John. Sir Martin Marr-all ! most happily encountered ! 
 how long have you been come to town ? 
 
 Str Mart. Some three days since, or thereabouts ; but I thank 
 God I am very weary on't already. 
 
 Sir John. Why, what's the matter, mnn ? 
 
 Sir Mart. My villanous old luck still follows me in gaming. I 
 never throw the dice out of my hand, but my gold goes after 'cm. 
 If I go to picquet, though it be but with a novice in't, he will picque 
 and repicque, and capot me twenty times together : and, which most 
 mads me, I lose all my sets, when I want but one of up. 
 
 Sir John. The pleasure of play is lost, when one loses at that 
 unreasonable rate. 
 
 Sir Mart. But I have sworn not to touch either cards or dice this 
 half-year. 
 
 Sir John. The oaths of losing gamesters arc most minded ; they
 
 SCENE i.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 13 
 
 forswear play as an angry servant doth his mistress, because he 
 loves her but too well. 
 
 Sir Mart. But I am now taken up with thoughts of another 
 nature ; I am in love, sir. 
 
 Sir John. That's the worst game you could have played at, scarce 
 one woman in a hundred will play with you upon the square ; you 
 venture at more uncertainty than at a lottery ; for you set your 
 heart to a whole sex of blanks. But is your mistress widow, wife, 
 or maid ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I can assure you, sir, mine is a maid ; 
 The heiress of a wealthy family, 
 Fair to a miracle. 
 
 Sir John. Does she accept your service ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I am the only person in her favour. 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Sir John. Is she of town or country ? 
 
 Warn, [aside.'] How's this ? 
 
 Sir Mart. She is of Kent, near Canterbury. 
 
 Warn. What does he mean ? this is his rival [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Near Canterbury, say you ? I have a small estate 
 lies thereabouts, and more concernments than one besides. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll tell you then ; being at Canterbury, 
 It was my fortune, once in the cathedral church 
 
 Warn. What do you mean, sir, to entrust this man with your 
 affair thus ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Trust him ? why he's a friend of mine. 
 
 Warn. No matter for that ; hark you, a word, sir 
 
 Sir Mart. Prithee, leave fooling : and, as I was saying I was 
 in the church when I first saw this fair one. 
 
 Sir John. Her name, sir, I beseech ? 
 
 Warn. For Heaven's sake, sir, have a care ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Thou art such a coxcomb her name's Millicent. 
 
 Warn. Sir, sir, sir, what do you mean ? 
 
 Sir John. Millicent, say you? That's the name of my mistress. 
 
 Sir Mart. Lord ! what luck is that now ! well, sir, it happened 
 one of her gloves fell down, I stooped to take it up, and in the stoop- 
 ing made her a compliment 
 
 Warn. Nothing can hold him now will this thick-skulled master 
 of mine tell the whole story to his rival 
 
 Sir Mart. You'll say 'twas strange, sir, but at the first glance we 
 cast on one another, both our hearts leaped within us, our souls met 
 at our eyes, and, with a tickling kind of pain, fled to each other's 
 breast, and in one moment settled as close and warm as if they 
 long had been acquainted with their lodging. I followed her some- 
 what at a distance, because her father was with her. 
 
 Warn. Yet hold, sir 
 
 Sir Mart. Saucy rascal, avoid my sight ; must you tutor me ? so, 
 sir, not to trouble you, I inquired out her father's house, without
 
 14 [ACT i. 
 
 Whose knowledge I did court the daughter, and both then and often 
 since, coming to Canterbury, I received many proofs of her kindness 
 to me. 
 
 Warn. You had best tell him, too, that I am acquainted with her 
 maid, and manage your love underhand with her. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well remembered i'faith ; I thank thee for that : I had 
 forgot it, I protest ! my valet de chambre, whom you see here with 
 me, grows me acquainted with her woman 
 
 Warn. O, sir 
 
 Sir Mart. In fine, sir, this maid being much in her mistress's 
 favour, so well solicited my cause, that, in fine, I gained from fair 
 Mistress Millicent an assurance of her kindness, and an engagement 
 to marry none but me. 
 
 Warn. 'Tis very- well ! you've made a fair discovery ! 
 
 Sir John. A most pleasant relation I assure you : you are a happy 
 man, sir ! But what occasion brought you now to London ? 
 
 Sir Mart. That was in expectation to meet my mistress here. 
 She wrote me word from Canterbury, she and her father shortly 
 would be here. 
 
 Sir John. She and her father, said you, sir ? 
 
 Warn. Tell him, sir, for Heaven's sake, tell him all 
 
 Sir Mart. So I will, sir, without your bidding ; her father and 
 she are come up already, that's the truth on't, and are to lodge, by 
 my contrivance, in yon house, the master of which is a cunning 
 rascal as any in town. Him I have made my own, for I lodge 
 there. 
 
 Warn. You do ill, sir, to speak se scandalously of my landlord. 
 
 Sir Mart. Peace, or I'll break your fool's head, so that by his 
 means 1 shall have free egress and regress when I please, sir, 
 without her father's knowledge. 
 
 Warn. I am out of patience to hear this 
 
 Sir John. Methinks you might do well, sir, to speak openly to 
 her father. 
 
 Sir Mart. Thank you for that i'faith ; in speaking to old Moody 
 I may soon spoil all. 
 
 Warn. So, now he has told her father's name 'tis past recovery. 
 
 Sir John. Is her father's name Moody, say you ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Is he of your acquaintance ? 
 
 Sir John. Yes, sir, I know him for a man 
 Who is too wise for you to over-reach. 
 I am certain he will never marry his daughter to you. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, there's the jest on't : 
 He shall never know it : 'tis but your 
 Keeping of my counsel ; I'll do as much for you. 
 Mum' 
 
 Sir John. No, sir, I'll give you better : trouble not yourself about 
 this lady ; her affections are otherwise engaged. To my knowledge 
 hark in your car her father hates a gamester like a devil ! I'll 
 keep your counsel for that too.
 
 SCENE i.j SJR MAXTfN MARR-ALL. 15 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, but this is not all, dear Sir John. 
 
 Sir John. This is all, I assure you ! nly I will make bold 
 To seek your mistress out another lodging. Lf"***' 
 
 Warn. Your affairs arc now put into an excellent posture. Thank 
 your incomparable discretion this was a stratagem my shallow 
 wit could ne'er have reached, to make a confidant of my rival. 
 
 Sir Mart. 1 hope thou art not in earnest, man ! is he my rival ? 
 
 Warn. Ah, he has not found it out all this while ! 
 Well, sir, for a quick apprehension let you alone. 
 
 Sir Mart. How the devil cam'st thou to know on't ? 
 And why the devil didst thou not tell me on't ? 
 
 Warn. To the first of your devils, I answer, her maid Rose told 
 me on't ; to the second, I wish a thousand devils take him that 
 would not hear me. 
 
 Sir Mart. O, unparalleled misfortune ! 
 
 Warn. O, unparalleled ignorance ! Why, he left her father at the 
 water-side while he led the daughter to her lodging, whither I 
 directed him ; so that, if you had not laboured to the contrary, 
 fortune had placed you in the same house with your mistress, with- 
 out the least suspicion of your rival, or of her father; but 'tis well, 
 you have satisfied your talkative humour. I hope you have some 
 new project of your own to set all right again ; for my part, I con- 
 fess, all my designs for you are wholly ruined ; the very foundations 
 of 'em are blown up. 
 
 Sir Mart. Prithee, insult not over the destiny of a poor undone 
 lover. I am punished enough for my indiscretion, in my despair, and 
 have nothing to hope for now but death. 
 
 Warn. Death is a bugword ; things are not brought to that 
 extremity. I'll cast about to save all yet. 
 
 Enter LADY DUPE. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Oh, Sir Martin ! yonder has been such a stir within. 
 Sir John, 1 fear, smokes your design, and by all means would have 
 the old man remove his lodging ; surely your man has not played 
 false. 
 
 Warn. Like enough I have : I am coxcomb sufficient to do it ; 
 my master knows that none but such a great calf as I could have 
 done it, such an overgrown ass, a self-conceited idiot as I 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, Warner 
 
 Warn. Pray, sir, let me alone : what is it to you if I rail upon 
 myself ? Now could 1 break my own logger-head. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, sweet Warner. 
 
 Warn. What a good master have I ! and I to ruin him 1 Oh ! 
 beast ! 
 
 Lady Dupe. Not to discourage you wholly, Sir Martin, this storm 
 is partly over. 
 
 Sir Mart. As how, dear cousin ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. When I heard Sir John complain of the landlord, I 
 took the first hint of it, and joined with him, saying, if he were such
 
 1 6 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT it. 
 
 an one I would have nothing to do with him. In short, I rattled him 
 so well, that Sir John was the first who did desire they might be 
 lodged with me, not knowing that I was your kinswoman. 
 
 Sir Mart. A plague, now I think on't, I could have found out 
 this myself 
 
 Warn. Are you there a?ain, sir ? Now as I have a soul 
 
 Sir Mart. Mum, good Warner, I did but forget myself a little. I 
 /eave myself wholly to you and my cousin ; get but my mistress for 
 me, and claim whate'er reward you can desire. 
 
 Warn. Hope of reward will diligence beget, 
 Find you the money, and I'll find the wit. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 Enter LADY DUPE and MRS. CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Chr. It happened, madam, just as you said it would ; but was he 
 so concerned for my feigned sickness ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. So much that Moody and his daughter, our new guests, 
 took notice of the trouble, but the cause was kept too close for 
 strangers to divine. 
 
 Chr. Heaven grant he be but deep enough in love, and then 
 
 Lady Dupe. And then thou shalt distil him into gold, my girl 
 Yonder he comes, I'll not be seen : you know 
 Your lesson, child. [Exit. 
 
 Chr. I warrant you. 
 
 Enter LORD DARTMOUTH. 
 
 Lord. Pretty Mistress Christian, 
 How glad am I to meet you thus alone I 
 
 Chr. Oh, the Father ! what will become of me now ? 
 
 Lord. No harm, I warrant you, but why are you so afraid ? 
 
 Chr. A poor weak innocent creature as I am, Heaven of his 
 mercy, how I quake and tremble ! I have not yet clawed off your 
 last ill-usage, and now I feel my old fit come again, my ears tingle 
 already, and my back shuts and opens ; ay, just so it began before. 
 
 Lord. Nay, my sweet mistress, be not so unjust, to suspect any 
 new attempt : I am too penitent for my last fault, so soon to sin 
 again. I hope you did not tell it to your aunt. 
 
 Chr. The more fool I, I did not. 
 
 Lord. You never shall repent your goodness to me ; but may not 
 I presume there was some little kindness in it, which moved you to 
 conceal my crime ? 
 
 Chr. Methought I would not have my aunt angry with you, for 
 all this earthly good. But yet I'll never be alone with you again. 
 
 Lord. Pretty innocence ! let me sit nearer to you : 
 You do not understand what love I bear you ; 
 I vow it is so pure 
 My soul's not sullied with one spot of sin :
 
 SCENE I.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 17 
 
 Were you a daughter or a sister to me, 
 With a more holy flame I could not burn. 
 
 Chr. Nay, now you speak high words ; I cannot understand you. 
 
 Lord. The business of my life shall be but how to make your 
 fortune, and my care and study to advance and see you settled in 
 the world. 
 
 Chr. I humbly thank your lordship. 
 
 Lord. Thus 1 would sacrifice my life and fortunes, 
 And in return you cruelly destroy me. 
 
 Chr. I never meant you any harm, not I. 
 
 Lord. Then what does this white enemy so near me ? 
 
 {Touching her hand, gloved. 
 Sure 'tis your champion, and you arm it thus to bid defiance to me. 
 
 Chr. Nay, fie, my Lord, in faith you are to blame. 
 
 {Pulling her hand away. 
 
 Lord. But I am for fair wars. {Pulls at her glove. 
 
 Chr. What dees your Lordship mean ? 
 
 Lord. I fear you bear some spells and charms about you, 
 And, madam, that's against the law of arms. 
 
 Chr. My aunt charged me not to pull off my glove for fear of 
 sun-burning my hand. 
 
 Lord. She did well to keep it from your eyes, but I will thus 
 preserve it. {.Hugging her bart hand. 
 
 Chr. Why do you crush it so ? nay, now you hurt me ; nay if 
 you squeeze it ne'er so hard, there's nothing to come out on't 
 fie, is this loving one ? Ne'er stir, my Lord, I must cry out 
 
 Lord. Then I must stop your mouth. This ruby for a kiss that 
 is but one ruby for another. 
 
 Chr. This is worse and worse. 
 
 Lady {within}. Why, niece, where are you, niece? 
 
 Chr. Do you hear, my aunt calls ? I shall be hanged for staying 
 with you. Let me go, my Lord. {Gels from him. 
 
 Enter LADY DUPE. 
 
 Lady Dupe. My Lord, Heaven bless me, what makes your 
 Lordship here. 
 
 Lord. I was just wishing for you, madam ; your niece and I have 
 been so laughing at the blunt humour of your country gentleman 
 I must go pass an hour with him. [Exit. 
 
 Chr. You made a little too much haste ; I was just exchanging a 
 kiss for a ruby. 
 
 Lady Dupe. No harm done ; it will make him come on the faster: 
 Never full-gorge an hawk you mean to fly : 
 The next will be a necklace of pearl, I warrant you. 
 
 Chr. But what must I do next ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. Tell him I grew suspicious, and examined you 
 Whether he made not love, which you denied. 
 Then tell him how my maids and daughters watch you ; 
 So that you tremble when you see his Lordship.
 
 ijB SIX MARTIN MARK- ALL. [ACT IL 
 
 Chr. And that your daughters are so envious, that they would 
 raise a false report to ruin me. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Therefore you desire his Lordship, 
 As he loves you, of which you are confident, 
 Henceforward to forbear his visits to you, 
 
 Chr. But how, if he should take me at my word ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. Why, he leaves you, and there's an end on't : but 
 fear not that, hold out his messages, and then he'll \vrite; and that's 
 it, my bird, which you must drive it to : then all his letters will be 
 such ecstasies, such vows and promises, which you must answer 
 short and simply, yet still ply out of them your advantages. 
 
 Chr. But, madam, he's in the house, he will not write. 
 
 Lady Dupe. You fool he'll write from the next chamber to you. 
 And, rather than fail, send his page-post with it upon a hobby- 
 horse : then grant a meeting; but tell me of it, and I'll prevent 
 him by my being there ; he'll curse me, but I care not. When you 
 are alone he'll urge his love, which answer you with scorn and 
 anger. 
 
 Then when he sees no other thing will move you, 
 He'll sign a portion to you beforehand : 
 Take hold of that, and then of what you will. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN, MRS. MiLLiCENT, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir John. Now, fair Mrs. Millicent, you see your chamber ; 
 Your father will be busy a few minutes, and in the meantime per- 
 mit me the happiness to wait on you. 
 
 Mill. Methinks you might have chosen us better lodgings. 
 This house is full ; the other, we saw first, was more convenient. 
 
 Sir John. For you perhaps, but not for me : 
 You might have met a lover there, but I a rival. 
 
 Mill. What rival ? 
 
 Sir John. You know Sir Martin, I need not name it to you. 
 
 Mill. I know more men besides him. 
 
 Sir John. But you love none besides him. Can you deny your 
 affection to him ? 
 
 Mill. You have vexed me so, I will not satisfy you. 
 
 Sir John. Then, I perceive, I am not likely to be so much obliged 
 to you as I was to him. 
 
 Mill- This is romance I'll not believe a word on't 
 
 Sir John. That's as you please ; however 'tis believed, his wit 
 will not much credit your choice. Madam, do justice to us both ; 
 pay his ingratitude and folly with your scorn ; my service with your 
 love. By this time your father stays for me : I shall be discreet 
 enough to keep this fault of yours from him. The lawyers wait for 
 us to draw your jointure ; and I would beg your pardon for my 
 absence, but that my crime is punished in itself. [Exit. 
 
 Mill. Could I suspect this usage from a favoured servant ! 
 
 Rose. First hear Sir Martin ere you quite condemn him. 
 Consider, 'tis a rival who accused him.
 
 SCENE I.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 19 
 
 Mill. Speak not a word in his behalf 
 
 Methought, too, Sir John called him fool. 
 
 Rose. Indeed he has a rare way of acting a fool, and does it <o 
 naturally, it can be scarce distinguished. 
 
 Mill. Nay, he has wit enough, that's certain. 
 
 Rose. How blind love is ! 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Mill. How now, what's his business? I wonder, after such a 
 crime, if his master has the face to send him to me ! 
 
 Rose. How durst you venture hither? If either Sir John or my 
 old master see you. 
 
 Warn. Pish ! they are both gone out. 
 
 Rose. They went but to the next street ; ten to one but they 
 return and catch you here. 
 
 Warn. Twenty to one I am gone before, and save them a 
 labour. 
 
 Mill. What says that fellow to you ? What business can he have 
 here ? 
 
 Warn. Lord, that your Ladyship should ask that question, 
 knowing whom I serve ! 
 
 Mill. I'll hear nothing from your master. 
 
 Warn. Never breathe, but this anger becomes your Ladyship 
 most admirably ; but though you'll hear nothing from him, I hope 
 I may speak a word or two to you from myself, madam. 
 
 Rose. 'Twas a sweet prank your master played us : a lady's well 
 helped up that trusts her honour in such a person's hands : to tell al\ 
 so and to his rival too ! Excuse him if thou canst. {Aside. 
 
 Warn. How should I excuse him? thou knowest he is the 
 greatest fop in Nature [Aside to ROSE. 
 
 Rose. But my lady does not know it. If she did 
 
 Mill. I'll have no whispering. 
 
 Warn. Alas ! madam, I have not the confidence to speak out, 
 'unless you can take mercy on me. 
 
 Mill. For what? 
 
 Warn. For telling Sir John you loved my master, madam. 
 But sure I little thought he was his rival. 
 
 Rose. The witty rogue has taken it on himself. [Aside. 
 
 Milt. Your master then is innocent ? 
 
 Warn. Why, could your ladyship suspect him guilty ? 
 Pray tell me, do you think him ungrateful, 
 Or a fool ? 
 
 Mill. I think him neither. 
 
 Warn. Take it from me, you see not the depth of him. 
 But when he knows what thoughts you harbour of him, 
 As I am faithful and must tell him 
 I wish he does not take some pet, and leave you. 
 
 Mill. Thou art not mad, I hope, to tell him on't ; 
 If thou dost, I'll be sworn, I'll forswear it to him.
 
 20 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT n. 
 
 Warn. Upon condition then you'll pardon me, 
 I'll see what I can do to hold my tongue. 
 
 Mill. This evening, in St. James's Park, I'll meet him. 
 
 [Knock iviihin* 
 
 Warn. He shall not fail you, madam. 
 
 Rose. Somebody knocks oh, madam, what shall we do 1 
 'Tis Sir John, I hear his voice. 
 
 Warn. What will become of me ? 
 
 Mill. Step quickly behind that door. [He goes out. 
 
 To them SIR JOHN. 
 
 Mill. You've made a quick dispatch, sir. 
 
 Sir John. We have done nothing, madam, our man of law was 
 not within but I must look some writings. 
 
 Mill. Where are they laid ? 
 
 Sir John. In the portmanteau in the drawing-room. 
 
 [Is going to the door. 
 
 Mill. Pray stay a little, sir. 
 
 Warn, [at the door.} He must pass just by me ; and if he sees 
 me, I am but a dead man. 
 
 Sir John. Why are you thus concerned ? why do you hold me ? 
 
 Mill. Only a word or two I have to tell you. 
 Tis of importance to you 
 
 Sir John. Give me leave 
 
 Mill. I must not before I discover the plot to you. 
 
 Sir John. What plot ? 
 
 Mill. Sir Martin's servant, like a rogue, comes hither 
 To tempt me from his master, to have met him. 
 
 Warn, [at the door.} Now would I had a good bag of gunpowder 
 at my back, to ram me into some hole. 
 
 Mill. For my part, I was so startled at the message, 
 That I shall scarcely be myself these two days. 
 
 Sir John. Oh, that I had the rascal ! I would teach him 
 To come upon such errands. 
 
 Warn, [at the door.} Oh, for a gentle composition now ! 
 An arm or leg I would give willingly. 
 
 Sir John. What answer did you make the villain ? 
 
 Mill. I over-reached him clearly, by a promise 
 Of an appointment at a place I named, 
 Where 1 ne'er meant to come : but would have had 
 The pleasure first to tell you how I served him. 
 
 Sir John. And then to chide your mean suspicion of me, 
 Indeed I wondered you should love a fooL 
 But where did you appoint to meet him ? 
 
 Mill. In Gray's Inn Walks. 
 
 Warn, [at the door.} By this light, she has put the change upon 
 
 him ! 
 O sweet woman-kind I how I love thee for that heavenly gift of lying !
 
 SCENE i.] SIR MARTIN MARK- ALL. 21 
 
 Sir John. For this evening I will be his mistress ; 
 He shall meet another Penelope than he suspects. 
 
 Mill. But stay not long away. 
 
 Sir John. You over-joy me, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Warn, [entering]. Is he gone, madam ? 
 
 Mill. As far as Gray's Inn Walks ; now I have time to walk the 
 other way, and see thy master. 
 
 Warn. Rather let him come hither. I have laid a plot shall send 
 his rival far enough from watching him ere long. 
 
 Mill. Art thou in earnest ? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis so designed ; Fate cannot hinder it. Our landlord, 
 where we lie, vexed that his lodgings should be so left by Sir John, 
 is resolved to be revenged, and I have found the way. You'll see 
 the effect on't presently. 
 
 Rose. O heavens ! the door opens again, and Sir John is returned 
 once more. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN. 
 
 Sir John. Half my business was forgot ; you did not tell me when 
 you were to meet him. Ho ! what makes this rascal here ? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis well you're come, sir, else I must have left untold a 
 message I have for you. 
 
 Sir John. Well, \\ hat's your business, sirrah ? 
 
 Warn. We must be private first ; 'tis only for your ear. 
 
 Rose. I shall admire his wit, if in this plunge he can get off. 
 
 Warn. I came hither, sir, by my master's order 
 
 Sir John. I'll reward you for it, sirrah, immediately. 
 
 Warn. When you know all, I shall deserve it, sir. I came to 
 sound the virtue of your mistress, which I have done so cunningly, 
 I have at last obtained the promise of a meeting. But my good 
 master, whom I must confess more generous than wise, knowing you 
 had a passion for her, is resolved to quit. And, sir, that you may 
 see how much he loves you, sent me in private to advise you still to 
 have an eye upon her actions. 
 
 Sir John. Take this diamond for thy good news, and give thy 
 master my acknowledgments. 
 
 Warn. Thus the world goes, my masters ; he that will cozen you, 
 commonly gets your good-will into the bargain. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Madam, I am now satisfied of all sides ; first of your 
 truth, then of Sir Martin's friendship. In short, I find you two 
 cheated each other, both to be true to me. 
 
 Mill. Warner is got off, as I would wish, and the knight over- 
 reached. 
 
 Enter to them the LANDLORD, disguised like a Carrier. 
 
 Rose. How now ? what would this carrier have ? 
 
 Warn. This is our landlord, whom I told you of ; but keep your 
 countenance [Aside to her. 
 
 Landl. I was looking hereaway for one Sir John Swallow j they 
 told me I might hear news of him in this house.
 
 22 SfR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT n. 
 
 Sir John. Friend, I am the man : what have you to say to me ? 
 
 Landl. Nay, 'faith, sir, I am not so good a schollard to say much ; 
 but I have have a letter for you in my pouch. There's plaguy news 
 in't, I can tell you that. 
 
 Sir John. From whom is your letter ? 
 
 Landl. From your old Uncle Anthony. 
 
 Sir John. Give me your letter quickly. 
 
 Landl. Nay, soft and fair goes far Hold you, hold you. It 
 
 is not in this pocket. 
 
 Sir John. Search in the other then ; I stand on thorns. 
 
 Landl. I think I feel it now ; this should be who? 
 
 Sir John. Pluck it out then. 
 
 Landl. I'll pluck out my spectacles, and see first [Reads. 
 
 To Mr. Paul Grimbald Apprentice to No, that's not for you. 
 
 sir that's for the son of the brother of the nephew of the cousin of 
 my gossip Dobson. 
 
 Sir John. Prithee despatch ; dost thou not know the contents 
 on't ? 
 
 Landl. Yes, as well as I do my Pater Noster. 
 
 Sir John. Well, what's the business on't ? 
 
 Landl. Nay, no great business ; 'tis but only that your worship's 
 father's dead. 
 
 Sir John. My loss is beyond expression ! How died he ? 
 
 Landl. He went to bed as well to see to as any man in England, 
 and when he awakened the next morning 
 
 Sir John. What then ? 
 
 iMttdl. He found himself stark dead. 
 
 Sir John. Well, I must of necessity take orders for my father's 
 funeral, and my estate ; Heaven knows with what regret I leave you, 
 madam. 
 
 Mill. But are you in such haste, sir ? I see you take all occasions 
 to be from me. 
 
 Sir John. Dear madam, say not so, a few days will, I hope, 
 return me to you. 
 
 To them SIR MARTIN. 
 
 Noble Sir Martin, the welcomes! man alive 1 
 Let me embrace my friend. 
 
 Rose. How untowardly he returns the salute? Warner will be 
 found out. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Well, friend, you have obliged me to you eternally. 
 
 Sir Mart. How have I obliged you, sir? I would have you to 
 know I scorn your words ; and I would I were hanged if it be not 
 the farthest of my thoughts. 
 
 Mill. O cunning youth, he acts the fool most naturally. 
 Were we alone, how wo-.ild we laugh together ! [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. This is a double generosity, 
 To do me favours and conceal 'em from me ; 
 But honest Warner here has told me all.
 
 SCENE I.] SfK MARTIN MARR-ALL. 23 
 
 Sir Mart. What has the rascal told you ? 
 
 Sir John. Your plot to try my mistress for me you understand 
 me, concerning your appointment. 
 
 Warn. Sir, I desire to speak in private with you. 
 
 Sir Mart. This impertinent rascal, when I am most busy, I am 
 ever troubled with him. 
 
 Warn. But it concerns you I should speak with you, good 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. That's a good one i'faith, thou knowest breeding well, 
 that I should whisper with a serving-man before company. 
 
 Warn. Remember, sir, last time it had been better 
 
 Sir Mart. Peace, or I'll make you feel my double fists. If I 
 don't frighten him, the saucy rogue will call me fool before the 
 company. 
 
 Mill. That was acted most naturally again. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John [to him}. But what needs this dissembling, since you 
 are resolved to quit my mistress to me ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I quit my mistress ! that's a good one i'faith. 
 
 Mill. Tell him you have forsaken me. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. I understand you, madam, you would save 
 A quarrel ; but i'faith I am not so base : 
 I'll see him hanged first. 
 
 Warn. Madam, my master is convinced, in prudence 
 He should say so; but love o'ermasters him : 
 When you are gone perhaps he may. 
 
 Mill. I'll go then : gentlemen, your servant ; 
 I see my presence brings constraint to the company. 
 
 [Exit MlLLlCENT and ROSE. 
 
 Sir John. I'm glad she's gone ; now we may talk more freely ; for 
 if you have not quitted her, you must. 
 
 Warn. Pray, sir, remember yourself; did not you send me of a 
 message to Sir John, that for his friendship you had left Mrs. 
 Millicent ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, what an impudent lying rogue art thou ! , 
 
 Sir John. How's this ! Has Warner cheated me? 
 
 Warn. Do not suspect it in the least : you know, sir, it was not 
 generous before a lady, to say he quitted her. 
 
 Sir John. O ! was that it ? 
 
 Warn. That was all : say yes, good Sir John or I'll swinge you. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. Yes, good Sir John. 
 
 Warn. That's well ; onc.e in his life he has heard good counsel. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. Heigh, heigh, what makes my landlord here ? he has 
 put on a fool's coat, I think, to make us laugh. 
 
 Warn. The devil's in him ; he's at it again ; his folly's like a sore 
 in a surfeited horse, cure it in one place, and it breaks out in another. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sir Mart. Honest landlord, i'faith, and what makes you here ?
 
 94 S//? MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT it. 
 
 Sir John. Are you acquainted with this honest man ? 
 
 Landl. Take heed what you say, sir. [7* SIR MARTIN, softly. 
 
 Sir Mart. Take heed what I say sir, why? who should I be 
 afraid of? of you, sir ? I say, sir, I know him, sir ; and I have reason 
 to know him, sir ; for I am sure I lodge in his house, sir nay, never 
 think to terrify me, sir ; 'tis tny landlord here in Charles Street, sir. 
 
 Landl. Now I expect to be paid for the news I brought him. 
 
 Sir John. Sirrah ! Did not you tell me that my father 
 
 Landl. Is in very good health, for aught I know, sir ; I beseech 
 you to trouble yourself no farther concerning him. 
 
 Sir John. Who set you on to tell this lie ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Aye, who set you on, sirrah ? This was a rogue that 
 would cozen us both ; he thought I did not know him ; down on 
 your marrow-bones, and confess the truth : have you no tongue, you 
 rascal ? 
 
 Sir John. Sure 'tis some silenced minister : he's grown so fat, he 
 cannot speak. 
 
 Landl. Why, sir, if you would know, 'twas for your sake I did it. 
 
 Warn. For my master's sake ! why, you impudent varlet, do you 
 think to escape us with a lie ? 
 
 Sir John. How was it for his sake ? 
 
 Warn. 'Twas for his own, sir; he heard you were the occasion 
 the 'ady lodged not at his house, and so he invented this lie ; 
 partly to revenge himself of you ; and partly, I believe, in hope to 
 get her once again, when you were gone. 
 
 Sir John. Fetch me a cudgel, prithee. 
 
 Landl. O good sir ! if you beat me, I shall run into oil imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Warn. Hang him, rogue, he's below your anger : I'll maul him 
 for you the rogue's so big, I think 'twill ask two days to beat him 
 all over. [Heats him. 
 
 Landl. O rogue, O villain, Warner ! bid him hold, and I'll con- 
 fess, sir. 
 
 Warn. Get you gone without replying : must such as you be 
 prating ? [Beats him out. 
 
 Enter ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Sir, dinner waits you on the table. 
 
 Sir John. Friend, will you go along, and take part of a bad 
 repast ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Thank you ; but I am just risen from table. 
 
 Warn. Now he might sit with his mistress, and has not the wit 
 to find it out. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. You shall be very welcome. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have no stomach, sir. 
 
 Warn. Get you in with a vengeance. You have a better stomach 
 than you think you have. [Pushes him. 
 
 Sir Mart. This hungry Diego rogue would shame me ; he thinks 
 a gentleman can eat like a serving-man.
 
 SCENE I.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 25 
 
 Sir John. If you will not, adieu, dear sir ; in anything command 
 me. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Mart. Now we are alone ; haven't I carried matters bravely, 
 sirrah ? 
 
 Warn. O yes, yes ; you deserve sugar-plums : first, for your quar- 
 relling with Sir John ; then for discovering, your landlord ; and 
 lastly, for refusing to dine with your mistress. All this is since the 
 last reckoning was wiped out. 
 
 Sir Mart. Then why did my landlord disguise himself, to make 
 a fool of us ? 
 
 Warn. You have so little brains, that a penn'orth of butter 
 melted under them, would set 'em afloat : he put on that disguise 
 to rid you of your rival. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why was not I worthy to keep your counsel, then ? 
 
 Warn. It had been much at one : you would but have drunk the 
 secret down, and let it out to the next company. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, I find I am a miserable man ; I have lost my 
 mistress, and may thank myself for it. 
 
 Warn. You'll not confess you are a fool, I warrant. 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, I am a fool, if that will satisfy you ; but what 
 am I the nearer for being one ? 
 
 Warn. O yes, much the nearer ; for now fortune's bound to pro- 
 vide for you : as hospitals are built for lame people, because they 
 cannot help themselves. Well I have yet a project in my pate. 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear rogue, what is it ? 
 
 Warn. Excuse me for that ; but while 'tis set a working, you would 
 do well to screw yourself into her father's good opinion. 
 
 Sir Mart. If you will not tell me, my mind gives me I shall dis- 
 cover it again. 
 
 Warn. I'll lay it as far out of your reach as I can possible. 
 
 For secrets are edged tools, 
 And must be kept from children, and from fools. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 Enter ROSE and WARNER meeting. 
 
 Rose. Your worship's most happily encountered. 
 
 Warn. Your ladyship's most fortunately met. 
 Rose. I was going to your lodging. 
 
 Warn. My business was to yours. 
 
 Rose. I have something to say to you, that 
 
 Warn. I have that to tell you 
 
 Rose. Understand then 
 
 Warn. If you'll hear me 
 
 Rose. I believe that 
 
 Warn. I am of opinion that 
 
 Rose. Prithee hold thy peace a little, till I have done. 
 
 Warn. Cry you mercy, Mistress Rose ; I'll not dispute your 
 ancient privileges of talking.
 
 26 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT in. 
 
 Rose. My mistress, knowing Sir John was to be abroad upon 
 business this afternoon, has asked leave to see a play ; and Sir John 
 has so great a confidence of your master, that he will trust nobody 
 with her but him. 
 
 Warn. If my master gets her out, I warrant her he shall show 
 her a better play than any is at either of the houses ; here they 
 are : 111 run and prepare him to wait upon her. {Exit. 
 
 Enter OLD MOODY, MRS. MILLICENT<Z^LADY DUPE. 
 
 Mill. My hoods and scarfs there, quickly. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Send to call a coach there. 
 
 Mood. But what kind of man is this Sir Martin, with whom 
 you are to go ? 
 
 Lady. A plain downright country gentleman, I assure you. 
 
 Mood. I like him much the better for't ; for I hate one of those 
 you call a man of the town, one of those empty fellows of mere 
 outside : they've nothing of the true old English manliness. 
 
 Rose. I confess, sir, a woman's in a sad condition that has 
 nothing to trust to but a perriwig above, and a well-trimmed shoe 
 below. 
 
 To them SIR MARTIN. 
 
 Mill. This, sir, is Sir John's friend ; he is for your humour, sir ; 
 he is no man o' the town, but bred up in the old Elizabeth way of 
 plainness. 
 
 Sir Mart. Ay, madam, your ladyship may say your pleasure of me. 
 
 To them WARNER. 
 
 Warn. How got he here before me? 'Tis very unlucky I could 
 not see him first 
 
 Sir Mart. But as for painting, music, poetry, and the like, I'll 
 say this of myself 
 
 Warn. I'll say that for him, my master understands none of : em, 
 I assure you, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. You impudent rascal, hold your tongue. I must rid 
 my hands of this fellow ; the rogue is ever discrediting me before 
 company. 
 
 Mood. Never trouble yourself about it, sir, for I like a man that 
 
 Sir Mart. I know you do, sir, and therefore I hope youll think 
 never the worse of me for his prating ; for, though I do not boast 
 of my own good parts 
 
 Warn. He has none to boast of, upon my faith, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Give him not the hearing, sir ; for, if I may believe 
 my friends, they have flattered me with an opinion of more 
 
 Warn. Of more than their flattery can make good, sir 'tis true, 
 he tells you thcv have flattered him ; but, in my conscience, he is 
 the most downright simple-natured creature in the world. 
 
 Sir Mart. I shall consider you hereafter, sirrah ; but I am sure, 
 in all companies I pass for a virtuoso.
 
 SCENE i.] SIfi MARTIN MARK-ALL. *f 
 
 Mood. Virtuoso ! What's that too? Is not virtue enough, 
 without O so ? 
 
 Sir Mart. You have reason, sir ! 
 
 Mood. There he is again, too ; the town-phrase, a great compli- 
 ment, I wis. You have reason, sir ; that is, you are no beast, sir. 
 
 Warn. A word in private, sir ; you mistake this old man ; he 
 loves neither painting, music, nor poetry ; yet recover yourself, if 
 you have any brains. [Aside to him. 
 
 Sir Mart. Say you so ? I'll bring all about again, I warrant you 
 I beg your pardon a thousand times, sir ; I vow to gad I am not 
 master of any of those perfections ; for, in fine, sir, I am wholly 
 ignorant of painting, music, and poetry ; only some rude escapes 
 but, in fine, they are such, that, in fine, sir 
 
 Warn. This is worse than all the rest. [Aside. 
 
 Mood, Ods bobs. One word more of all this gibberish, and old 
 Madge shall fly about your ears : what is this in fine, he keeps such 
 a coil with too ? 
 
 Mill. 'Tis a phrase a-la-mode, sir, and is used in conversation 
 now, as a whiff of tobacco was formerly, in the midst of a discourse, 
 for a thinking while. 
 
 Lady Dupe. In plain English, in fine is, in the end, sir. 
 
 Mood. But, ods bobs, there's no end on't methinks : if thou wilt 
 have a foolish word to Lard thy lean discourse with, take an English 
 one when thou speakest English ; as, so sir, and, then sir, and so 
 forth, J tis a more manly kind of nonsense ; and a plague of in fine, 
 for I'll hear no more on't. 
 
 Warn. He's gravelled, and I must help him out. [A fide. 
 
 Madam, there's a coach at door to carry you to the play. 
 
 Sir Mart. Which house do you mean to go to ? 
 
 Mill. The Duke's. I think. 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis a vile play, and has nothing in't. 
 
 Mill. Then let us to the King's. 
 
 Sir Mart. That's e'en as bad. 
 
 Warn. This is past enduring. [Aside. 
 
 There was an ill play set up, sir, on the posts, but I can assure you 
 the bills are altered since you saw them, and now there are two 
 admirable comedies at both houses. 
 
 Mood. But my daughter loves serious plays. 
 
 Warn. They are tragi-comedies, sir, for both. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have heard her say she loves none but tragedies. 
 
 Mood. Where have you heard her say so, sir ? 
 
 Warn. Sir, you forget yourself, you never saw her in your life 
 before. 
 
 Sir Mart. What, not at Canterbury, in the cathedral church 
 there ? This is the impudentcst rascal 
 
 Warn. Mum, sir 
 
 Sir Mart. Ah, lord, what have I done I As I hope to be saved, 
 sir, it was before I was aware ; for if ever I set eyes on her before 
 this day, I wish
 
 28 SJK MARTIN MARK- ALL. [ACT ill. 
 
 Mood. This fellow is not so much fool, as he makes one believe 
 he is. 
 
 Mill. I thought he would be discovered for a wit : this 'tis to 
 overact one's part ! [Astde. 
 
 Mood. Come away, daughter, I will not trust you in his hands ; 
 there is more in't than I imagined. 
 
 [Exeunt MOODY, MILLICENT, LADY DUPE, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why do you frown upon me so, when you know vour 
 looks go to the heart of me ? what have I done besides a little 
 lapsus lingua ? 
 
 Warn. Why, who says you have done anything ? ye are a mere 
 innocent. 
 
 Sir Mart. As the child that's to be born, in my intentions ; if I 
 know how I have offended myself any more than in one word 
 
 Warn. But don't follow me, however I have nothing to say to 
 you. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll follow you to the world's end, till you forgive me. 
 
 Warn. I am resolved to lead you a dance then. [Exit, running: 
 
 Sir Mart. The rogue has no mercy in him, but I must mollify 
 him with money. [Exit. 
 
 Enter LADY DUPE. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Truly my little cousin's the aptest scholar, and takes 
 out love's lessons so exactly, that I joy to see it: she has got already 
 the bond of two thousand pounds sealed for her portion, which I 
 keep for her ; a pretty good beginning : Marc Antony wooed not 
 at so dear a price. 
 
 Enter WARNER and ROSE. 
 
 Rose. A mischief upon all fools ! Do you think your master has 
 not done wisely ? first to mistake our old man's humour, then to 
 dispraise the plays ; and lastly, to discover his acquaintance with 
 my mistress : my old master has taken such a jealousy of him, that 
 he will never admit him into his sight again. 
 
 Warn. Thou makest thyself a greater fool than he, by being 
 angry at what he cannot help I have been angry with him tpo, 
 but these friends have taken up the quarrel [Shows gold}. Look 
 you, he has sent these mediators to mitigate your wrath : here are 
 twenty of them have made a long voyage from Guinea, to kiss your 
 hands : and, when the match is made, there are a hundred more 
 in readiness to be your humble servants. 
 
 Rose. Rather than fall out with you, I'll take them : but, I confess, 
 it troubles me to see so loyal a lover have the heart of an emperor, 
 and yet scarce the brains of a cobbler. 
 
 Warn. Well, what device can we two get betwixt us, to separate 
 Sir John Swallow and thy mistress ? 
 
 Rose. I cannot on the sudden tell ; but I hate him worse than 
 foul weather without a coach. 
 
 Warn. Then I'll see if my project will be luck'er than thine.
 
 SCENE i.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 9$ 
 
 Where are the papers concerning the jointure I have heard you 
 speak of? 
 
 Rose . They lie within, in three great bags, some twenty quires of 
 paper in each bundle, with six lines in a sheet ; but there is a little 
 paper where all the business lies. 
 
 Warn. Where is it ? Canst thou help me to it ? 
 
 Rose. By good chance he gave it to my custody before he set out 
 for London. You came in good time ; here it is, I was carrying it 
 to him : just now he sent for it. 
 
 Warn. So, this I will secure in my pocket ; when thou art asked 
 for it, make two or three bad faces, and say, 'twas left behind ; by 
 this means he must of necessity leave the town to see for it in Kent. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN, SIR MARTIN, and MRS. MILLICENT. 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis no matter, though the old man be suspicious. I 
 knew the story all beforehand ; and since then you have fully 
 satisfied me of your true friendship to me. Where are the writings ? 
 
 [To ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Sir, I beg your pardon, I thought I had put them up 
 amongst my lady's things, and, it seems, in my haste, I quite forgot 
 'em, and left 'em at Canterbury. 
 
 Sir John. This is horribly unlucky ? Where do you think you 
 left 'em ? 
 
 Rose. Upon the great box in my Lady's chamber ; they are safe 
 enough, I'm sure. 
 
 Sir John. It must be so I must take post immediately : 
 Madam, for some few days I must be absent ; 
 And to confirm you, friend, how much I trust you, 
 I leave the dearest pledge I have on earth, 
 My mistress, to your care. 
 
 Mill. If you loved me, you would not take all occasions to leave 
 me thus ! 
 
 Warn, [aside.] Do, go to Kent, and when you come again, here 
 they are ready for you. [Shows the paper. 
 
 Sir Mart. What's that you have in your hand there, sirrah ? 
 
 Warn. [aside.~] What ill luck was this ! What shall I say ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Sometimes you have tongue enough ; what, are you 
 silent? 
 
 Warn. 'Tis an account, sir, of what money you have lost since 
 you came to town. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'm very glad on't : now I'll make you all see the 
 severity of my fortune. Give me the paper. 
 
 Warn. Heaven ! What does he mean to do ? It is not fairly 
 written out, sir. 
 
 Sir John. Besides, I am in haste, another time, sir 
 
 Sir Mart. Pray, oblige me, sir 'tis but one minute : all people 
 love to be pitied in their misfortunes, and so do I. Will you produce 
 it, sirrah ?
 
 30 SfX MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT m - 
 
 Warn. Dear master 1 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear rascal ! Am I master or you ? You rogue ! 
 Warn. Hold yet, sir, and let me read it. You cannot read my 
 hand. 
 
 Sir Mart. This is ever his way, to be disparaging me ; but I'll 
 let you see, sirrah, that I can read your hand better than you your- 
 self can. 
 
 Warn. You'll repent it, there's a trick in% sir 
 
 Sir Mart. Is there so, sirrah ? But I'll bring you out of all your 
 tricks with a vengeance to you [Reads] How now ! What's 
 this ? A true particular of the estate of Sir John Swallow, Knight, 
 lying and situate in, etc. 
 
 Sir John. This is the very paper I had lost [Takes the paper]. 
 I'm very glad on't, it has saved me a most unwelcome journey. 
 But I will not thank you for the courtesy, which now I find you 
 never did intend me this is confederacy, I smoke it now. Come, 
 madam, let me wait on you to your father. 
 
 Mill. Well, of a witty man, this was the foolishest part that ever 
 I beheld. [Exeunt SIR JOHN, MILLICENT, and ROSE. 
 
 Sir Mart. I am a fool, I must confess it, and I am the most 
 miserable one without thy help but yet it was such a mistake as 
 any man might have made. 
 Warn. No doubt on't 
 
 Sir Mart. Prithee chide me ! This indifference of thine wounds 
 me to the heart. 
 Warn. I care not. 
 
 Sir Mart. Wilt thou not help me for this once ? 
 Warn. Sir, I kiss your hands. I have other business. 
 Sir Mart. Dear Warner ! 
 Watn. I am inflexible. 
 
 Sir Mart. Then I am resolved I'll kill myself. 
 Warn. You are master of your own body. 
 Sir Mart. Will you let me damn my soul ? 
 Warn. At your pleasure, as the devil and you can agree about it. 
 Sir Mart. D'ye see, the point's ready ? Will you do nothing to 
 save my life ? 
 
 Warn. Not in the least. 
 Sir Mart. Farewell, hard-hearted Warner. 
 Warn. Adieu, soft-headed Sir Martin. 
 Sir Mart. Is it possible ? 
 
 Warn. Why don't you despatch, sir ? Why all these preambles ? 
 Sir Mart. I'll see thee hanged first ; I know thou would'st have 
 me killed, to get my clothes. 
 
 Warn. I knew it was but a copy of your countenance ; people in 
 this age are not so apt to kill themselves. 
 
 Sir Mart. Here are yet ten pieces in my pocket, take 'em, and 
 let's be friends. 
 
 Warn. You know the easiness of my nature, and that makes you 
 work upon it so. Well, sir for this once I cast an eye of pity
 
 SCENE I.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 3 r 
 
 on you ; but I must have ten more in hand, before I can stir a 
 foot. 
 
 Sir Mart. As I am a true gamester, I have lost all but these ; 
 but if thou'lt lend me them, I'll give 'em thee again. 
 
 Warn. I'll rather trust you till to-morrow. Once more look up ; 
 I bid you hope the best. 
 
 'Why should your folly make your love miscarry, 
 Since men first play the fools, and then they marry ? 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 Enter SIR MARTIN and WARNER. 
 
 Sir Mart. But are they to be married this day, in private, say 
 you ? 
 
 Warn. Tis so concluded, sir, I dare assure you. 
 
 Sir Mart. But why so soon, and in private ? 
 
 Warn. So soon, to prevent the designs upon her ; and in private, 
 to save the effusion of Christian money. 
 
 Sir Mart. It strikes to my heart already ; in fine, I am a dead 
 man, Warner. 
 
 Warn. Well, go your ways ; I'll try what may be done. Look, if 
 he will stir now ? Your rival and the old man will see us together : 
 we are just below the window. 
 
 Sir Mart. Thou canst not do't. 
 
 Warn. On the peril of my twenty pieces be it. 
 
 Sir Mart. But I have found a way to help thee out ; trust to my 
 wit but once. 
 
 Warn. Name your wit, or think you have the least grain of wit 
 once more, and I'll lay it down for ever. 
 
 Sir Mart. You are a saucy, masterly companion, and so I leave 
 you. 
 
 Warn. Help, help, good people ! Murther, murther ! 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN and MOODY. 
 
 Sir John and Moody. How now, what's the matter? 
 
 Warn. I am abused, I am beaten, I am lamed for ever. 
 
 Mood. Who has used thee so ? 
 
 Warn. The rogue, my master. 
 
 Sir John. What was the offence ? 
 
 Warn. A trifle just nothing. 
 
 Sir John. That's very strange. 
 
 Warn. It was for telling him he lost too much at play ; I meant 
 him nothing but well, Heaven knows, and he, in a cursed humour, 
 would needs revenge his losses upon me. He kicked me, took away 
 my money, and turned me off; but if I take it at his hands 
 
 Mood. Ay, marry, it was an ill-natured part nay, I thought no 
 better could come on't, when I heard him at his vow to gads, and 
 in fines. 
 
 Warn. But if I live I'll cry quittance with him. He had engaged
 
 32 S/X MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT IV. 
 
 me to get Mrs. Millicent your daughter for him ; but if I do not all 
 that ever I can to make her hate him, a great booby, an over-grown 
 oaf, a conceited Bartlemew 
 
 Sir John. Prithee leave off thy choler, and hear me a little. I 
 have had a great mind to thee a longtime ; if thou think'st my service 
 better than his, from this minute I entertain thee. 
 
 Warn. With all my heart, sir ; and so much the rather, that I 
 may spite him with it. This was the most propitious fate 
 
 Mood. Propitious ! and Fate ! what a scander-bag rogue art 
 thou to talk at this rate ! Hark you, sirrah, one word more of this 
 gibberish, and I'll set you packing from your new service. I'll have 
 neither Propitious nor Fate come within my doors 
 
 Sir John. Nay, pray, father. 
 
 Warn. Good old sir, be pacified. I was pouring out a little of 
 the dregs that I had left in me of my former service ; and now they 
 are gone, my stomach's clear of 'em. 
 
 Sir "John. This fellow is come in a happy hour ; for now, sir, you 
 and I may go to prepare the licence, and in the meantime he may 
 have an eye upon your daughter. 
 
 Warn. If you please, I'll wait upon her till she's ready, and then 
 bring her to what church you shall appoint. 
 
 Mood. But, friend, you'll find she'll be very loth to come along 
 with you, and therefore I had best stay behind, and bring her myself. 
 
 Warn. I warrant you I have a trick for that, sir. She knows 
 nothing of my being turned away ; so III rome to her as from Sir 
 Martin, and under pretence of carrying her to him, conduct her to you. 
 
 Sir John. My better angel 
 
 Mood. By the mess 'twas well thought on ; well, son, go you 
 before, I'll speak but one word for a dish or two at dinner, and 
 follow you to the licence office. Sirrah, stay you here till my 
 return. [Exeunt SIR JOHN and MOODY. 
 
 Warn, [solus]. Was there ever such a lucky rogue as I ! I had 
 always a good opinion of my wit, but could never think I had so 
 much as now I find. I have now gained an opportunity to carry 
 away Mistress Millicent for my master ; to get his mistress, by 
 means of his rival, to receive all his happiness, where he could ex- 
 pect nothing but misery : after this exploit, I will have Lilly draw 
 me in the habit of a hero, with a laurel on my temples, and an 
 inscription below it, " This is Warner, the flower of serving-men." 
 Enter MESSENGER. 
 
 Mess. Pray do me the favour to help me to the speech of Mr. 
 Moody. 
 
 Warn. What's your business ? 
 
 Mess. I have a letter to deliver to him. 
 
 Warn. Here he comes, you may deliver it yourself to him. 
 Re-enter MOODY. 
 
 Mess. Sir, a gentleman met me at the corner of the next street, 
 and bid me give this into your own hands.
 
 4. 
 
 SCENE I.] SfX MARTIN MARR-ALL. 33 
 
 Mood. Stay, friend, till I have read it. 
 
 Mess. He told me, sir, it required no answer. [Exit MESSENGER. 
 
 Moody. [Reads.] Sir, Permit me, though a stranger, to give 
 counsel; some young gallants have had intelligence, that this day 
 you intend privately to marry your daughter, the rich heiress ; and 
 in fine, about twenty of 'etn have dispersed themselves to watch her 
 going out; therefore put it off, if you will avoid mischief, and be 
 'advised by YOUR UNKNOWN SERVANT. 
 
 Mood. By the Mackings, I thought there was no good in't when 
 I saw in fine there ; there are some papishes, I'll warrant, that 
 lie in wait for my daughter, or else they are no Englishmen, but 
 some of your French Outalian rogues ; I owe him thanks, however, 
 this unknown friend of mine, that told me on't. Warner, no wed- 
 ding to-day, Warner. 
 
 Warn. Why, what's the matter, sir ? 
 
 Mood. I say no more, but some wiser than some, I'll keep my 
 daughter at home this afternoon, and a fig for all these Outalians. 
 
 [Exit MOODY. 
 
 Warn. So, here's another trick of fortune, as unexpected forbad, 
 as the other was for good. Nothing vexes me, but that I had made 
 my game cock-sure, and then to be backgammoncd : it must needs 
 be a mischievous imp that wrote this letter ; he owed my master a 
 spite, and has paid him to the purpose ; and here he comes as 
 merry too, he little thinks what misfortune has befallen him ; and for 
 my part I am ashamed to tell him. 
 
 Enter SIR MARTIN, laughing. 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner, such a jest, Warner. [Laughs again . 
 
 Warn. What a murrain is the matter, sir ? Where lies this jest 
 that tickles you ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Let me laugh out my laugh, and I'll tell thee. 
 
 [Laughs again. 
 
 Warn. I wish you may have cause for all this mirth. 
 
 Sir Af art. Hereafter, Warner.be it known unto thee, I will endure 
 no more to be made thy May-game. Thou shalt no more dar to 
 tell me I spoilt thy projects, and discover thy designs ; for 1 have 
 played such a prize, without thy help, of my own mother-wit, ('tis true, 
 I am hasty sometimes, and so do harm ; but when I have a mind 
 to show myself, there's no man in England, though I say it. comes 
 near me, as to point of imagination), ill make thee acknowledge I 
 have laid a plot that has a soul in't. 
 
 Warn. Pray, sir, keep me no longer iii ignorance of this rare 
 invention. 
 
 Sir Mart. Know then, Warner, that when I left thee, I was 
 possessed with a terrible tear, that my mistress should be married. 
 Well, thought I to myself, and, mustering up all the forces of my 
 wit, I did produce such a statagem. 
 
 Warn, Hut what was it? 
 
 R
 
 34 SIS MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT iv. 
 
 Sir Mart. I feinged a letter, as from an unknown friend, to 
 Moody, wherein I gave him to understand, that if his daughter 
 went out this afternoon, she would infallibly be snapt by some 
 young fellows that lay in wait for her. 
 
 Warn. Very good. 
 
 Sir Mart. That which follows is yet better ; for he I sent assures 
 me, that in that very nick of time my letter came her father was 
 just sending her abroad with a very foolish rascally fellow that was 
 with him. 
 
 Warn. And did you perform all this ? Could you do this won- 
 derful miracle, without your soul to the devil for his help ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I tell thee, man, I did it, and it was done by the help 
 of no devil, but this familiar of my one brain ; how long would it 
 have been, e'er thou could'st have thought of such a project? 
 Martin said to his man, Who's the fool now ? 
 
 Warn. Who's the fool ? Why, who used to be the fool ? he that 
 ever was, since I knew him, and will ever be so ! 
 
 Sir Mart. What a plague ! I think thou art grown envious ; not 
 one word in my commendations ? 
 
 Warn. Faith, sir, my skill is too little to praise you as you de- 
 serve ; but if you would have it according to my poor ability, you're 
 one that had a knock in your cradle, a conceited lack-wit, a design- 
 ing ass, a hair-brained fop, a confounded busy-brain, with an eternal 
 windmill in it ; this, in short, sir, is the contents of your panegyric. 
 
 Sir Mart. But what have I done to set you thus against me ? 
 
 Warn. Only this, sir, I was the foolish rascally fellow that was 
 with Moody, and your worship was he to whom I was to bring his 
 daughter. 
 
 Sir Mart. But how could I know this ? I am no witch. 
 
 Warn. No, I'll be sworn for you, you are no conjurer. Will you 
 go, sir ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Will you hear my justifications ? 
 
 Warn. Shall 1 see the back of you ? Speak not a word in your 
 defence. \Shoves him. 
 
 Sir Mart. This is the strangest luck now \_Exit. 
 
 Warn. I'm resolved this devil of his shall never weary me, I will 
 overcome him, I will invent something that shall stand good, in 
 spite of his folly. Let me see 
 
 Enter LORD. 
 
 Lord. Here he is I must venture on him, for the tyranny of this 
 old lady is unsupportable, since I have made her my confidant 
 there passes not an hour but she passes a pull at my purse strings ; 
 I shall be ruined if I do not quit myself of her suddenly. I find 
 now, by sad experience, that a mistress is much more chargeable 
 th*n a wife, and after a little time, too, grows full as dull and insig- 
 nificant. Mr. Warner, have you a mind to do yourself a courtesy 
 and me another ? 
 
 Warn. I think, my Lord, the question need not be much disputed,
 
 SCENE I.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 35 
 
 for I have always had a great service for your Lordship, and some 
 little kindness for myself. 
 
 Lord. What if you should propose Mrs. Christian as a wife to 
 your master ? You know he's never like to compass t'other. 
 
 Warn. I cannot tell that, my Lord 
 
 Lord. ,500 are yours at the day of marriage. 
 
 Warn. ^500 'tis true, the temptation is very sweet and powerful, 
 and many a good murther and treason have been committed at a 
 cheaper rate ; but yet 
 
 Lord. What yet 
 
 Warn. To confess the truth, I am resolved to bestow my master 
 upon that other lady (as difficult as your Lordship thinks it), for the 
 honour of my wit is engaged in it. Will it not be the same to your 
 Lordship, were she married to any other ? 
 
 Lord. The very same. 
 
 Warn. Come, my Lord, not to dissemble with you any longer, I 
 know where it is that your shoe wrings you ; I have observed some- 
 thing in the house betwixt some parties that shall be nameless. 
 
 Lord. I see I have not danced in a net before you. 
 
 Warn. As for that old lady, she is the greatest jilt in nature ; cheat 
 is her study, all her joy to cozen ; she loves nothing but herself, and 
 draws all lines to that corrupted centre. 
 
 Lord. I have found her out, though late. 
 
 Warn. Well, my Lord, cheer up ! I have found a way to rid you 
 of it all, within a short time you shall know more ; yonder appear^ 
 a young lady, whom I must needs speak with ; please you go in and 
 prepare the old lady and your mistress. 
 
 Lord. Good luck, and 500 attend thee. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Ml LUCENT and ROSE above. 
 
 Mill. I am resolved I'll never many him ! 
 
 Rose. So far you are right, madam. 
 
 Mill. But how to hinder it I cannot possibly tell ! For my father 
 presses me to it, and will take no denial. Would I knew some 
 way 
 
 Warn. Madam, I'll teach you the very nearest, for I have just 
 now found it out. 
 
 Rose. Are you there, Mr. Littleplot ? 
 
 Warn. Studying to deserve thcc, Rose, by my diligence for tin- 
 Lady. I stand here, meth inks, just like a wooden Mercury, to point 
 her out the way to matrimony. In the first place, then, I must 
 acquaint you, that I have seemingly put oil my master, and entered 
 myself into Sir John's service. 
 
 Mill. Most excellent ! 
 
 Warn. And thereupon, but base 
 
 Enter MOODY. 
 
 Mill. Something he would tell us, but see what luck's here J 
 Mood. How now, sirrnh ? arc you so great there already ? 
 
 E I
 
 36 SJK MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Mill. I find my father's jealous of him still ! 
 Want. Sir, I was only teaching my young lady a new song, and 
 if you please you shall hear it. \Sings. 
 
 Make ready, fair lady, to night, 
 
 And stand at the door below, 
 For I will be there 
 To receive you with care, 
 
 And to your true love you shall go. 
 
 Mood, Ods bobs, this is very pretty. 
 
 Mill. Ay, so is the lady's answer, too, if I could but hit on't. 
 
 \Sings. 
 
 And when the stars twinkle so bright. 
 
 Then down to the door will I creep, 
 To my love will I fly, 
 Ere the jealous can spy, 
 
 And leave my old daddy asleep. 
 
 Mood. Bodikins, I like not that so well, to cozen her old father ; 
 it may be my own case another time. 
 Rose. Oh, madam ! yonder's your persecutor returned. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN. 
 
 Mill. I'll into my chamber, to avoid the sight of him as long as 
 
 I can. Lord ! that my old doting father should throw me away 
 
 upon such an ignoramus, and deny me to such a wit as Sir Martin. 
 
 [Exeunt MlLLlCENT mid ROSE from above. 
 
 Mood. O son ! here has been the most villainous tragedy against 
 
 you. 
 
 Sir John. What tragedy ? Has there been any blood shed since I 
 went ? 
 
 Mood. No blood shed ; but, as I told you, a most horrible 
 tragedy. 
 
 Warn. A tragedy! I'll be hanged if he docs not mean a stra- 
 tagem. 
 Mood. Jack Sauce ? if I say it is a tragedy, it shall be a tragedy, 
 
 in spite of you ; teach yourgrandam how . What I hope I am 
 
 old enough to spout English with you, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. But what was the reason you came not after me ? 
 Mood. Twas well I did not, I'll promise you, there were those 
 would have made bold with Mrs. Bride ; and if she had stirred out 
 of doors, there were whipsters abroad, i'faith, that would have 
 picked the lock of her affections ere a man could have said, what's 
 this ? But, by good luck, I had warning of it by a friend's letter. 
 
 Sir John. The remedy for all such dangers is easy ; you may 
 send for a parson and have the business dispatched at home. 
 
 Mood. A match, i'faith ! do you provide a domine, and I'll go tell 
 her our resolutions, and hearten her up against the day of battle. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. Now I think on't, this letter must needs come from Sir 
 Martin ; a plot of his, upon my lit, to hinder our marriage.
 
 SCENE i.] SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 37 
 
 Warn. I see, sir, you'll still mistake him for a wit ; but I rfm 
 much deceived if that letter came not from another hand. 
 
 Sir John. From whom, I prithee ? 
 
 Warn. Nay, for that you shall excuse me, sir ; I do not love to 
 make a breach betwixt persons that are to be so near related. 
 
 Sir John. Thou seem'st to imply that my mistress was in the 
 plot. 
 
 Warn. Can you make a doubt on't. Do you not know she ever 
 loved him ? and can you hope she has so soon forsaken him ? You 
 may make yourself miserable, if you please, by such a marriage. 
 
 Sir John. When she is once mine, her virtue will secure me. 
 
 Warn. Her virtue ! 
 
 Sir John. What, do you make a mock on't ? 
 
 Warn. Not I, I assure you, sir, I think it no such jesting matter. 
 
 Sir John. Why, is she not honest ? 
 
 Warn. Yes, in my conscience is she, for Sir Martin's tongue's no 
 slander. 
 
 Sir John. But does he say to the contrary ? 
 
 Warn. If one would believe him, which, for my part, I do not, he 
 has, in a manner, confessed it to me. 
 
 Sir John. Ha! 
 
 Warn. Courage, sir, never vex yourself ; I'll warrant you 'tis all 
 a lie. 
 
 Sir John. But how shall I be 'sured 'tis so ? 
 
 Warn. When you are married. 
 
 Sir John. I do not love to make that experiment at my own cost. 
 
 Warn. Then you must never marry. 
 
 Sir John. All manner of ways I am most miserable. 
 
 Warn. The truth is, an honest simple girl that's ignorant of all 
 things maketh the best matrimony ; there is such a pleasure in 
 instructing her ; the best is, there's not one dunce in all the sex ; 
 such a one with a good fortune 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but where is she, Warner ? 
 
 Warn. Near enough, but that you are too far engaged. 
 
 Sir John. Engaged to one that hath already deceived me ? 
 
 Warn. What think you then of Mrs. Christian here in the house ? 
 There's ,5,000, and a better penny. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but is she fool enough ? 
 
 Warn. She's none of the wise virgins, I can assure you. 
 
 Sir John. Dear Warner, step into the next room and inveigle 
 her out this way, that I may speak to her. 
 
 Warn. Remember, above all thing?, you keep this wooing secret. 
 If he takes the least wind, old Moody will be sure to hinder it. 
 
 Sir John. Dost thou think I shall get her aunt's consent ? 
 
 Warn. Leave that to me. [Exit WARNER. 
 
 Sir John. How happy a man shall I be if I can but compass 
 this ! and what a precipice have I avoided ! Then the revenge, too, 
 is sweet. Well, such a servant as this Warner is a jewel
 
 38 SSA MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT IV. 
 
 > 
 
 Enter WARNER and MRS. CHRISTIAN to him, 
 
 Warn. There she is, sir ; now I'll go to prepare her aunt. 
 
 Sir John. Sweet mistress, I am come to wait upon you. 
 
 Chr. Truly you are too pood to wait on me. 
 
 Sir John. And in the condition of a suitor. 
 
 Chr. As how, forsooth ? 
 
 Sir John. To be so happy as to marry you. 
 
 Chr. O Lord ! I would not marry for anything ! 
 
 Sir John. Why ? 'tis the honeet end of womankind. 
 . Chr. Twenty years hence, forsooth. 
 
 Sir John. Pah ! What an innocent girl it is, and very child ! 
 Lord ! her innocency makes me laugh ; my checks alJ wet. 
 Sweet lady ^Aiulc. 
 
 Chr. I'm but a gentlewoman, forsooth. 
 
 Sir John. Well then, sweet mistress, if I get your friends' consent, 
 shall 1 have yours ? 
 
 Chr. My old lady may do what she will, forsooth, but by my 
 truly, I hope she will have more care of me than to marry me yet ; 
 Lord bless me, what should I do with a husband ? 
 
 Sir John. Well, sweetheart, then instead of wooing you, I must 
 woo my old lady. 
 
 Chr. Indeed, gentleman, my old lady is married already. Cry 
 you mercy, forsooth, I think you are a knight. 
 
 Sir John. Happy in that title only to make you Lady. 
 
 Chr. Believe me, Mr. Knight, I would not be a Lady ; it makes 
 folks proud, and so humorous, and so ill housewives, forsocth. 
 
 Sir John. Pah, she's a baby, the simplest thing that ever yet 
 I knew, the happiest man I shall be in the world. 
 
 Enter LADY DUPE* 
 
 Lady Dupe. By your leave, sir : 1 hope this noble knight will 
 make you happy, and you make him. 
 
 Chr. What shall I make him ? \Stghing. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Marry, you shall make him happy in a good wife. 
 
 Chr. I will not marry, madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. You fool ! 
 
 Sir John. Pray, madam, let me speak with you ; on my Soul 'tis 
 the prettiest, innocentest thing in the world 
 
 Lady Diipc. Indeed, sir, she knows little besides her work, and 
 her prayers ; but I'll talk with the fool. 
 
 Sir John. Deal gently with her, dear madam. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Come, Christian, will not you marry this noble 
 knight? 
 
 Chr. Yes, yes, yes \Sobbiiigly. 
 
 .Lady Dupe. Sir, it shall be to-night. 
 
 Sir John. This innocence is a dowry beyond nil price. 
 
 OLD LADY and' MRS. CHRISTIAN.
 
 SCENE I.") SIR MARTIN MARK-ALL. 39 
 
 Enter SIR MARTIN and SIR JOHN, musing. 
 
 Sir Mart. You are very melancholy, methinks, sir. 
 
 Sir John. You are mistaken, sir. 
 
 , Sir Mart. You may dissemble as you please, but Mrs. Millicent 
 lies at the bottom of your heart. 
 
 Sir John. My heart, I assure you, has no room for so poor a trifle. 
 
 Sir Mart. Sure you think to wheedle me ; would you have me 
 imagine you do not love her ? 
 
 Sir John. Love her! Why should you, think me such a sot? 
 Love an infamous person ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Fair and soft, good Sir John. 
 
 Sir John. You see I am no very obstinate rival I leave the field 
 free to you : go on, sir, and pursue your good fortune, and be as 
 happy as such a creature can make thee. 
 
 Sir Mart. This is Hebrew-Greek to me ; but I must tell you, sir, 
 I will not suffer my divinity to be profaned by such a tongue as 
 yours. 
 
 Sir John. Believe it, whate'cr I say, I can quote my author for. 
 
 Sir Mart. Then, sir, whoever told it you, lied in his throat, d'ye 
 see, and deeper than that, d'ye see, in his stomach, d'ye see ? 
 
 Sir John. What if Warner told me so ? I hope you'll grant him 
 to be a competent judge in such a business. 
 
 Sir Mart. Did that precious rascal say it? Now I think on't, 
 I'll not believe you : in fine, sir, I'll hold you an even wager he 
 denies it. 
 
 Sir John. I'll lay you ten to one, he justifies it to your face. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll make him give up the ghost under my fist, if he 
 docs not deny it. 
 
 Sir John. Ill cut off his ears upon the spot, if he does not stand 
 to it. 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Sir Afar/.- Here he comes in pudding-time to resolve the question. 
 Come hither, you lying varlet, hold up your hand at the bar of 
 justice, and answer me to what I shall demand. 
 
 Warn. What a goodyear is the matter, sir? 
 
 Sir Mart. Thou spawn of the old serpent, fruitful in nothing but 
 in lies ! 
 
 Warn. A very fair beginning this. 
 
 Sir Mart. Didst thou dare to cast thy venom upon such a saint 
 as Mrs. Millicent to traduce her virtue ? 
 
 Warn. Not guilty, my Lord. 
 
 Sir .Mart. I told you so. 
 
 Sir John. How, Mr. Rascal! Have you forgot what you said 
 but now concerning Sir Martin and Mrs. Millicent ? I'll stop the 
 lie down your throat, if you dare deny it. 
 
 Sir Mart. Say you so ! Are you there again i'faith ? 
 
 Warn. Pray pacify yourself, sir, 'twas a plot of my own devising.
 
 40 S/K MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT iv. 
 
 Sir Mart. Leave oft your winking and your pinking, with a horse- 
 plague to ye, I'll understand none of it ; tell me in plain English 
 the truth of the business ; for nn" you were my own brother, you 
 should pay for it : belie my mistress ! What a plague, d'ye think I 
 have no sense of honour ? 
 
 Warn. What's the matter with ye ? Either be at quiet, or I'll 
 resolve to take my heels, and begone. 
 
 Sir Mart. Stop thief there ! What, did you think to escape the 
 hand of justice ? [Lays hold on him.'] The best on't is, sirrah, 
 your heels are not altogether so nimble as your tongue. 
 
 {Beats him. 
 
 Warn. Help! Murther ! Murther ! 
 
 Sir Mart. Confess, you rogue, then. 
 
 Warn. Hold your hands, I think the devil's in you, I tell you, 
 'tis a device of mine. 
 
 Sir Mart. And have you no body to devise it on but my 
 mistress, the very map of innocence ? 
 
 Sir 'John. Moderate your anger, good Sir Martin. 
 
 Sir Mart. By your patience, sir, I'll chastise him abundantly. 
 
 Sir John. That's a little too much, sir, by your favour, to beat 
 him in my presence. 
 
 Sir Mart. That's a good one i'faith ; your presence shall hinder 
 me from beating my own servant ? 
 
 Warn. O traitor to all sense and reason ! he's going to discover 
 that too. 
 
 Sir Mart. An" I had a mind to beat him to mummy, he's my 
 own, I hope. 
 
 Sir Jflhn, At present. I must tell you, he's mine, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. Heyday ! here's fine juggling! 
 
 Warn. Stop yet, sir, you are just upon the brink of a precipice. 
 
 Sir Mart. What is't thou meanest now ? ah, Lord ! my mind 
 misgives me, I have done some fault, but would 1 were hanged if I 
 can find it out. [Aside. 
 
 Warn. There's no making him understand me. 
 
 Sir Mart. Plague on't, come what will, I'll not be faced down 
 with a lie ; I say he is my man. 
 
 Sir Jfihn. Pray remember yourself better ; did not you turn him 
 away for some fault lately, and laid a livery of black and blue on his 
 back before he went ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Nothing of any fault, or any black and blue that I re- 
 member : either the rascal put some trick upon you, or you would 
 upon me. 
 
 Sir John. O, oh, then it seems the cudgelling and turning away 
 were pure invention ; 1 am glad I understand it. 
 
 Sir Mart. In fine, it's all so wretched a lie 
 
 Warn. Alas ! he has forgot it, sir : good wits, you know, have bad 
 memories. 
 
 Sir John. No, no. sir, that shall not serve your turn, you may 
 return when you please to your old master, I give you a fair dis-
 
 SCENE I.] SfR MARTIN MARR-ALL. 41 
 
 charge, and a glad man I am to be so rid of you : were you there- 
 abouts i'faith ? What a saake I had entertained into my bosom ! 
 Fare you well, sir, and lay your next plot better between you, I 
 advise you. {Exit SIR JOHN. 
 
 Warn. Lord, sir, how you stand ! as you were nipped i'the 
 head ; have you done any new piece of folly, that makes you look so 
 like an ass ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Here's three pieces of gold yet, if I had the heart to 
 offer it thee. [Holds the gold afar off, trembling. 
 
 Warn. Noble sir, what have I done to deserve so great a 
 liberality ? I confess if you had beaten me for my own fault, if you 
 had utterly destroyed all my projects, then it might have been ex- 
 pected that ten or twenty pieces should have been offered by way of 
 recompense or satisfaction. 
 
 Sir Mart. Nay, an' you be so full of your flouts, your friend and 
 servant ; who could tell the meaning of your signs and tokens, and 
 you go to that ? 
 
 Warn. You are no ass then ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Well, sir, to do you service, d'ye see, I am an ass in 
 a fair way ; will that satisfy you ? 
 
 Warn. For this once ; produce those three pieces, I am contented 
 to receive that inconsiderable tribute ; or make 'em six, and I'll take 
 the fault upon myself. 
 
 Sir Mart. Are we friends then ? If we are, let me advise you 
 
 Warn. Yet advising 
 
 Sir Mart. For no harm, good Warner. But pray next time make 
 me of your counsel, let me enter into, the business, instruct me in 
 every point, and then if I discover all, I am resolved to give over 
 affairs, and retire from the world. 
 
 Warn. Agreed, it shall be so; but let us now take breath awhile, 
 then on again. 
 
 For though we had the worst, those heats were past, 
 We'll whip and spur, and fetch him up at last. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 Enter LORD, LADY DUPE, MRS. CHRISTIAN, ROSE and WARNER. 
 
 Lord. Your promise is admirably made good to me, that Sir John 
 Swallow should be this night married to Mrs. Christian ; instead of 
 that, he is more deeply engaged than ever with old Moody. 
 
 Warn. I cannot help these ebbs and flows of fortune. 
 
 Lady Ditpt. I am sure my niece suffers most in't ; he's come off to 
 her with a cold compliment of a mistake which he has now found 
 out^by your master's folly, to be a plot of yours to separate them. 
 
 Chr. To be forsaken when a woman has given her consent ! 
 
 Lord. 'Tis the same scorn, as to have a town rendered up, and 
 afterwards slighted. 
 
 Rose. You are a sweet youth, sir, to use my lady so, when shedc-
 
 42 SIX MARTIN MARK-ALL. [ACT V. 
 
 pendcd on you ! Is this the faith of a valet dc chambre ? I would 
 be ashamed to be such a dishonour to my profession ; it will reflect 
 upon us in time, we shall be ruined by your good example, 
 
 Warn. As how, my dear Lady Ambassadress ? 
 
 Rote. Why, they say the women govern their ladies, and you 
 govern us ; so if you play fast and loose, not a gallant will bribe us 
 for our good wills ; the gentle guinea will now go to the ordinary, 
 which used as duly to steal into our hands at the stair-foot, as into 
 Mr. Doctor's at parting. 
 
 J^ord. Night's come, and I expect your promise. 
 
 J^ady Dupe. Fail with me if you think good, sir. 
 
 Chr. I give no more time. 
 
 Rose. And if my mistress 
 
 Warn. Heyday ! you are dealing with me as they do with the 
 bankers, call in all your debts together ; there's no possibility of 
 payment at this rate, but I'll coin for you all as fast as I can, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Lady Dupe. But you must not think to pay us with false money, 
 as you have done hitherto. 
 
 Rose. Leave off your mountebank tricks with us, and fall to your 
 business in good earnest. 
 
 Warn. Faith, and I will, Rose ; for, to confess the truth, I am a 
 kind of a mountebank. I have but one cure for all your diseases, 
 that is, that my master may marry Mrs. Millicent, for then Sir John 
 Swallow will of himself return to Mrs. Christian. 
 
 Lord. He says true, and therefore we must all be helping to that 
 design. 
 
 Warn. I'll put you upon something ; give me but a thinking time. 
 In the first place, get a warrant and bailiffs to arrest Sir John 
 Swallow, upon a promise of marriage to Mrs. Christian. 
 
 Lord. Very good. 
 
 Lady Dupe. We'll all swear it. 
 
 Warn. I never doubted your Ladyship in the least, madam ; 
 for the rest we will consider hereafter. 
 
 Lord. Leave this to us. [a#//MRS. CHRISTIAN". 
 
 {Exeunt LORD, LADY DUPE, MILLICENT, 
 
 Warn. Rose, whcre's thy lady ? 
 
 Mill. What have you to say to her ? 
 
 Warn. Only to tell you, madam, I am going forward in the great 
 work of projection. 
 
 Mill. I know not whether you will deserve my thanks when the 
 work's done. 
 
 Warn. Madam,! hope you are not become indifferent to my master. 
 
 Mill. If he should prove a fool after all your crying up his wit, I 
 shall be a miserable woman. 
 
 Warn. A fool ! that were a good jest i'faith ; but how comes 
 your Ladyship to suspect it? 
 
 Rose I have heard, madam, your greatest wits have ever a touch 
 of madness and extravagance in them, so, perhaps, has he.
 
 SCENE i.] . SZ MARTIN MARR-ALL. 43 
 
 Warn. There's nothing more distant than wit and foliy, yet, like 
 east and west, they may meet in a point, and produce actions that 
 are but a hair's-brcadth frorri one another. 
 
 Rose. I'll undertake he has wit enough to make one laugh at him 
 a whole day together ; he's a most comical person. 
 
 Mill. For all this, I will not swear he is no fool ; he has still 
 discovered all your plots. 
 
 Warn. O madam, that's the common fate of your Machivelians, 
 they draw their designs so subtle, that their very fineness breaks 
 them. 
 
 Mill. However, I'm resolved to be on the sure side ; I will have 
 certain proof of his wit before I rnarry him. 
 
 Warn. Madam, I'll give you one. He wears his clothes like 
 a great sloven, and that's a sure sign of wit ; he neglects his out- 
 ward parts ; besides, he speaks French, sings, dances, plays upon 
 the hue. 
 
 Mill. Does he do all this, say you ? 
 
 Warn. Most divinely, madam. 
 
 Mill. I ask no more ; then let him give me a serenade imme- 
 diately ; but let him stand in the view, I'll not be cheated. 
 
 Warn. He shall do't, madam; but how? for he sings like a 
 screech owl, and never touched the lute. \_Asidc. 
 
 Mill. You'll see it performed ? 
 
 Warn. Now I think on't, madam, this will but retard our 
 enterprise. 
 
 Mill. Either let him do't, or see me no more. 
 
 Warn. Well, it shall be done, madam ; but whcre's your father ? 
 Will not he overhear it ? 
 
 Mill. As good hap is, he's below stairs, talking with a seaman 
 that has brought him news from the East Indies. 
 
 Warn. What concernment can he have there ? 
 
 Mill. He had a bastard son there whom he loved extremely; 
 but not having any news from him these many years, concluded 
 him dead ; this son he expects within these three days. 
 
 Warn. When did he see him last ? 
 
 Mill. Not since he was seven years old. 
 
 Warn. A sudden thought comes into my head, to make him 
 appear before his time ; let my master pass for him, and by that 
 means he may come into the house unsuspected by your father or 
 his rival. 
 
 Mill. According as he performs his serenade, I'll talk with you 
 make haste ! I must retire a little. 
 
 [->/'/ MlLL1CENT,/;w above. 
 
 Rose. I'll instruct him most rarely, he shall never be found out ; 
 but, in the meantime, what wilt thou do with a serenade ? 
 
 Warn. Faith, I am a little nonplussed on the sudden, but a 
 warm consolation from thy lips, Rose, would set my wits a working 
 again. 
 
 Rose. Adieu, Warner. [Exit ROSE.
 
 44 -S 1 /* MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT v. 
 
 Warn. Inhuman Rose, adieu. Blockhead Warner, into what 
 a przemunire hast thou brought thyself ! this 'tis to be so forward 
 to promise for another but to be godfather to a fool, to promise 
 
 and vow he should do anything like a Christian 
 
 Enter SIR MARTIN. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, how now, bully, in a brown study? for my 
 good, I warrant it ; there's five shillings for thee what, we must 
 encourage good wits sometimes. 
 
 Warn. Hang your white pelf: sure, sir, by your largess you 
 mistake me for Martin Parker, the ballad maker ; your covetousness 
 has offended my muse, and quite dulled her. 
 
 Sir Mart. How angry the poor devil is ! in fine, thou art as 
 choleric as a cook by a fireside. 
 
 Warn. I am over-heated, like a gun, with continual discharging 
 my wit : 'slife, sir, I have rarefied my brains for you, till they are 
 evaporated ; but come, sir, do something for yourself like a man. 
 I have engaged you shall give to your mistress a serenade, in your 
 proper person : I'll borrow a lute for you. 
 
 Sir Mart. I'll warrant thee I'll do't, man. 
 
 Warn. You never learned ; I don't think you know one stop. 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis no matter for that, sir ; I'll play as fast as I can, 
 and never stop at all. 
 
 Warn. Go to, you are an invincible fool, I see ! get up into your 
 window, and set two candles by you, take my landlord's lute in your 
 hand, and fumble on't, and make grimaces with your mouth, as if 
 you sung ; in the meantime, I'll play in the next room in the dark, 
 and consequently your mistress, who will come to her balcony over 
 against you, will think it to be you ; and at the end of every tune, 
 I'll ring the bell that hangs between your chamber and mine, that 
 you may know when to have done. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, this is fair play now, to tell a man beforehand 
 what he must do ; gramercy, i'faith, boy, now if I fail thee 
 
 Warn. About your business then, your mistress and her maid 
 Appear already : I'll give you the sign with the bell, when I am 
 prepared, for my lute is at hand in the barber's shop. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Ml LUCENT and ROSE, with a candle by them above. 
 
 Rose. We shall have rare music. 
 
 Mill, I wish it prove so ; for I suspect the knight can neither 
 play nor sing. 
 
 Rose. But if he does, you're bound to pay the music, madam. 
 
 Mill. I'll not believe it, except both my ears and eyes arc 
 witnesses. 
 
 Rose. But 'tis night, madam, and you cannot see 'em ; yet he 
 may play admirably in the dark. 
 
 Mill. Where's my father ? 
 
 Rose. You need not fear him, he's still employed with that same 
 seaman, and I have set Mrs. Christian to watch their discourse,
 
 SCENE I.] MX MARTIN MARR-ALL. 45 
 
 that betwixt her and me Warner may have wherewithal to instruct 
 his master. 
 
 Mill. But yet there's fear my father will find out the plot. 
 
 Rose, Not in the least, for my old lady has provided two rare 
 disguises for the master and the man. 
 
 Mill. Peace, I hear them beginning to tune the lute. 
 
 Rose. And see, madam, where your true knight, Sir Martin, is 
 placed yonder, like Apollo, with his lute in his hand, and his rays 
 about his head. 
 
 [SlR MARTIN appears at the adverse window, a tune 
 played; when it is done, WARNER rin*s t and 
 SIR MARTIN holds. 
 Did he not play most excellently, madam ? 
 
 Mill. He played well ; and yet methinks he held his lute "but 
 untowardly. 
 
 Rose. Dear madam, peace : now for the song. 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Blind love, to this hour, 
 
 Had never like me, a slave under his power. 
 
 Then blest be the dart 
 
 That he threw at my heart, 
 
 For nothing can prove 
 A joy so great as to be wounded with love. 
 
 My days and my nights 
 
 Are filled to the purpose with sorrows and frights ; 
 
 From my heart still I sigh, 
 
 And my eyes are ne'er dry. 
 So that Cupid be praised, 
 I am to the top of love's happiness raised. 
 
 My soul's all on fire, 
 
 So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire, 
 
 Such a pretty soft pain, 
 
 That it tickles each vein, 
 
 'Tis the dream of a smart, 
 Which makes me breathe short when it beats at my heart 
 
 Sometimes in a pet, 
 
 When I am despised, I my freedom would get ; 
 
 Rut straight a sweet smile, 
 
 Does my anger beguile, 
 
 And my heart does recall, 
 Then the more I do struggle, the lower I fall. 
 
 Heaven docs not impart 
 
 Such a grace, as to love, unto every one's heart ; 
 
 For many may wish 
 
 To Le wounded, and miss : 
 
 Then blest be love's fire, 
 And more blest her eyes that first taugnt me desire. 
 
 [The song being done, WARNER rings again ; but SIR 
 
 MARTIN continues fumbling, andgazingon his tnistrfss. 
 
 Mill. A pretty humoured song but stay, methinks he plavs and
 
 46 .SV7? MARTIN MARK- ALL [ACT V. 
 
 sings still, and yet we cannot hear him. Play louder, Sir Martin, 
 that we may have the fruits on't. 
 
 IVarn. [pccping^\ Death, this abominable fool will spoil all again. 
 Confound him, he stands making his grimaces yonder, and he looks 
 so earnestly upon his mistress, that he hears me not. [Rings again. 
 
 Mill. Ah, ah ! have I found you out, sir ? Now, as I live and 
 breathe, this is pleasant, Rose his man played and sung for him, 
 and he, it seems, did not know when he should give over. 
 
 [Ml LUCENT and ROSE laugh. 
 
 IVarn. They have found him out, and laugh yonder, as if they 
 would split their sides. Why, Mr." Fool, oaf, coxcomb, will you 
 hear none of your names ? 
 
 Mill. Sir Martin, Sir Martin, take your man's counsel, and keep 
 time with your music. 
 
 .Sir Mart. \_pccping~\. Ha ! what do you say, madam? How does 
 your Ladyship like my music ? 
 
 Mill. O most heavenly ! just like the harmony of the spheres, 
 that is lo be admired, and never heard. 
 
 Warn. You have ruined all by your not leaving off in time. 
 
 Sir Mart. But what would you have a man do, when my hand 
 is in ? Well, on my conscience, I think there is a fate upon me. 
 
 [Noise within. 
 
 Mill. Look, Rose, what's the matter ? 
 
 Rose. 'Tis Sir John Swallow, pursued by the bailiffs, madam, 
 according to our plot ; it seems they have dogged him thus late to 
 his lodging. 
 
 Mill. That's well ! for though I begin not to love this fool, yet I 
 am glad I shall be rid on him. [Exeunt MILLICENT and ROSE. 
 
 Enter SIR "JOHN, pursued by three bailiffs over the stage. 
 
 Sir Mart. Now I'll redeem all again, my mistress shall sec my 
 valour, I'm resolved on't ; villains, rogues, poltroons ! what, three 
 upon one? in fine ; I'll be with you immediately. [Exit. 
 
 Warn. Why, sir, are you stark mad ? have you no grain of sense 
 left ? he's gone ! now is he as earnest in the quarrel as cokes among 
 the puppets ; 'tis to no purpose whatever I do for him. 
 
 {Exit WARNER. 
 
 Re-enter SIR JOHN and SIR MARTIN (hearing driven away the 
 bailiffs), SIR MARTI N flourishes his sword. 
 
 Sir Mart. Victoria, Victoria ! what heart, Sir John, you have 
 received no harm, I hope ? 
 
 Sir John. Not the least ; I thank you, sir, for your timely as- 
 sistance, which I will requite with anything but the resigning of my 
 mistress. Dear Sir Martin, a good night. 
 
 Sir Mart. Pray let me wait upon you in, Sir John. 
 
 Sir John. I can find my way to Mrs. Millicent without you, sir, 
 I thank you. 
 
 Sir Mart. But pray, what were you to be arrested for ?
 
 SCENE I.] SJJt MARTIN MARR-ALL. 47 
 
 Sir John. I know no more than you, some little debts, perhaps, 
 I left unpaid by my negligence ; once more, good night, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Mart. He's an ungrateful fellow ; and so, in fine, I shall tell 
 him, when I see him next. Monsieur 
 
 Enter WARNER. 
 
 Warner, & propos ! I hope you'll applaud me now, I have defeated 
 the enemy, and that in sight of my mistress ; boy, I have charmed 
 her, i'faith, with my valour. 
 
 Warn. Ay, just as much as you did even now with your music ; go, 
 you are so beastly a fool, that a chiding is thrown away upon you. 
 
 Sir Mart. Fool, in your face, sir ? call a man of honour fool, 
 when 1 have just achieved such an enterprise. Gad, now my 
 blood's up, I am a dangerous person, I can tell you that, Warner. 
 
 Warn. Poor animal, I pity thee. 
 
 Sir Mart. I grant I am no musician, but you must allow me for a 
 swordsman. I have beat 'cm bravely ; and, in fine, I am come off 
 unhurt, save only a little scratch i'th' head. 
 
 Warn. That's impossible ; thou hast a skull so thick no sword can 
 pierce it ; but much good may't d'ye. Sir, with the fruits of your 
 valour you rescued your rival when he was to be arrested, on pur- 
 pose to take him off from your mistress. 
 
 Sir Mart. Why, this is ever the (ate of ingenious men ; nothing 
 thrives they take in hand. \_Enter ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Sir Martin, you have done your business with my lady ; she' 1 ! 
 never look upon you more. She says, she's so well satisfied of your 
 wit and courage, that she will not put you to any further triaL 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner, is there no hope, Warner ? 
 
 Warn. None that I know. 
 
 Sir Mart. Let's have but one civil plot more before we part. 
 
 Warn. 'Tis to no purpose. 
 
 Rose. Yet if he had some golden friends that would engage for him 
 the next time 
 
 Sir Mart. Here's a Jacobus and a Carolus will enter into bonds 
 for me. 
 
 Rose. I'll take their royal words for ofice. 
 
 \Shc fetches two disguises. 
 
 Warn. The meaning of this, dear Rose ? 
 
 Rose. 'Tis in pursuance of thy own invention, Warner, a child of 
 thy wit. But let us lose no time. Help, help 1 Dress thy master, 
 that he may be Anthony, old Moody's bastard, and thou his, come 
 from the East Indies. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hcy-tarock-it now we shall have Rose's device too. 
 
 I long to be at it. Pray let's hear more on't. 
 
 Rose. Old Moody, you must know, in his younger years, when he 
 was a Cambridge scholar, had, a bastard, whose name was Anthony, 
 whom you, Sir Martin, arc to represent. 
 
 Sir Marl. I warrant you, let me alone for Tony. But pray go on, 
 Rose.
 
 48 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT V. 
 
 Rose. This child, in his father's time, he durst not own, but bred 
 him privately in the Isle of Ely, till he was seven years old, and 
 from thence sent him with one Bonaventure, a merchant, for the 
 East Indies. 
 
 Warn. But will not this overburden your memory, sir ? 
 
 Sir Mart. There's no answering thee anything ; thou think'st I 
 am good for nothing. 
 
 Rose. Bonaventure died at Surat, within two years, and this 
 Anthony has lived up and down in the Mogul's country, unheard of 
 by his father till this night, and is expected within these three days. 
 Now, if you can pass for him, you may have admittance into the 
 house, and make an end of all the business before the other Anthony 
 arrives. 
 
 Warn. But hold, Rose, there's one considerable point omitted ; 
 what was his mother's name ? 
 
 Rose. That indeed I had forgot : her name was Dorothy, daughter 
 to one Drawwater, a vintner at the " Rose." 
 
 Warn. Come, sir, are you perfect in your lesson ? Anthony 
 Moody, born in Cambridge, bred in the Isle of Ely, sent into the 
 Moguls' country at seven years old, with one Bonaventure a merchant, 
 who died within two years ; your mother's name Dorothy Drawwater, 
 the vintner's daughter at the " Rose." 
 
 Sir Mart. I have it all ad uttguem. What dost think I'm a sot ? 
 But stay a little : how have I lived all this while in that same 
 country ? 
 
 Warn. What country ? Plague, he has forgot already 
 
 Rose. The Mogul's country. 
 
 Sir Mart. Aye, aye, the Mogul's country ! What ! any man may 
 mistake a little, but now I have it perfect ; but what have I been 
 doing all this while in the Mogul's country ? he's a heathen rogue, I 
 am afraid I shall never hit upon his name. 
 
 Warn. Why, you have been passing your time there, no matter 
 how. 
 
 Rose. Well, if this passes upon the old man, I'll bring your busi- 
 ness about again with my mistress, never fear it ; stay you here at 
 the door. I'll go tell the old man of your arrival. 
 
 Warn. Well, sir, now play your part exactly, and I'll forgive all 
 your former errors 
 
 Sir Mart. Hang 'em, they were only slips of youth. How per- 
 emptory and domineering this rogue is, now he sees 1 have need of 
 his service ! Would I were out of his power again, I would make 
 him lie at my feet like any spaniel. 
 
 Enter MOODY, SIR JOHN, LADY DUPE, MILLICENT, MRS 
 CHRISTIAN, and ROSE. 
 
 Mood. Is he here already, say'st thou ? which is he ? 
 Rose. That sun-burn'd gentleman. 
 
 Mood. My dear boy Anthony, do I see thce again before I die ? 
 Welcome, welcome !
 
 I.] SfK MARTIN MARR-ALL. 49 
 
 Sir Mart. My dear father, I know it is you by instinct, for me- 
 thinks I am as like you as if I were spit out of your mouth. 
 
 Rose. Keep it up, I beseech your Lordship. [Aside to the LORD. 
 
 Lord. He's wondrous like indeed. 
 
 Lady Dupe. The very image of him. 
 
 Mood. Anthony, you must salute all this company : this is my 
 Lord Dartmouth, this is my Lady Dupe, this her niece Mrs. Chris- 
 tian. \Hc salutes them. 
 
 Sir Mart. And that's my sister : methinks I have a good resem- 
 blance of her too : honest sister, I must needs kiss you, sister. 
 
 Warn. This fool will discover himself, I foresee it already, by 
 .his carriage to her. 
 
 Mood. And now, Anthony, pray tell us a little of your travels. 
 
 Sit Mart. Time enough for that, forsooth, father, but I have such 
 a natural affection for my sister, that methinks I could live and die 
 with her : give me thy hand, sweet sister. 
 
 Sir "John. She's beholding to you, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. What if she be, sir ? What's that to you, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. I hope, sir, I have not offended you. 
 
 Sir Mart. It may be you have, and it may be you have not, sir ; 
 you see I have no mind to satisfy you, sir : what a plague ! a man 
 cannot talk a little to his own flesh and blood, but you must be 
 interposing, with a murrian to you. 
 
 Mood. Enough of this, good Anthony ; this gentleman is to 
 marry your sister. 
 
 Sir Mart. He marry my sister ! Ods foot, sir, there are some, 
 that shall be nameless, that are as well worthy to marry her as any 
 man, and have as good blood in their veins. 
 
 Sir John. I do not question it in the least, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. 'Tis not your best course, sir ; you marry my sister ! 
 what have you seen of the world, sir ? I have seen your hurricanoes, 
 and your calentures, and your ecliptics, and your tropic lines, sir, 
 an' you go to that, sir. 
 
 Warn. You must excuse my master, the sea's a little working in 
 his brain, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. And your Prester Johns o' the East Indies, and your 
 great Turk of Rome and Persia. 
 
 Mood. Lord, what a thing it is to be learned, and a traveller ! 
 Bodikins, it makes me weep for joy ; but, Anthony, you must not 
 bear yourself too much upon your learning, child. 
 
 Mill. Pray, brother, be civil to this gentleman, for my sake. 
 
 Sir Mart. For your sake, sister Millicent, much may be done, 
 and here I kiss your hand on't. 
 Warn. Yet again, stupidity ? 
 
 Mill. Nay, pray, brother, hands off, now you are too rude 
 
 Sir Mart. Dear sister, as I am a true East India gentleman 
 
 Mood. But pray, son Anthony, let's talk of ether matters, and tell 
 me truly, had you not quite forgot me ? and yet I made woundy 
 much of you when you were young.
 
 50 SIR MARTIN MARK-ALL. [ACT V, 
 
 Sir Mart. I remember you as well as if I saw you but yesterday 
 a fine grey-headed, grey-bearded old gentleman as ever I saw in 
 all my life. 
 
 Warn, [aside.'] Grey-bearded old gentleman, when he was a 
 scholar at Cambridge. 
 
 Mood. But do you remember where you were bred up ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Oh yes, sir, most perfectly ; in the Isle stay let me 
 see ; oh, now I have it ! in the Isle of Scilly. 
 
 Mood. In the Isle of Ely, sure, you mean ? 
 
 Warn. Without doubt he did, sir; but this Isle of Scilly runs in 
 his head ever since his sea voyage. 
 
 Mood. And your mother's name was come, pray let me examine 
 you for that I'm sure you cannot forget. 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner ! What was it, Warner ? 
 
 Warn. Poor Mrs. Dorothy Drawwater, if she were now alive 
 what a joyful day would this be to her now ? 
 
 Mood. Who the devil bid you speak, sirrah ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Her name, sir, was Mrs. Dorothy Drawwater. 
 
 Sir John. I'll be hanged if this be not some cheat. 
 
 Mill. He makes so many stumbles, he must needs fall at last. 
 
 Mood. But you remember, I hope, where you were born ? 
 
 Warn. Well, they may talk what they will of Oxford for an 
 university, but Cambridge for my money. 
 
 Mood. Hold your tongue, you scanderbag rogue you, this is the 
 second time you have been talking when you should not. 
 
 Sir Mart. I was born at Cambridge, I remember it as perfectly 
 as if it were but yesterday. 
 
 Warn. How I sweat for him ! he's remembering ever since he 
 was born. 
 
 Mood. And who did you go over with to the East Indies ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Warner ! 
 
 Warn. 'Twas a happy thing, sir, you lighted upon so honest a 
 merchant as Mr. Bonaventure to take care of him. 
 
 Moed. Saucy rascal, this is past all sufferance. 
 
 Rose. We are undone, Warner, if this discourse go on any 
 further. 
 
 Lord. Pray, sir, take pity on the poor gentleman, he has more 
 need of a good supper than to be asked so many questions. 
 
 Sir John. These are rogues, sir, I plainly perceive it ; pray let 
 me ask him one question. Which way did you come home, sir? 
 
 Sir Mart. We came home by land, sir. 
 
 Warn. That is, from India to Persia, from Persia to Turkey, 
 from Turkey to Germany, from Germany to France. 
 
 Sir John. And from thence over the narrow seas on horseback. 
 
 AJood. 'Tis so, I discern it now ; but some shall smoke fort. 
 Stay a little, Anthony, 111 be with you presently. [Exit MOODY. 
 
 Warn. That wicked old man is gone for no good, I am afraid ; 
 would I were fairly quit of him. \Aside. 
 
 Mil!, [aside.'] Tell me no morp of Sir Martin, Rose ; he wants
 
 CENE i.] 57fl MARTIN MARR-ALL. 51 
 
 *atural sense to talk aficr this rate ; but for this Warner, I am 
 trangely taken with him ; how handsomely he brought him off! 
 
 Enter MOODY, with tivo cudgels. 
 
 Mood. Among half a score of tough cudgels, I had in my 
 chamber, I have made choice of these two, as best able to hold 
 out. 
 
 Mill. Alas ! poor Warner must be beaten now for all his wit, 
 would I could bear it for him. [Aside. 
 
 Warn. Hut to what end is all this preparation, sir? 
 
 Mood. In the first place, for your worship, and in the next, for 
 this East India apostle, that will needs be my son Anthony. 
 
 Warn. Why, d'ye think he is not ? 
 
 Meod. No, thou wicked accomplice, in his designs, I know he is 
 not 
 
 Warn. Who, I his accomplice ? I beseech you, sir, what is it to 
 me, if he should prove a counterfeit ? I assure you he has cozened 
 me in the first place. 
 
 Sir John. That's likely, i'faith ! Cozen his own servant ? 
 
 Warn. As I hope for mercy, sir, I am an utter stranger to him, 
 he took me up but yesterday, and told me the story word for word, 
 as he told it you. 
 
 Sir Mart. What will become of us two now ? I trust to the 
 rogue's wit to bring me off. [Aside. 
 
 Mood. If thou would'st have me believe thec, take one of these 
 two cudgels, and help me to lay it on soundly. 
 
 Warn. With all my heart. 
 
 Mood. Out, you cheat, you hypocrite, you impostor ! do you 
 come hither to cozen an honest man ? [Beats him. 
 
 Sir Mart. Hold, hold, sir ! 
 
 Warn. Do you come hither with a lie to get a father, Mr. Anthony 
 of East India? 
 
 Sir Mart. Hold, you inhuman butcher. 
 
 Warn. I'll teach you to counterfeit again, sir. 
 
 Sir Mart. The rogue will murder me. [.".> SIR MARTIN. 
 
 Mood. A fair riddance of 'em both ; let's in and laugh at 'cm. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Re-enter SIR MARTIN and WARNER. 
 
 Sir Mart. Was there ever such an affront put upon a man, to be 
 beaten by his servant ? 
 
 Warn. After my hearty salutations upon your back, sir, may a 
 man have leave to ask you, what news from the- Mogul's country ? 
 
 Sir Mart. I wonder where thou hadst the impudence to move 
 such a question to mo, knowing how thou hast used me. 
 
 \Varn. Now, sir, you may see what comes of your indiscretion 
 and stupidity. I always gave you warning of it, but for this time 1 
 am content to pass it by without more words, partly because I have 
 already corrected you, though not so much as you deserve.
 
 5 2 SIR MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT v. 
 
 Sir Mart. Dost thou think to carry it off at this rate, after such 
 an injury ? 
 
 Warn. You may thank yourself fort ; nay, 'twas very well I 
 found out that way, otherwise I had been suspected as your accom- 
 plice. 
 
 Sir Mart. But you laid it on with such a vengeance, as if you 
 were beating off a stockfish. 
 
 Warn, To confess the truth on't, you had angered me, and I 
 was willing to evaporate my choler ; if you will pass it by so, I may 
 chance to help you to your mistress. No more words of this 
 business, I advise you, but go home and grease your back. 
 
 Sir Mart. In fine, I must suffer it at his hands; for if my 
 shoulders had not paid for this fault, my purse must have sweat 
 blood for't ; the rogue has got such a hank upon me. 
 
 Warn. So, so ; here's anbther of our vessels come in, 
 
 Enter ROSE. 
 
 after the storm that parted us : what comfort, Rose, no harbour 
 near ? 
 
 Rose. My Lady, as you may well imagine, is most extremely in- 
 censed against Sir Martin, but she applauds your ingenuity to the 
 skies. I'll say no more, but thereby hangs a tale. 
 
 Sir Mart. I am considering with myself about a plot, to bring 
 all about again. 
 
 Rose. Yet again plotting ! If you have such a mind to't, I know no 
 way so proper for you, as to turn poet to Pugenello. [Music plays. 
 Warn. Hark I Is not that music in your house ? 
 Rose. Yes, Sir John has given my mistress the fiddles, and our old 
 man is as jocund yonder, and does so hug himself, to think how he 
 has been revenged upon you. 
 
 Warn. Why, he does not know 'twas we, I hope ? 
 Rose. 'Tis all one for that. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have such a 'plot ; I care not, I will speak an' I 
 were to be hanged for't. Shall I speak, dear Warner? let me now ; 
 it does so wamble within me, i'faith law ; and I can keep it no 
 longer for my heart. 
 
 Warn. Well, I am indulgent to you ; out with it boldly, in the 
 name of nonsense. 
 
 Sir Mart. We two will put on vizards, and with the help of my 
 landlord, who shall be of the party, go a mumming there, and by 
 some device of dancing, get my mistress away unsuspected by 'cm 
 all. 
 
 Rose. What if this should hit now, when all your projects have 
 failed, Warner? 
 
 Warn. Would I were hanged if it be not somewhat probable : 
 nay, now I consider better on't, exceeding probable : k must 
 take ; 'tis not in nature to be avoided. 
 
 Sir Mart. O must it so, sir ! and who may you thank for't 1
 
 SCENE I.] SfK MARTIN MARK- ALL. 53 
 
 Warn. Now am I so mad he should be the author of this device. 
 How the plague, sir, came you to stumble on't ? 
 
 Sir Mart. Why should not my brains be as fruitful as yours, or 
 any man's ? 
 
 Warn. This is so good, it shall not be your plot, sir ; either 
 disown it, or I will proceed no further. 
 
 Sir Mart. I would not lose the credit of my plot, to gain my 
 mistress : the plot's a good one, and I'll justify it upon any ground 
 of England ; an' you will not work upon it, it shall be done with- 
 out you. 
 
 Rose. I think the knight has reason. 
 
 Warn. Well, I'll order it however to the best advantage : hark 
 you, Rose. {Whispers. 
 
 Sir Mart. If it miscarry by your ordering, take notice, 'tis your 
 fault, 'tis well invented, I'll take my oath on't. 
 
 Rose. I must into 'em, for fear I should be suspected ; but I'll 
 acquaint my lord, my old lady, and all the rest who ought to know 
 it, with your design. 
 
 Warn. We'll be with you in a twinkling. You and I, Rose, arc 
 to follow our leaders, and be paired to-night 
 
 Rose. To have and to hold are dreadful words, Warner ; but for 
 your sake I'll venture on 'em. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter LORD, LADY DUPE, and MRS. CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Lady Dupe. Nay, good, my Lord, be patient. 
 
 Lord. Does he think to give fiddles and treatments in a house 
 where he has wronged a lady ? I'll never suffer it. 
 
 Lady Dupe. But upon what ground will you raise your quarrel ? 
 
 Lord. A very just one, as I am her kinsman. 
 
 I-Mdy Dupe. He does not know yet why he was to be arrested ; 
 try that way again. 
 
 Lord. I'll hear of nothing but revenge. [Enter ROSE. 
 
 Rose. Yes, pray hear me one word, my Lord ; Sir Martin himself 
 has made a plot. 
 
 Chr. That's like to be a good one. 
 
 Rose. A fool's plot may be as lucky as a fool's handsell ; 'tis a 
 very likely one, and requires nothing for your part but to get a 
 parson in the next room ; we'll find work for him. 
 
 Lady Dupe. That shall be done immediately ; Christian, make 
 haste, and send for Mr. Ball, the Nonconformist ; tell him here are 
 two or three angels to be earned. 
 
 Chr. And two or three possets to be eaten : may I not put in that, 
 madam ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. Surely you may. {Exit MRS. CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Rose. Then for the rest 'tis only this Oh ! they are herei 
 
 pray take it in a whisper : my lady knows of it already. 
 
 Enter MOODY, SIR JOHN, and MlLLlCENT. 
 Mill, Strike up again, fiddle, I'll have a French dance.
 
 54 SIX MARTIN MARR-ALL. [ACT v. 
 
 Sir John. Let's have the brawls. 
 
 Mood. No, good Sir John, no quarrelling among friends. 
 
 Lady' Dupe. Your company is like to be increased, sir ; some 
 neighbours that heard your nddles, are come a mumming to you, 
 
 Mood. Let 'em come in, and we'll be jovy : an' I had but my 
 hobby-horse at home 
 
 Sir John. What are they, men or women ? 
 
 Lady Dupe. I believe some 'prentices broke loose. 
 
 Mill. Rose, go and fetch me clown two Indian gowns and vizard 
 masks. You and I will disguise too, and be as good a mum- 
 mery to them, as they to us. \Exit ROSE. 
 
 Atood. That will be most rare. 
 
 Enter SIR MARTLN,\VARNER, and LANDLORD, disguised like a Tony 
 
 Mood. O, here they come ! gentlemen maskers, you are welcome- 
 [WARNER signs to the music for a danccl\ He signs for a danoc, 
 I believe ; you are welcome, Mr. Music, strike up, I'll make one, as 
 old as I am. 
 
 Sir John. And HI not be out. [Dance. 
 
 Lord. Gentlemen maskers, you have had the frolic, the next 
 turn is mine ; bring two flute glasses, and some stools ho, we'll 
 have the ladies' health. 
 
 Sir John. But why stools., my Lord ? 
 
 Lord. That you shall sec : the humour is, that two men at a time 
 are hoisted up ; when they are above, they name their ladies, and 
 'the" rest of the company dance about them while they drink : this 
 they call the frolic of the altitudes. 
 
 Mood. Some Highlander's invention, I'll warrant it. 
 
 Lord. Gentlemen maskers, you shall begin. 
 
 [They hoist SIR MARTIN and WARNER. 
 
 Sir John. Name the ladies. 
 
 Lord. They point to Mrs. Millicent and Mrs. Christian. A Ion's 
 louche ! touche ! 
 
 Mood. A rare toping health this : come, Sir John, now you and 
 I will be in our altitudes. 
 
 [ While they drink the company dances and sings : they arc 
 taktn doivn. 
 
 Sir John. What new device is this ? 
 
 Mood. I know not what to make on't. 
 
 [ When they are up, the company dances about them : then 
 dance ojT. TONY dances a jig. 
 
 Sir John \to Tony}. Pray, Mr. Fool, where's the rest o' your 
 company ? I would fain see 'cm again. 
 
 I^andl. Come clown and tell 'em so, Cudden. 
 
 Sir John. HI be hanged if there be not some plot in't. and this 
 fool is set here to spin out the time. 
 
 Mood. Like enough ! undone ! undone ! My daughter's gone ; 
 let me down, sirrah. 
 
 Landl. Yes, Cudden.
 
 SCENE 1. 1 SIR MARTIN MARK-ALL. 55 
 
 Sir John. My mistress is gone, let me down first. 
 Landi. This is the quickest way, Cuddeh. 
 
 \He offers to pull down the stools.] 
 Sir John. Hold ! hold 1 or thou wilt break my neck. 
 Landl. An' you will not come down, you may stay there, 
 Cudden. {Exit LANDLORD, dancing. 
 
 Mood. O scandcrbag villains ! 
 Sir John. Is there no getting down ? 
 Mood. All this was long of you, Sir Jack, 
 Sir John. 'Twas long of yourself to invite them hither. 
 Mood. Oh, you young coxcomb, to be drawn in thus ! 
 Sir John. You old sot, you, to be caught so sillily ! 
 Mood. Come but an inch nearer, and I'll so claw thee. 
 Sir John. I hope I shall reach to the^. 
 Mood. And 'twere not for thy wooden breast-work there. 
 Sir John. -I hope to push thee down from Babylon. 
 
 Enter LORD, LADY DUPE, SIR MARTIN, WARNER, ROSE, 
 
 MlLLICENT (veiled), and LANDLORD. 
 
 Lord. How, gentlemen ! what, quarrelling among yourselves ! 
 
 Mood. Ods bobs ! help me down, and let me have fair play ; he 
 shall never marry my daughter. 
 
 Sir Martin \leading Rose\. No, I'll be sworn, that he shall not ; 
 therefore never repine, sir, for marriages, you know, are made in 
 Heaven : in fine, sir, we are joined together in spite of fortune. 
 
 Rose \_pulling off her mask\. That we arc, indeed, Sir Martin, 
 and these are witnesses ; therefore, in fine, never repine, sir, for 
 marriages, you know, are made in Heaven. 
 
 nines. Rose ! 
 
 Warn. What, is Rose split in two ? sure I ha' got one Rose ! 
 
 Mill. I, the best Rose you ever got in all your life. 
 
 \_Fulls off her mask. 
 
 Warn. This amazeth me so much, I know not what to say or 
 think. 
 
 Mood. My daughter married to Warner ! 
 
 Sit Mart. Well, I thought it impossible any man in England 
 should have over-reached me ; sure, Warner, there was some 
 mistake in this : prithee, Billy, let's go to the parson to set all 
 right again, that every man may have his own before the matter 
 go too far. 
 
 Warn. Well, sir, for my part I will have nothing farther to do 
 with these women, for 1 find they will be too hard for us, but e'en, 
 sit down by the loss, and content myself with my hardfortune. 
 But, madam, do you ever think I will forgive you this, to cheat me 
 into an estate of ^2,000 a year? 
 
 Sir Mart. An' I were as thee, I would not be so served, 
 Warner ! 
 
 Mill. I have served him but right, for the cheat he put upon me,
 
 56 SfX MARTIN MARK- ALL. [ACT v. 
 
 when he persuaded me you were a wit now, there's a trick for 
 your trick, sir. 
 
 Warn. Nay, I confess you have outwitted me. 
 
 Sir John. Let me down, and I'll forgive all freely. 
 
 [They let him down. 
 
 Mood. What am I kept here for ? 
 
 Warn. I might in policy keep you there ; but, for once, sir, I'll 
 trust your good nature. \Takes hint down too. 
 
 Mood. An' thou wert a gentleman, it would not grieve me ! 
 
 Mill. That I was assured of before I married him, by my Lord 
 here. 
 
 Lord. I cannot refuse to own him -for my kinsman, though his 
 lather's sufferings, in the late times, hath ruined his fortunes. 
 
 Mood. But yet he has been a serving-man. 
 
 Warn. You are mistaken, sir ; I have been a master, and 
 besides, there's an estate of ^800 a year, only it is mortgaged lor 
 ;6,ooo. 
 
 Mood. Well, we'll bring it off, and for my part I am glad my 
 daughter has missed in fine, there. 
 
 Sir John. I will not be the only man that must sleep without a 
 bedfellow to-night, if this lady will one e again receive me. 
 
 Lady Dupe. She's yours, sir. 
 
 Lord. And the same parson that did the former execution, is 
 still in the next chamber. What with caudles, wine, and quidding, 
 which he has taken in abundance, I think he will be able to 
 wheedle two more of you into matrimony. 
 
 Mill. Poor Sir Martin looks melancholy ! I am half afraid he 
 is in love. 
 
 Warn. Not with the lady that took him for a wit, I hope. 
 
 Rose. At least, Sir Martin can do more than you, Mr. Warner, 
 for he can make me a lady, which you cannot my mistress. 
 
 Sir Mart. I have lost nothing but my man, and, in fine, I shall 
 get another. 
 
 Mill. You'll do very well, Sir Martin, for you'll never be your own 
 man, I assure you. 
 
 Warn. For my part, I had loved you before, if I had followed 
 my inclination. 
 
 Mill. But now, I am afraid, you begin of the latest, except your 
 love can grow up like a mushroom, at a night's warning. 
 
 Warn. For that matter never trouble yourself; I can love as 
 fast as any man when I am nigh possession ; my love falls heavy, 
 and never moves quick till it comes near the centre ; he's an ill 
 falconer that will unhood before the quarry be in sight. 
 
 Love's an high-mettled hawk, that beats the air, 
 But soon grows weary when the game's not near,
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 (MO LITRES "LE DEP1T AMOUREVX.") 
 
 BY JOHN VANBRUGH. 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 DON ALVAREZ, father to LEONORA. 
 DON FELIX, father to DON LORENZO. 
 DON CARLOS, in love with LEONORA. 
 DON LORENZO, in love -with LEO- 
 
 NORA. 
 
 METAPHRASTUS, tutor to CAMILLO. 
 bANCHO, servant to DON CARLOS. 
 
 LOPEZ, servant to DON LORENZO. 
 TOLEDO, a bravo. 
 
 LEONORA, daughtcrto&OH ALVARF.Z. 
 CAMILLO, supposed son to DON 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 ISABELLA, her friend. 
 JACINTA, servant to LEONORA. 
 
 SCENE. A TOWN IN SPAIN. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. A Street. 
 Enter DON CARLOS and SANCHO. 
 
 Don Car. I tell thee, I am not satisfied ; I'm in love enough to 
 be suspicious of everybody. 
 
 San. And yet mcthinks, sir, you should leave me out. 
 
 Don Car. It may be so, I can't tell ; but I'm not at ease. If they 
 don't make a knave, at least they'll make a fool of thee. 
 
 San. I don't believe a word on't. But good faith, master, your 
 love makes somewhat of you ; I don't know what 'tis, but methinks 
 when you suspect me, you don't seem a man of half those parts I 
 used to take you for. Look in my face, 'tis round and comely, not 
 one hollow line of a villain in it. Men of my fabric don't use to be 
 suspected for knaves ; and when you take us for fools, we never 
 take you for wise men. For my part, in this present case, I take 
 myself to be mighty deep. A stander-by, sir, sees more than a 
 gamester. You are pleased to be jealous of your poor mistress 
 without a cause. She uses you but too well, in my hr.mbic opinion. 
 She sees you, and talks with you, till I am quite tired on't some- 
 times ; and your rival, that you are so scared about, forces a visit 
 upon her about once in a fortnight. 
 
 Don Car. Alas ! thou art ignorant in these affairs : he that's the 
 civilest received is often the least cared for. Woir.cn up;>ear warm
 
 58 THE MISTAKE. [ACT I. 
 
 to one, to hide a flame for another. Lorenzo, in short, appears too 
 composed of late to be a rejected lover ; and the indifterence he 
 shows upon the favours I seem to receive from her, poisons the 
 pleasure I else should taste in 'em, and keeps me on a perpetual 
 rack. No ! I would fain see some of his jealous transports ; have 
 him fire at the sight o' me, contradict me whenever I speak, affront 
 me wherever he meets me, challenge me, fight me 
 
 San. Run you through. 
 
 Don Car. But he's too calm, his heart's too much at ease to leave 
 me mine at rest. 
 
 San. But, sir, you forget that there are two ways for our hearts to 
 get at ease : when our mistresses come to be very fond of us, or we, 
 not to care a fig for them. Now suppose, upon the rebukes you 
 know he has had, it should chance to be the latter. 
 
 Don Car. Again .thy ignorance appears. Alas! a lover who has 
 broke his chain will shun the tyrant that enslaved him. Indifterence 
 never is his lot ; he loves or hates for ever ; and if his mistress 
 prove another's prize, he cannot calmly see her in his arms. 
 
 San. For my part, master, I'm not so great a philosopher as you 
 be, nor (thank my stars) so bitter a lover, but what I see that 
 I generally believe; and when Jacinta tells me she loves me dearly, 
 I have good thoughts enough of my person never to doubt the truth 
 oA't. See, here the baggage comes. 
 
 Enter JACINTA with a letter. 
 
 Hist, Jacinta, my dear ! 
 
 Jac. Who's that ? Blunderbuss ! Where's your master ? 
 
 San. Hard by. \Pointittg to DON CARLOS. 
 
 "Jac. O, sir ! I'm glad I have found you at last ; I believe I have 
 travelled five miles after you, and could neither find you at home, 
 nor in the walks, nor at church, nor at the opera, nor 
 
 San. Nor anywhere else, where he was not to be found. If you 
 had looked for him where he was, 'twas ten to one but you had met 
 with him. 
 
 Joe. \ had, Jack-a-dandy ! 
 
 Don Car. But, prithee, what's the matter ? who sent you after 
 me? 
 
 .fac. One who's never well but when she sees you, I think ; -'twas 
 my kady. 
 
 Dan Cur. Dear Jacinta, I fain would flatter myself, but am not 
 able ; the blessing's too great to be my lot. Yet 'tis not well to trifle 
 with me : how short soe'er I am in other merit, the tenderness 
 I have for Leoriora claims something from her generosity. I should 
 not be deluded. 
 
 Jac. And why do you think you are ? methinks she's pretty well 
 above-board with you. What must be done more to satisfy you ? 
 
 San. Why, Lorenzo must hang himself, and then we are content. 
 
 "Joe. How ! Lorenzo ! 
 
 San. if less will do, he'll tell you.
 
 I.] THE MISTAKE. ,59 
 
 Jac. Why, you are not mad, sir., arc you ? Jealous of him ! 
 Pray which way may this have got into your head ? I took you for a 
 man of sense before {To SANCHO.] Is this your doings, Log ? 
 
 San. No, forsooth, Pert ! Pm not much given to suspicion, as 
 you can tell, Mrs. Forward ; if I were, I might find more cause, I 
 guess, than your mistress has given our master here. But I have 
 so many pretty thoughts of my own person, housewife, more thap 
 I have of yours, that I stand in dread of no man. 
 
 Jac. That's the way to prosper ; however, so far Pll confess the 
 truth to thee ; at least, if that don't do, nothing else will. Men arc 
 mighty simple in love-matters, Sir. When you suspect a woman's 
 falling off, you fall a-plaguing her to bring her on again, attack her 
 with reason, and a sour face. No, sir ! attack her with a fiddle, 
 double your good-humour ; give her a ball powder your periwig 
 at her let her cheat you at cards a little and I'll warrant all's 
 right again. But to come upon a poor woman with the gloomy face 
 of jealousy, before she gives the least occasion for't, is to set a 
 complaisant rival in too favourable a light. Sir, sir ! I must tell 
 you, I have seen those have owed their success to nothing else. 
 . Don Car. Say no more, I have been to blame ; but there shall be 
 no rriore on't. 
 
 Jac, I should punish you but justly, however, for what's past, if 
 I carried back what I have brought you ; but I'm good-natured, so 
 here 'tis ; open it, and sec how wrong you timed your jealousy ! 
 
 Don Car. [Reads.] If you love me -with that tenderness you have 
 wade me long believe you do, this letter will be welcome ; '/is to teli 
 you, you have leave to plead a daughter's weakness to a father's 
 indulgence : and if you prevail with him to lay kis commands upon 
 me, you shall be as happy as my obedience to 'cm can make you, 
 
 LEONORA, 
 
 Then I shall be what man was never yet. [Kissing the letter] 
 Ten thousand blessings on thee for thy news ! I could adoretfhee 
 as a deity ! [Embracing JACINTA. 
 
 San. True flesh and blood, every inch of her, for all that. 
 
 Don Car. [Keads again.] And tf you prevail with him to lay ILI* 
 commands upon me, you shall be as happy as my obedience to 'tin 
 can make you. O happy, happy Carlos ! But what shall I say to 
 thee for this welcome message ? Alas ! I want words. But let 
 
 this speak for me, and this, and this, and 
 
 [Giving her his ring, watch, and purse. 
 
 San. Hold, sir ; pray leave a little something for our uo.ml- 
 wages. [7V; JACINTA.] You can't carry 'cm all, I believe : shall I 
 ease thee of this ? [Offering to take the purse. 
 
 Jac. No ; but you may carry that, sirrah. 
 
 [Giving him a tc.r en the ear. 
 
 San. The jade's grown purse-proud already. 
 
 Don Car. Well, dear Jacinta, say something to your charming 
 mistress, that I am not able to say myself; but above all, excuse 
 my late unpardonable folly, and offer her my life to expiate my crime.
 
 60 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 Jac. The best plea for pardon will be never to repeat the fault 
 
 Don Car. If that will do, 'tis sealed for ever. 
 
 Jac. Enough. But I must be gone ; success attend you with the 
 old gentleman. Good-bye t'ye, sir. 
 
 Don Car. Eternal blessings follow thee ! [Exit JACINTA. 
 
 San. I think she has taken 'em all with her ; the jade has got her 
 apron full. 
 
 Don Car. Is not that Lorenzo coming this way ? 
 
 San. Yes, 'tis he ; for my part now I pity the poor gentleman. 
 
 Enter DON LORENZO. 
 
 Don Car. I'll let him see at last I can be cheerful too. Your 
 servant, Don Lorenzo ; how do you do this morning ? 
 
 Don Lifr. I thank you, Don Carlos, perfectly well, both in body 
 and in mind. 
 
 Don Car. What ! cured of your love then ? 
 
 Don Lor. No, nor I hope I never shall. May I ask you how 'tis 
 with yours ? 
 
 Don Car. Increasing every hour ; we are very constant both. 
 
 Don Lor. I find so much delight in being so I hope I never shall 
 be otherwise. 
 
 Don Car. Those joys I am well acquainted with, but should lose 
 'em soon were I to meet a cool reception. 
 
 Don Lor. That's every generous lover's case, no doubt ; an angel 
 could not fire my heart but with an equal flame. 
 
 Don Car. And yet you said you still loved Leonora. 
 
 Don Lor. And yet I said I loved her. 
 
 Don Car. Does she then return you 
 
 Don Lor. Everything my passion can require. 
 
 Don Car. Its wants are small, I find. 
 
 Don Lor. Extended as the heavens. 
 
 Don Car. I pity you. 
 
 Don Lor. He must be a deity that does so. 
 
 Don Car. Yet I'm a mortal, and once more can pity you. 
 Alas ! Lorenzo, 
 
 'Tis a poor cordial to an aching heart, 
 To have the tongue alone announce it happy : 
 Besides, 'tis mean, you should be more a man. 
 
 Don Lor. I find I have made you an unhappy one, so can forgive 
 the boilings of your spleen. 
 
 Don Car. This seeming calmness might have the effect your 
 vanity proposes by it, had I not a testimony of her love would 
 (should I show it) sink you to the centre. 
 
 Don Lor. Yet still I'm calm as ever. 
 
 Don Car. Nay, then have at your peace. Read that, and end the 
 farce. [Gives him LEONORA'S letter. 
 
 Don Lor. [after reading] I have read it. 
 
 Don Car. And know the hand ? 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis Leonora's ; I have often seen it.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 6l 
 
 Don Car. I hope you then at last are satisfied. 
 
 Don Lor. [smiling.'] I am. Good morrow, Carlos ! [Exit. 
 
 San. Sure's he mad, master. 
 
 Don Car. Mad ! sayest thou ? 
 
 San. And yet, by'r Lady, that was a sort of a dry sober smile at 
 going off. 
 
 Don Car. A very sober one ! Had he shown me such a letter, I. 
 had put on another countenance. 
 
 San. Ay, o' my conscience had you. 
 
 Don Car. Here's mystery in this I like it not. 
 
 San. I see his man and confidant there, Lopez. Shall I draw 
 him on a Scotch pair of boots, master, and make him tell all ? 
 
 Don Car. Some questions I must ask him ; call him hither. 
 
 San. Hem, Lopez, hem ! 
 
 Enter LOPEZ. 
 
 Lop. Who calls ? 
 
 San. I and my master. 
 
 Lop. I can't stay. 
 
 San. You cnn indeed, sir. [Laying hold on him. 
 
 Don Car. Whither in such haste, honest Lopez ? What ! upon 
 some love-errand ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, your servant ; I ask your pardon, but I was going 
 
 Don Car. I guess where ; but you need not be shy of me any 
 more, thy master and I are no longer rivals ; I have yielded up the 
 cause ; the lady will have it so, so I submit. 
 
 Lop. Is it possible, sir? Shall I then live to see my master and 
 you friends again ? 
 
 San. Yes ; and what's better, thou and I shall be friends too. 
 There will be no more fear of Christian bloodshed, I give thee up, 
 Jacinta ; she's a slippery housewife, so master and I are going to 
 match ourselves elsewhere. 
 
 Lop. But is it possible, sir, your honour should be in earnest ? 
 I'm afraid you are pleased to be merry with your poor humble 
 servant. 
 
 Don Car. I'm not at present much disposed to mirth ; my 
 indifference in this matter is not so thoroughly formed ; but my 
 reason has so far mastered my passion, to show me 'tis in vain to 
 pursue a woman whose heart already is another's. 'Tis what 
 I have so plainly seen of late, I have roused my resolution to my 
 aid, and broke my chains for ever. 
 
 Loft. Well, sir, to be plain with you, this is the joyfullest news 
 I have heard this long time ; for I always knew you to be a mighty 
 honest gentleman, and, good faith, it often went to the heart o' me to 
 see you ?o abused. Dear, dear, have I often said to myself (when 
 they have had a private meeting just after you have been gone) 
 
 Don Car. Ha! 
 
 San. Hold, master, don't kill him yet. [Aside to DON CARLOS. 
 
 Lop. I say 1 have said to myself, what wicked things arc women,
 
 62 THE MISTAKE. [ACT I. 
 
 and what pity it is they should be suffered in a Christian country ! 
 what a shame they should be allowed to play will-in-the-wisp with 
 men of honour, and lead them through thorns and briars, and rocks, 
 and nigged ways, till their hearts arc torn in pieces, like an old coat 
 in a fox-chase ! I say, I have said to myself 
 
 Don Car. Thou hast said enough to thyself, but say a little more 
 to me. Where were these secret meetings thou talkest of ? 
 
 Lop. In sundry places, and by divers ways ; sometimes in thi 
 cellar, sometimes in the garret, sometimes in the court, sometimes in 
 the gutter ; but the place where the kiss of kisses was given was 
 
 Don Car. In hell ! 
 
 Ijtp. Sir! 
 
 Don Car. Speak, fury, what dost thou mean by the kiss of 
 kisses ? 
 
 Lop. The kiss of peace, sir ; the kiss of union. 
 
 Don Car. Thou liest, villain ! 
 
 Lop. I don't know but I may. sir. [Aside ? What the devil's the 
 matter now ? 
 
 Don Car. There's not one word of truth in all thy cursed tongue 
 has uttered. 
 
 Lop. No, sir, I I believe there is not. 
 
 Don Car. Why then didst thou say it, wretch ? 
 
 Lop. Oh only in jest, sir. 
 
 Don Car. I am not in a jesting condition. 
 
 Lop. Nor I at present, sir. 
 
 Don Car. Speak then the truth, as thou wouldst do it at the hour 
 of death. 
 
 Lop. Yes, at the gallows, and be turned off as soon as I've done. 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Don Car. What's that you murmur ? 
 
 Lop. Nothing but a short prayer. 
 
 Don Car. [aside.] I am distracted, and fright the wretch from 
 telling me what I am upon the rack to know [Aloud.] Forgive me, 
 Lopez, I am to blame to speak thus harshly to thee. Let this ob- 
 tain thr pardon. [Gives him money.] Thou secst I am disturbed. 
 
 Lop. Yes, sir, I see I have been led into a snare ; I have said too 
 much. 
 
 Don Car. And yet thou must say more ; nothing can lessen my' 
 torment but a farther knowledge of what causes my miser)-. Speak, 
 then ! have I anything to hope ? 
 
 Lop. Nothing ; but that you may be a happier bachelor than my 
 master may probably be a married man. 
 
 Don Car. Married, sayest thou ? 
 
 Ijp. I did, sir, and I believe he'll say so too in a twelvemonth. 
 
 Don Car. O torment ! But give me more on't : when, how, to 
 who, where ? 
 
 I^op. Yesterday, to Leonora, by the parson in the pantry. 
 
 Don Car. Look to't, if this be false, thy life shall pay the torment 
 thou hast given me. Begone !
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 63 
 
 Lop. With the body and the soul o' me. [Exit. 
 
 San. Base news, master. 
 
 'Don Car. Now my insulting rival's smile speaks out : O cursed, 
 cursed woman ! 
 
 Re-enter JACINTA. 
 
 Jac. I'm come in haste to tell you, sir, that as soon as the moon's 
 up, my lady'll give you a meeting in the close-walk by the back- 
 door of the garden ; she thinks she has something to propose to 
 you will certainly get her father's consent to marry you. 
 
 Don Car. Past sufferance ! 
 This aggravation is not to be borne. 
 Go, thank her with my curses. Fly ! 
 And let 'em blast her, while their venom's strong. \Exit. 
 
 Jac. Won't thou explain ? What's this storm for ? 
 
 San. And darest thou ask me questions, smooth-faced iniquity, 
 crocodile of Nile, siren of the rocks ! Go, carry back the too gentle 
 answer thou hast received ; only let me add with the poet : 
 We are no fools, trollop, my master, nor me ; 
 And thy mistress may go to the deuce with thee. (Exit. 
 
 Jac. Am I awake ! I fancy not : a very idle dream this. Well : 
 I'll go talk in my sleep to my lady about it ; and when I awake, 
 we'll try what interpretation we can make on't. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. An open court near the house of DON ALVAREZ. 
 Enter CAMILLO and ISABELLA. 
 
 Isab. How can you doubt my secrecy ? have you not proofs of it? 
 
 Cam. Nay, I am determined to trust you ; but arc we safe here ? 
 can nobody overhear us ? 
 
 Isab. Safer much than in a room. Nobody can come within 
 hearing before we see 'em. 
 
 Cam. And yet how hard 'tis for me to break silence ! 
 
 Isab. Your secret sure must be of great importance. 
 
 Cam. You may be sure it is, when I confess 'tis with regret I own 
 it e'en to you ; and, were it possible, you should not know it. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis frankly owned indeed ; but 'tis not kind, perhaps not 
 prudent, after what you know I already am acquainted with. Have 
 I not been bred up with you ? and am I ignorant of a secret which, 
 were it known 
 
 Cam. Would be my ruin ; I confess it would. I own you know 
 why both my birth and sex are thus disguised ; you know how I 
 was taken from my cradle to secure the estate which had else been 
 lost by young Camillo's death ; but which is now safe in my sup- 
 posed father's hands, by my passing for his son ; and 'tis because 
 you know all this, I have resolved to open farther wonders to you. 
 But before I say any more, you must resolve one doubt, which often 
 gives me great disturbance ; whether Don Alvarez ever was him-
 
 64 THE MISTAKE. [ACT IL 
 
 self privy to the mystery which has disguised my sex, and made me 
 pass for his son ? 
 
 Isab. What you ask me is a thing has often perplexed my 
 thoughts as well as yours, nor could my mother ever resolve the 
 doubt. You know when that young child Camillo died, in whom 
 was wrapped up so much expectation, from the great estate his 
 uncle's will (even before he came into the world) had left him ; his 
 mother made a secret of his death to her husband Alvarez, and 
 readily fell in with a proposal made her to take you (who then was 
 just Camillo's age) and bring you up in his room. You have heard 
 how you were then at nurse with my mother, and how your own 
 was privy and consenting to the plot ; but Don Alvarez was never 
 let into it by 'em. 
 
 Cam. Don't you then think it probable his wife might after tell 
 him? 
 
 Isab. 'Tvvas ever thought nothing but a death-bed repentance 
 could draw it from her to any one ; and that was prevented by the 
 suddenness of her exit to t'other world, which did not give her even 
 time to call Heaven's mercy on her. And yet, now I have said all 
 this, I own the correspondence and friendship I observe he holds 
 with your real mother gives me some suspicion, and the presents 
 he often makes her (which people seldom do for nothing) confirm 
 it. But, since this is all I can say to you on that point, pray let us 
 come to the secret, which you have made me impatient to hear. 
 
 Cam. Know, then, that though Cupid is blind he is not to be 
 deceived : I can hide my sex from the world, but not from him : 
 his dart has found the way through the manly garb I wear, to pierce 
 a virgin's tender heart. I love 
 
 Isab. How ! 
 
 Cam. Nay, ben't surprised at that, I have other wonders for 
 you. 
 
 Isab. Quick, let me hear 'em. 
 
 Cam. I love Lorenzo. 
 
 Isab. Lorenzo ! Most nicely hit ! The very man from whom 
 your imposture keeps this vast estate ; and who, on the first know- 
 ledge of your being a woman, would enter into possession of it. 
 This is indeed a wonder. 
 
 Cam. Then, wonder farther still, I am his wife. 
 
 Jsab. Ha ! his wife ! 
 
 Cam. His wife, Isabella ; and yet thou hast not all my wonders, 
 I am his wife without his knowledge : he docs not even know I am 
 a woman. 
 
 Isab. Madam, your humble servant ; if you please to go on, I 
 won't interrupt you, indeed I won't. 
 
 Cam. Then hear how these strange things havo passed : Lorenzo, 
 bound unregarded in my sister's chains, seemed in my eyes a 
 conquest worth her care. Nor could I see him treated with con- 
 tempt without growing warm in his interest : I blamed Leonora for 
 not being touched with his merit ; I blamed her so long, till I grew
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 65 
 
 touched with it myself : and the reasons I urged to vanquish her 
 
 heart insensibly made a conquest of my own. 'Twas thus, my 
 
 friend, I fell. What was next to be done my passion pointed out ; 
 
 my heart I felt was warmed to a noble enterprise, I gave it way, and 
 
 boldly on it led me. Leonora's name and voice, in the dark shades 
 
 of night, I borrowed, to engage the object of my wishes. I met him, 
 
 Isabella, and so deceived him; he cannot blame me sure, for much 
 
 I blessed him. But to finish this strange story : in short, I owned 
 
 I long had loved ; but, finding my father most avdrse to my desires, 
 
 I at last had forced myself to this secret correspondence ; 
 
 I urged the mischiefs would attend the knowledge on't, 
 
 I urged 'em so, he thought 'em full of weight, 
 
 So yielded to observe what rules I gave him. 
 
 They were, to pass the day with cold indifference, 
 
 To avoid even sign or looks of intimacy, 
 
 But gather for the still, the secret night, 
 
 A flood of love 
 
 To recompense the losses of the day. 
 
 I will not trouble you with lovers' cares, 
 
 Nor what contrivances we formed to bring 
 
 This toying to a solid bliss. 
 
 Know only, when three nights we thus had passed, 
 
 The fourth 
 
 It was agreed should make us one for ever; 
 
 Kach kept their promise, and last night has joined us. 
 
 Isab. Indeed your talents pass my poor extent ; 
 You serious ladies are well formed for business. 
 What wretched work a poor coquette had made on't ! 
 But still there's that remains will try your skill ; 
 You have your man, but 
 
 Cam. Lovers think no farther. The object of that 
 
 passion possesses all desire. However, I have opened to you my 
 wondrous situation, if you can advise me in my difficulties to come, 
 you will. But see my husband ! 
 
 Rater DON LORENZO. 
 
 Don Lor. You look as if you were busy ; pray tell me if I inter- 
 rupt you ; I'll retire. 
 
 Cam. No, no, you have a right to interrupt us, since you were the 
 subject of our discourse. 
 
 Don Lor. Was I ? 
 
 Cam. You were ; nay, I'll tell you how you entertained us too, 
 
 Don Lor. Perhaps I had as good avoid hearing that. 
 
 Cam. You need not fear, it was not to your disadvantage ; I was 
 commending you, and saying, if I had been a woman, 1 had been 
 in clanger ; nay, 1 think I said I should infallibly have been in love 
 with you. 
 
 Don Lor. While such an if is in the way, you run no great risk 
 
 c
 
 66 THE MISTAKE. [ACT II. 
 
 in declaring ; but you'd be finely catched now, should some wonder- 
 ful transformation give me a claim to your heart 
 
 Cam. Not sony fort at all, for I ne'er expect to find a mistress 
 please me half .so well as you would do, if I were yours. 
 
 Don Lor. Since you are so well inclined to me in your wishes, 
 sir, I suppose (as the fates have ordained it) you would have some 
 pleasure in helping me to a mistress, since you can't be mine 
 yourself. 
 
 Cam. Indeed \ should not. 
 
 Don Lor. Then my obligation is but small to you. 
 Cam. Why, would you have a woman, that is in love with you 
 herself, employ her interest to help you to another ? 
 
 Don Lor. No, but you being no woman might. 
 
 Cam. Sir, 'tis as a woman I say what I do, and I suppose myself 
 a woman when I design all these favours to you. Therefore, out of 
 that supposition, I have no other good intentions to you than you 
 may expect from anyone that says, he's sir, your humble ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Don Lor. So, unless heaven is pleased to work a miracle, and 
 from a sturdy young fellow make you a kind-hearted young lady, 
 I'm to get little by your good opinion of me. 
 
 Cam. Yes, there is one means yet left (on this side a miracle) that 
 would perhaps engage me, if with an honest oath you could de- 
 clare, were I woman, I might dispute your heart, even with the first 
 of my pretending sex. 
 
 Don Lor. Then solemnly and honestly I swear, that had you been 
 a woman, and I the master of the world, I think I should have laid 
 it at your feet. 
 
 Cam. Then honestly and solemnly J swear hcnceforwards all your 
 interest shall be mine. 
 
 Dnn Lor. I have a secret to impart to you will quickly try your 
 friendship. 
 
 Cam. I have a secret to unfold to you will put you even to a fiery 
 trial. 
 
 Don Lor. What do you mean, Camillo ? 
 
 Cam. I mean that I love where I never durst yet own it, yet where 
 'tis in your power to make me the happiest of 
 
 Don Lor. Explain, Camillo ; and be assured, if your happiness 
 is in my power, 'tis in your own. 
 
 Cam. Alas ! you promise me you know not what. 
 
 Don Lor. I promise nothing but what I will perform ; name the 
 person. 
 
 Cam. 'Tis one who's very near to you. 
 
 Don Lor. If 'tis my sister, why all this pain in bringing forth the 
 secret ? 
 
 Cam. Alas ! it is your 
 
 Don Lor. Speak ! 
 
 Cam. I cannot yet ; farewell ! 
 
 Don Lor, Hold ! pray speak it now,
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 67 
 
 Cam. I must not ; but when you tell me your secret, you shall 
 know mine. 
 
 Don Lor. Mine is not in my power, without the consent of 
 another. 
 
 Cent. Get that consent, and then we'll try who best will keep 
 their oaths. 
 
 Don Lor. I am content. 
 
 Cam. And I. Adieu! 
 
 Don Lor. Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Enter LEONORA and JACINTA. 
 
 Leo. 'Tis enough : I will revenge myself this way, if it does but 
 torment him. I shall be content to find no other pleasure in it. 
 Brother, you'll wonder at my change ; after all my ill usage of 
 Lorenzo, I am determined to be his wife. 
 
 Cam. How, sister! so sudden a turn ? This inequality of temper 
 indeed is not commendable. 
 
 Leo. Your change, brother, is much more justly surprising ; you 
 hitherto have pleaded for him strongly ; accused me of blindness, 
 cruelty, and pride ; and now I yield to your reasons, and resolve in 
 his favour, you blame my compliance, and appear against his interest. 
 
 Cam. I quit his service for what's dearer to me, yours. I have 
 learned from sure intelligence, the attack he made on you was but 
 a feint, and that his heart is in another's chain : I would not there- 
 fore see you so exposed, to offer up yourself to one who must 
 refuse you. 
 
 Leo. If that be all, leave me my honour to take care of ; I am no 
 stranger to his wishes ; he won't refuse me, brother, nor I hope will 
 you, to tell him of my resolution : if you do, this moment with my 
 own tongue (through all a virgin's blushes) I'll own to him I am 
 determined in his favour. You pause as if you'd let the task lie: 
 on me. 
 
 Cam. Neither on you nor me ; I have a reason you arc yet 
 
 a stranger to. 
 
 Know then there is a virgin young and tender, 
 Whose peace and happiness so much are mine, 
 I cannot sec her miserable ; 
 She loves him with that torrent of desire, 
 That were the world rcsign'cl her in his stead, 
 She'd still be wretched. 
 I will not pique you to a female strife, 
 By saying you have not charms to tear him from her ; 
 But I would move you to a female softness, 
 By telling you her death would wait your conquest. 
 What I have more to plead is as a brother, 
 I hope that gives me some small interest in you ; 
 Whate'er it is, you see how I'd employ it. 
 
 Lfi>. You ne'er could put it to a harder service. I b:g a littU 
 time to think : pray leave me to myself awhile. 
 
 c ^
 
 68 THE MISTAKE. [ACT 11. 
 
 Cam. I shall ; I only ask that you would think. And then you 
 won't refuse me. \Exeunt CAMILLO and ISABELLA. 
 
 Jac. Indeed, madam, I'm of your brother's mind, though for 
 another cause ; but sure 'tis worth thinking twice on for your own 
 sake. You are too violent. 
 
 Leo. A slighted woman knows no bounds. Vengeance is all the 
 cordial she can have, so snatches at the nearest. Ungrateful 
 wretch ! to use me with such insolence. 
 
 Jac. You see me as much enraged at it as you are yourself, yet my 
 brain is roving after the cause, for something there must be ; never 
 letter was received by man with more passion and transport ; I was 
 almost as charming a goddess as yourself, only for bringing it! Yet 
 when in a moment after I came with a message worth a dozen on't, 
 never was witch so handled ; something must have passed between 
 one and t'other, that's sure. 
 
 Leo. Nothing could pass worth my inquiring after, since nothing 
 could happen that can excuse his usage of me ; he had a letter under 
 my hand which owned him master of my heart ; and till I contra- 
 dicted it with my mouth he ought not to doubt the truth on't. 
 
 Jac. Nay, I confess, madam, I han't a word to say for him, I'm 
 afraid he's but a rogue at bottom, as well as my Shameless that at- 
 tends him ; we are bit, by my troth, and haply well enough served, 
 for listening to the glib tongues of the rascals. But be comforted, 
 madam ; they'll fall into the hands of some foul sluts or other, be- 
 fore they die, that will set our account even with 'em. 
 
 Leo. Well, let him laugh ; let him glory in what he has done : he 
 shall see I have a spirit can use him as I ought. 
 
 Jac. And let one thing be your comfort by the way, madam, 
 that in spite of all your dear affections to him, you have had the 
 grace to keep him at arm's end. 
 
 Leo. In short, my very soul is fired with his treatment ; and if 
 ever that perfidious monster should relent, though he should crawl 
 like a poor worm beneath my feet, nay, plunge a dagger in his 
 heart, to bleed for pardon ; I charge thce strictly, charge thce on 
 thy life, thou do not urge a look to melt me toward him, but strongly 
 buoy me up in brave resentment; and if thou scest (which Heavens 
 avert !) a glance of weakness in me, rouse to my memory the vile 
 wrongs I've borne, and blazon them with skill in all their glaring 
 colours. 
 
 Jac. Madam, never doubt me ; I'm charged to the mouth with 
 iury, and if ever I meet that fat traitor of mine, such a volley will I 
 pour about his cars ! Now Heaven prevent all hasty vows ; but in 
 the humour I am, mcthinks I'd carry my maidenhood to my cold 
 grave with me, before I'd let it simper at the rascal. But soft ! hcxc 
 comes your father. 
 
 Enter DON ALVAREZ. 
 
 Don Alv. Leonora, I'd have you retire a little, and send your 
 brother's tutor to me, Met.iphrastus. [Jiwunt Lr.ONORA and.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MIS TAKE. 69 
 
 JACINTA.] I'll try if I can discover, by his tutor, what 'tis that 
 seems so much to work his brain of late ; for something more than 
 common there plainly does appear, yet nothing sure that can disturb 
 his soul, like what I have to torture mine on his account. Sure 
 nothing in this world is worth a troubled mind ! What racks has 
 avarice stretched me on ! I wanted nothing : kind Heaven had 
 given me a plenteous lot, and seated me in great abundance. Why 
 then approve I of this imposture ? What have I gained by it ? 
 Wealth and misery. I have bartered peaceful days for restless 
 nights ; a wretched bargain ! and he that merchandises thus must 
 be undone at last. 
 
 Enter METAI'HRASTUS. 
 
 Metaph. Mandatum tuum euro diligenter. 
 
 Don Alv. Master, I had a mind to ask you 
 
 Metaph. The title, master, comes from magis and ter t which is as 
 much as to say, thrice -worthy. 
 
 Don Alv. I never heard so much before, but it may be true for 
 aught I know. But, master 
 
 Metaph. Go on 
 
 Don Alv. Why so I will if you'll let me, but don't interrupt me 
 then. 
 
 Metaph. Enough, proceed. 
 
 Don Alv. Why then, master, for the third time, my son Camillo 
 giver, me much uneasiness of late ; you know I love him, and have 
 many careful thoughts about him. 
 
 Metaph. 'Tis true. Filio non potcst prcp/errt, nisifilius. 
 
 Don Alv. Master, when one has business to talk on, these 
 scholastic expressions are not of use ; I believe you a great Latinist; 
 possibly you may understand Greek ; those who recommended you 
 to me, said so, and I am willing it should be true ; but the thing I 
 want to discourse you about at present, does not properly give you 
 an occasion to display your learning. Besides, to tell you truth, 
 'twill at all times be lost upon me ; my father was a wise man, but 
 he taught me nothing beyond common sense. I know but one 
 tongue in the world, which luckily being understood by you as well 
 as me, I fancy whatever thoughts we have to communicate to 
 one another, may reasonably be conveyed in that, without having 
 recourse to the language of Julius Ciesar. 
 
 Mftaph. You are wrong, but may proceed. 
 
 Don All'. I thank you. What is the matter I do not know ; but 
 though it is of the utmost consequence tome to marry my son, what 
 match soever I propose to him, he still finds some pretence or other 
 to decline it. 
 
 Mclapli. He is, perhaps, of the humour of a brother of Marcus 
 Tullius, who 
 
 Don A/-'. Dear master, leave the Greeks and the I. at ins. ami the 
 Scotch and the Welsh, and let me go on in my busine-'.* ; what have 
 those people to do with my son's marriage?
 
 70 THE MISTAKE. [ACT it 
 
 Mctaph, Again you are wrong, but go on. 
 
 Don Alv. I say then, that I have strong apprehensions, from his 
 refusing all my proposals, that he may have some secret inclination 
 of his own ; and to confirm me in this fear, I yesterday observed 
 him (without his knowing it) in a corner of the grove where nobody 
 comes 
 
 Metaph. A pjace out of the way, you would say ; a place of retreat. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, the corner of the grove, where nobody comes, is 
 a place of retreat, is it not ? 
 
 Metaph. In Latin, secessus. 
 
 Don Alv. Ha! 
 
 Metaph. As Virgil has it, Est in seccssu locus. 
 
 Don Alv. How could Virgil have it, when I tell you no soul was 
 there but he and I ? 
 
 Metaph. Virgil is a famous author ; I quote his saying as a phrase 
 more proper to the occasion than that you use, and not as one who 
 was in the wood with you. 
 
 Don Alv. And I tell you, I hope to be as famous as any Virgil 
 of 'em all, when I have been dead as long, and have no need of a 
 better phrase than my own to tell you my meaning. 
 
 Metaph. You ought however to make choice ot the words most 
 used by the best authors. Tit vivcndo bpnos, as they say, scribendo 
 sequarc pcritos. 
 
 Don Alv. Again 1 
 
 Metaph. 'Tis Ouintilian's own precept. 
 
 Don Alv. Oons ! 
 
 Metaph. And he has something very learned upon it, that may be 
 of service to you to hear. 
 
 Don Ah'. You beast, will you hear me speak ? 
 
 Metaph. What may be the occasion of this unmanly passion ? 
 \\Tiat is it you would have with me ? 
 
 Don Alv. What you might have known an hour ago, if you had 
 pleased. 
 
 Metaph. You would then have me hold my peace I shall. 
 
 Don Alv. You will do very well. 
 
 Metaph. You sec I do ; well, go on. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, then, to begin once again, I say my son 
 Camillo 
 
 Metaph. Proceed ; I shan't interrupt you. 
 
 Don Alv. I say, my son Camillo 
 
 Metaph. What is it you say of your son Camillo ? 
 
 Don Alv. That he has got a dog of a tutor, whose brains I'll 
 beat out if he won't hear me speak. 
 
 Mctaph. That dog is a philosopher, contemns passion, and yet 
 will hear you. 
 
 Don Alv. I don't believe a word on't, bat I'll try once a. r ;ain. I 
 have a mind to know from you, whether you have observed anything 
 in my son 
 
 Mctaph. Nothing that is like his father. Go on.
 
 SCENE i.j THE MISTAKE. 71 
 
 Don Alv. Have a care ! 
 
 Mctaph. I do not interrupt you ; but you arc long in corning to a 
 conclusion. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, thou hast not let me begin yet ! 
 
 Metaph. And yet it is high time to have made an end. 
 
 Don Alv. Dost thou know thy danger ? I have not- thus much 
 patience left. [Showing the end of his finger. 
 
 Metaph. Mineisalrcadyconsumcd. I do not use to be thus treated; 
 my profession is to teach, and not to hear, yet I have hearkened 
 like a schoolboy, and am not heard, although a master. 
 
 Don Alv. Get out of the room ! 
 
 Mctaph. I will not. If the mouth of a wise man be shut, he is, 
 as it were, a fool ; for who shall know his understanding ? There- 
 fore a certain philosopher said well, speak, that thou mayst be 
 known ; great talkers, without knowledge, are as the winds that 
 whistle ; but they who have learning should speak aloud. If this 
 be not permitted, we may expect to see the whole order of nature 
 o'erthrown ; hens devour foxes, and lambs destroy wolves, nurses 
 suck children, and children give suck ; generals mend stockings, and 
 cliambeYmaicls take towns ; we may expect, I say- 
 
 Don Alv. That, and that, and that, and 
 
 [Strikes him and Ktc'ks him. 
 
 Melaph. tempora / O mores .' 
 
 [Exit DON ALVAkE2,_/0/A? ://// ////;/ with a bell at his car. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE l.Tke Street before t!ie House a/Dox ALVAREZ. 
 Enter LOPEZ. 
 
 Lop. Sometimes Fortune seconds a bold design, and when folly 
 has brought us into a trap, impudence brings us out on't 1 have 
 been caught by this hot-headea lover here, and have told like a 
 puppy what I shall be beaten for like a dog. Come ! courage, my 
 dear Lopez ; fire will fetch out fire. Thou hast told one body thy 
 master's secret, e'n tell it to half-a-dozen more, and try how thru 
 will thrive ; go tell it to the two old Dons, the lovers' fathers. The 
 thing's done, and can't be retrieved ; perhaps they'll lay their two 
 ancient heads together, club a pennyworth of wisdom a-picce, and 
 with great penetration at last find out that 'tis best to submit where 
 'tis not in their power to do otherwise. This being resolved, there's 
 no time to be lost. [Knocks at DON ALVAREZ'S </tw. 
 
 Don Alv. [within] Who knocks ? 
 
 Lop. Lopez. 
 
 Don Alv. [looking out] What dost want? 
 
 Lop. To bid you good-morrow, sir. 
 
 Dim A!i'. Well, good-morrow to thce again. [Retires. 
 
 Lcp. What a I think he does not care for my company. 
 
 [Knocks again.
 
 72 THE MISTAKE. [ACT III. 
 
 Don Alv. [within.] Who knocks ? 
 
 Lop. Lopez. 
 
 Don Alv. [looking out.] What wouldst have ? 
 
 Lop. My old master, sir, gives his service to you, and desires to 
 know how you do ? 
 
 Don Alv. How I do ! why, well ; how should I do ? Service to 
 him again. [Retires. 
 
 Lop. Sir! 
 
 Don Alv. [returning] What the deuce wouldst thou have with 
 me, with thy good-morrows and thy services ? 
 
 Lop. [asidf.\ This man does not understand good breeding, I 
 find. [Aloud.] Why, sir, my master hasvSome very earnest business 
 with you. 
 
 Don Alv. Business ! about what ? What business can he have 
 with me ? 
 
 Lop. I don't know, truly ; but 'tis some very important matter. 
 He has just now (as I hear) discovered some great secret, which he 
 must needs talk with you about. 
 
 Don Alv. Ha ! a secret, sayest thou ? 
 
 Lop. Yes ; and bid me bring him word if you were at home, he'd 
 be with you presently. Sir, your humble servant. [Exit. 
 
 Enter DON ALVAREZ,///; the house. 
 
 Don Alv. A secret ; and must speak with me about it ! Heavens, 
 how I tremble ! What can this message mean ? I&ave very little 
 acquaintance with him, what business can he haveSvith me ? An 
 important secret 'twas, he said, and that he had just discovered it. 
 Alas ! I have in the world but one, if it be that I'm lost ; an eternal 
 blot must fix upon me. How unfortunate am I, that I have not fol- 
 lowed the honest counsels of my heart, which have often urged me 
 to set my conscience at ease, by rendering to him the estate that is 
 his due, and which by a foul imposture I keep from him ! But 'tis 
 now too late ; my villany is out, and I shall not only be forced with 
 shame to restore him what is his, but shall be perhaps condemned 
 *.o make him reparation with my own. O terrible view ! 
 
 Enter DON FELIX. 
 
 Don Pel. [aside.] My son to go and marry her without her 
 father's knowledge ! This can never end well. I don't know what 
 to do, he'll conclude I was privy to it, and his power and interest 
 are so great at Court, he may with ease contrive my ruin. I tremble 
 at his sending to speak with me. Mercy on me, there he is ! 
 
 Don Alv. [aside] Ah ! shield me, kind Heaven ! there's Don 
 Felix come. How I am struck with the sight of him 1 Oh, the 
 torment of a guilty mind ! 
 
 Don Pel. What shall I say to soften him? [Aside. 
 
 Don Alv. How shall I look him in the face? [Aside. 
 
 Don Pel. 'Tis impossible he can forgive it. [Aside.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 73 
 
 Don Alv, To be sure he'll expose me to the whole world. [Aside. 
 
 Don Pel. I see his countenance change. \Aside. 
 
 Don Alv. With what contempt he looks upon me. [Aside. 
 
 Don Pel. I see, Don Alvarez, by the disorder of your face you 
 arc but too well informed of what brings me here. 
 
 Don Alv. 'Tis true. 
 
 Don Pel. The news may well surprise you, 'tis what I have been 
 far from apprehending. 
 
 Don Alv. Wrong, very wrong indeed. 
 
 Don Pel. The action is certainly to the last point to be con- 
 demned, and I think nobody should pretend to excuse the guilty. 
 
 Don Alv. They are not to be excused, though Heaven may have 
 mercy. 
 
 Don Pel. That's what I hope you will consider. 
 
 Don Alv. We should act as Christians. 
 
 Don Pel. Most certainly. 
 
 Don Alv. Let mercy then prevail. 
 
 Don Pel. It is indeed of heavenly birth. 
 
 Don Alv. Generous Don Felix! 
 
 Don Pel. Too indulgent Alvarez ! 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you on my knee. 
 
 Don Pel. 'Tis I ought to have been there first. {They kneel. 
 
 Don Alv. Is it then possible we are friends ? 
 
 Don Pel. Embrace me to confirm it. [They embrace. 
 
 Don Alv. Thou best of men! 
 
 Don Pel. Unlooked-for bounty ! 
 
 Don Alv. [rising.] Did you know the torment this unhappy 
 action has given me 
 
 Don Pel. 'Tis impossible it could do otherwise ; nor has my 
 trouble been less. 
 
 Don Alv. But let my misfortune be kept secret. 
 
 Don Pel. Most willingly ; my advantage is sufficient by it, without 
 the vanity of making it publk to the world. 
 
 Don Alv. [aside.} Incomparable goodness! That I should thus 
 have wronged a man so worthy. [Aloud.] My honour is then safe ? 
 
 Don Pel. For ever, even for ever let it be a secret, I am content. 
 
 Don Alv. [aside.] Noble gentleman ! [Aloud.] As to what 
 advantages ought to accrue to you by it, it shall be all to your 
 entire satisfaction. 
 
 Don Pel. [aside.] Wonderful bounty ! [Aloud.] As to that, Don 
 Alvarez, I leave it entirely to you, and shall be content with what- 
 ever you think reasonable. 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you, from my soul I must, you know I must. 
 [Aside] This must be an angel, not a man. 
 
 Don Pel. The thanks lie on my side, Alvarez, for this unexpected 
 generosity ; but may all faults be forgot, and Heaven ever prosper 
 you. 
 
 Don Alv. The sa^me prayer I, with a double fervour, otfcr up for 
 you.
 
 74 'THE MISTAKE. [ACT in. 
 
 Don Fcl. Let us then once more embrace, and be forgiveness 
 sealed for ever. 
 
 Don Alv. Agreed ; thou best of men, agreed. \They embrace. 
 
 Don Fel. This thing, then, being thus happily terminated, let me 
 own to you, Don Alvarez, I was in extreme apprehensions of your 
 utmost resentment on this occasion ; for I could not doubt but you 
 had formed more happy views in the disposal of so fair a daughter 
 as Leonora, than my poor son's inferior fortune e'er can answer ; 
 but since they arc joined, arid that 
 
 Don Alv. Ha! ., , , , 
 
 Don Fcl. Nay, 'tis very likely to discourse of it may not be very 
 pleasing to you, though your Christianity and natural goodness have 
 prevailed on you so generously to forgive it. But to do justice to 
 Leonora, and screen her from your too harsh opinion in this unlucky 
 action, 'tw.is that cunning, wicked creature that attends her, who 
 by unusual arts wrought her to this breach of duty, for her own 
 inclinations were disposed to all the modesty and resignation a 
 father could ask from a daughter ; my son I can't excuse, but since 
 your bounty does so, I hope you'll quite forget the fault of the less 
 guilty Leonora. 
 
 Don Alv. [aside.] What a mistake have I lain under here ! and 
 from a groundless apprehension of one misfortune, rind myself in 
 the certainty of another. 
 
 Don Fel. He looks disturbed ; what can this mean? [As/tie. 
 
 Don Alv. [aside.] My daughter married to his son ! 'Confusion ! 
 But I find myself in such unruly agitation, something wrong may 
 happen if I continue with him, I'll therefore leave him. 
 
 Don Fel. You seem thoughtful, sir ; I hope there's no 
 
 Don Alv. A sudden disorder I nm seized with ; you'll pardon 
 me. I must retire. [Exit. 
 
 Don Fel. I don't like this : he went oddly off. I doubt he finds 
 this bounty difficult to go through with. His natural resentment 
 is making an attack upon his acquired generosity ; pray Heaven it 
 ben't too strong fort. The misfortune is a great one, and can't but 
 touch him nearly. It was not natural to be so calm ; I wish it 
 don't yet drive him to my ruin. But here comes this young hot- 
 brained coxcomb, who with his midnight amours has been the cause 
 of all this mischief to me. 
 
 Enter DON LORKNZO. 
 
 So, sir, are you come to receive my thanks for your noble exploit ? 
 You think you have done bravely now, ungracious offspring, to 
 bring perpetual troubles on me ! Must there never pass a day, but 
 I must drink some bitter potion or other of your preparation for me ? 
 
 Don Lor. I am amazed, sir; pray what have I done to deserve 
 your anger ? 
 
 Don Fel. Nothing, no manner of thing in the world ; nor never 
 do. 1 am an old testy fellow, and am always scolding, and finding 
 fault for nothing ; complaining that I have got a coxcomb of a son
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 75 
 
 that makes me weary of my life, fancying he perverts the order of 
 nature, turning day into night, and night into day ; getting whims 
 in my brain, that he consumes his life in idleness, unless he rouses 
 now and then to do some noble stroke of mischief ; and having an 
 impertinent dream at this time, tha,t he has been making the fortune 
 of the family, by an underhand marriage with the daughter of a man 
 who will crush us all to powder for it. Ah ungracious wretch, to 
 bring an old man into all this trouble!, The pain thou gavest thy 
 mother to bring thee into the world, and the plague thou hast given 
 me to keep thee here, make the getting thec a bitter remembrance 
 to us both. [Exit. 
 
 Don Lor. So, all's out ! Here's a noble storm arising, and I'm at 
 sea in a cock-boat ! But which way could this business reach him ? 
 by this traitor Lopez it must be so ; it could be no other way ; for 
 only he, and the priest that married us, know of it. The villain will 
 never confess .though : I must try a little address with him, and 
 conceal my anger. Oh 1 here he comes. 
 
 Re-enter LOPKZ. 
 Lopez 1 
 
 Lop. Do you call, sir ? 
 
 Don Lor. I find all's discovered to my father ; the secret's out : 
 he knows my marriage. 
 
 Lop. He knows your marriage ! How the pest should that 
 happen ? Sir, 'tis impossible ! that's all. 
 
 Don Lor. I tell thee 'tis true ; he knows every particular of it. 
 
 Lop. He does ! Why then, sir, all I can say is, that Satan and 
 he are better acquainted than the devil and a good Christian ought 
 to be. 
 
 Don Lor. Which way he has discovered it I can't tell, nor am I 
 much concerned to know, since, beyond all my expectations, I find 
 him perfectly easy at it, and ready to excuse my fault with better 
 reasons than I can find to do it myself. 
 
 Lop. Say you so ? I'm very glad to hear that ; then all's safe. 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis unexpected good fortune ; but it could never pro- 
 ceed purely from his own temper ; there must have been pains taken 
 with him to bring him to this calm. I'm sure I owe much to (he 
 bounty of sonic friend or other ; I wish I knew where my obligation 
 lay, that I might acknowledge it as I ought. 
 
 Lop. [aside.] Are you thereabouts, i'faith ? Then sharp's the 
 word ; egad I'll own the thing, and receive his bounty for't. [ 'Aloud.] 
 Why, sir not that I pretend to make a merit o' the matter, for, 
 alas ! I am but your poor hireling, and therefore bound in duty to 
 render you all the service I can ; but 'tis I have done't. 
 
 Don Lor. What hast thou done ? 
 
 Lop. What no man else could have done the job, sir ; told him 
 the secret, and then talked him into a liking oivt. 
 
 Don I^or. 'Tis impossible : thou dost not toll me true.
 
 76 THE MISTAKE. [ACT lit. 
 
 
 
 Lop. Sir, I scorn to reap anything from another man's labours ; 
 but if this poor piece of service carries any merit with it, you now 
 know where to reward it. 
 
 Don Lor. Thou art not serious ? 
 
 Lop. I am, or my hunger be my messmate ! 
 
 Don Lor. And may famine be mine, if I don't reward thee fort as 
 thou deservest ! Dead ! [Making a pass at him. 
 
 Lop. Have a care there ! [Leaping on one stdf.} What do you 
 mean, sir? I bar all surprise. 
 
 Don Lor. Traitor ! is this the fruit of the trust I placed in thee, 
 villain ! [Making another thrust at him. 
 
 Lop. Take heed, sir ! you'll do one a mischief before y'are aware. 
 
 Don Lor. What recompense canst thou make me, wretch, for this 
 piece of treachery ? Thy sordid blood can't expiate the thousandth ! 
 But I'll have it, however. [Thrusts again. 
 
 Lop. Look you there again ! Pray, sir, be quiet ; is the devil in 
 you ? 'Tis bad jesting with edged tools. Egad, that last push was 
 within an inch o' me ! I don't know what you make all this bustle 
 about ; but I'm sure I've done all for the best, and I believe 'twill 
 prove for the best too at last, if you'll have but a little patience. But 
 
 if gentlemen will be in their airs in a moment Why, what the 
 
 deuce I'm sure I have been as eloquent as Cicero in your behalf J 
 and I don't doubt, to good purpose too, if you'll give things time to 
 work. But nothing but foul language, and naked swords about the 
 house ! Sa, sa ! run you through, you dog ! Why nobody can do 
 business at this rate. 
 
 Don l*or. And suppose your project fail, and I'm ruined b^t, 
 sir! 
 
 Lop. Why, 'twill be time enough to kill me then, sir ; won't it ? 
 What should you do it for now ? Besides, I an't ready, I'm not 
 prepared ; I might be undone by't. 
 
 Don Lor. But what will Leonora say to her marriage being 
 known, wretch ? 
 
 Lop. Why maybe she'll draw her sword too. [Showing his 
 tongue.] But all shall be well with you both, if you will but let me 
 alone. 
 
 Don Lor. Peace ! here's her father. 
 
 Lop, That's well : we shall see how things go presently. 
 
 Re-enter DON ALVAREZ. 
 
 Don Alv. [aside^\ The more I recover from the disorder this 
 discourse has put me in, the more strange the whole adventure 
 appears to me. Leonora maintains there is not a word of truth in 
 what I have heard ; that she knows nothing of marriage ; and, 
 indeed, she tells me this with such a naked air of sincerity, that, for 
 ray part, I believe her. What then must be their project ? Some 
 villanous intention, to be sure ; though which way I yet am ignorant. 
 But here's the bridegroom ; I'll accost him. [Aloud.] I am told,
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 77 
 
 sir, you take upon you to scandalize my daughter, and tell idle talcs 
 of what can never happen. 
 
 Lop. Now methinks, sir, if you treated your son-in-law with a 
 little more civility, things might go just as well in the main. 
 
 Don Alv. What means this insolent fellow by my son-in- 
 law ? I suppose 'tis you, villain, are the author of this impudent 
 story. 
 
 Lop. You seem angry, sir ; perhaps without cause. 
 
 Don Alv. Cause, traitor ! Is a cause wanting where a daughters 
 defamed, and a noble family scandalized ? 
 
 Lop. There he is, let him answer you. 
 
 Don Alv. I should be glad he'd answer me : why, if he had any 
 desires to my daughter, he did not make his approaches like a man 
 of honour. 
 
 Lop. Yes ; and so have had the doors bolted against him, like a 
 house-breaker. [Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, to justify my proceeding, I have little to say ; but 
 to excuse it, I have much, if any allowance may be made to a 
 passion which, in your youth, you ha\e yourself been swayed by. 
 I love your daughter to that excess 
 
 Don Alv. You would undo her for a night's lodging. 
 
 Don Lor. Undo her, sir ! 
 
 Don Alv. Yes, that's the word. You knew it was against her 
 interest to marry you, therefore you endeavoured to win her to't in 
 private ; you knew her friends would make a better bargain for 
 her, therefore you kept your designs from their knowledge, and yet 
 you love her to that excess 
 
 Don Lor. I'd readily lay down my life to serve her. 
 
 Don Alv. Could you readily lay down fifty thousand pistoles to 
 serve her, your excessive love would come with better credentials : 
 an offer of life is very proper for the attack of a counterscarp, but a 
 thousand ducats will sooner carry a lady's heart. You are a young 
 man, but will leSrn this when you are older. 
 
 Lop. But since things have succeeded better this once, sir, and 
 that my master will prove a most incomparable good husband (for 
 that he'll do, I'll answer for him), and that 'tis too late to recall 
 what's already done, sir 
 
 Don Alv. What's done, villain ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, I mean that since my master and my lady arc 
 married, and 
 
 Don Alv. Thou liest ! they are not married. 
 
 Lop. Sir, I say that since they are married, and that they love 
 each other so passing dearly indeed, I fancy -that 
 
 Don Alv. Why, this impudence is beyond all bearing ! Sir, do 
 you put your rascal upon this? 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, I am in a> wood ! I don't know what it is you 
 mean. 
 
 Don Alv. And I am in a plain, sir, and think I may be under- 
 stood. Do you pretend you are married to my daughter?
 
 78 THE MISTAKE. [ACT Jii. 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, 'tis my happiness on one side, as it is my misfor- 
 tune on another. 
 
 Don Ah'. And you do think this idle project can succeed ? You 
 do believe your affirming you are married to her will induce both 
 her and me to consent it shall be so ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, I sec you make my master almost out of his wits to 
 * hear you talk so ; but I, who am but a stander-by now, as I was at 
 the wedding, have mine about me, and desire to know, whether 
 you think this project can succeed ? Do you believe your affirm- 
 ing they are not married, will induce both him and I to give up 
 the lady ? One short question to bring this matter to an issue, 
 why do you think they are not married ? 
 
 Don Alv. Because she utterly renounces it 
 
 Lop. And so she will her religion, if you attack it with that 
 dreadful face. D'ye hear, sir? the poor lady is in love heartily, 
 and I wish all poor ladies that are so, would dispose of themselves 
 so well as she has done; but you scare her out. of her senses. 
 Bring her here into the room, speak gently to her, tell her you 
 know the thing is done, that you have it from a man of honour, 
 me : that maybe you wish it had been otherwise, but are a Chris- 
 tian, and profess mercy, and therefore have resolved to pardon 
 her. Say this, and I shall appear a man of reputation, and have 
 satisfaction made me. 
 
 Don Alt'. Or an impudent rogue, and have all your bones broke. 
 
 Lop. Content ! 
 
 Don Alv. Agreed! Leonora! Who's there? call Leonora. 
 
 Lop. All will go rarely, sir ; we shall have shot the gulf in a 
 moment. \Asitle to LORENZO. 
 
 Enter LEONORA. 
 
 Don Alv. Come hither, Leonora. 
 
 Lop. So, now we shall see. 
 
 Don Alv. I called you to answer for yourself: here's a strong 
 claim upon you ; if there be anything in the pretended title, con- 
 ceal it no farther, it must be known at last, it may as well be so 
 now. Nothing is so uneasy as uncertainty, I would therefore be 
 gladly freed from it. I f you have done what I am told you have, 
 'tis a great fa.ult indeed ; but as I fear 'twill carry much of its 
 punishment along with it, I shall rather reduce my resentment into 
 mourning your misfortune, than suffer it to add to your affliction ; 
 therefore speak the truth. 
 
 Lop. Well, this is fair play; now I speak, sir. You see, fair 
 lady, the goodness of a tender father, nothing need therefore hinder 
 you from owning a most loving husband. We had like to have 
 been all together by the cars about this business, and pails of 
 blood were ready to run about the house; but, thank Heaven, the 
 sun shines out again, and one word from your sweet mouth makes 
 fair weather for ever. My master has been forced to own your 
 marriage, he begs you : ll do so too.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 79 
 
 Leo. What docs this impudent rascal mean? 
 
 Lop. Ha ! madam ! 
 
 Leo. [To DON LORENZO]. Sir, I should be very glad to know 
 what can have be"cn the occasion of this wild report ; sure you 
 cannot be yourself a party in it ! 
 
 I^p. He, he 
 
 Don Lor. Forgive me, dear Leonora, I know you had strong 
 reasons for the secret being longer kept ; but 'tis not my fault our 
 marriage is disclosed. 
 
 J.eo. Our marriage, sir! 
 
 Don Lor. Tis known, my dear, though much against my will ; 
 but since it is so, 'twould be in vain for us to deny it longer. 
 
 Leo. Then, sir, I am your wife ? I fell in love with you, and 
 married you without my father's knowledge ? 
 
 Don Lor. I dare not be so vain to think 'twas love ; I humbly 
 am content to owe the blessing to your generosity : 
 You saw the pains I suffcr'd for your sake, 
 And in compassion eased 'em. 
 
 Leo, I did, sir ! 
 
 Sure this exceeds all human impudence ! 
 
 Lop. Truly, I think it does. She'd make an incomparable 
 actress. [Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. I begin, to be surprised, madam, at your cany ing this 
 thing so far ; you sec there's no occasion for it ; and for the 
 discovery, I have already told you 'twas not my fault. 
 
 Lop. My master's ! no, 'twas I did it. Why, what a bustle's 
 here I I knew things would go well, and so they do, if folks would 
 let 'em. But if ladies will be in their merriments, when gentlemen 
 are upon serious business, why what a deuce can one say to 'cm ! 
 
 Leo. I set this fellow is to be an evidence in your plot. Where 
 you hope to drive, it is hard to guess ; for if anything can exceed 
 its impudence, it is its folly. A noble stratagem indeed to win a 
 lady by ! I could be diverted with it, but that I see a face of 
 villany requires a rougher treatment : I could almost, mcthinks, 
 forget my sex, and be my own avenger. 
 
 Don Lor. Madam, I am surprised beyond all 
 
 Lop. Pray, sir, let me come to her ; you are so surprised you'll 
 make nothing on't : she wants a little snubbing. Look you, madam, 
 I have seen many a pleasant humour amongst ladies, but you out- 
 cut 'em all. Here's contradiction with a vengeance ! You han r t 
 been married eight-and-forty hours, and you arc slap at your 
 husband's beard already. Why,, do you consider who he is ? who 
 this gentleman is? and what he can do bylaw? Why, he can 
 lock you up knock you down tic you neck and heels - 
 
 Don Lor. Forbear, you insolent villain, you ! 
 
 [Offering to strike him. 
 
 Leo. That for what's past however. 
 
 {Giving him a box on the car. 
 
 Lop. I think she gave me a box o' th' ear; ha ! [Exit.
 
 So THE MISTAKE. [ACT in. 
 
 LEONORA.] Sir, will you suffer your old servants to be used thus 
 by new comers ? It's a shame, a mere shame. Sir, will you take a 
 poor dog's advice for once ? She denies she's married to you : take 
 her at her word ; you have seen some of her humours let her go. 
 
 Don Ah>. Well, gentlemen, thus far you see I have heard all 
 with patience ; have you content ? or how much farther do you 
 design to go with this business ? 
 
 Lap, Why truly, sir, I think we are near at a stand.* 
 
 Dun Alv. 'Tis time, you villain you ! 
 
 Lop. Why, and I am a villain now, if every word I've spoke be not 
 as true as as the Gazette : and your daughter's no better than a 
 a a whimsical young woman, for making disputes among gentle- 
 men. And if everybody had their deserts, she'd have a good I 
 ,von't speak it out to inflame reckonings ; but let her go, master. 
 
 Don Alv. Sir, I don't think it well to spend any more words with 
 your impudent and villanous servant here. 
 
 Lop. Thank you, sir ; but I'd let her go. 
 
 Don Alv. Nor have I more to say to you than this, that you 
 must not think so daring an affront to my family can go long 
 unresented. Farewell ! [E*it. 
 
 Don Lor. Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself now ? 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, I have only to say, that I am a very unfortunate 
 middle-aged man ; and that I believe all the stars upon heaven 
 and earth have been concerned in my destiny. Children now unborn 
 will hereafter sing my downfall in mournful lines, and notes of 
 doleful tune : I am at present troubled in mind, despair around me, 
 signified in appearing gibbets, with a great bundle of dog- whips, .by 
 way of preparation. 
 
 I therefore will go seek some mountain high, 
 If high enough some mountain may be found, 
 With distant valley, dreadfully profound, 
 And from the horrid cliff look calmly all around. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Don Lor. No, sirrah, I'll see your wretched end myself. Die 
 here, villain ! [Drawing his sword. 
 
 Lop. I can't, sir, if anybody looks upon me. 
 
 Don Lor. Away, you trifling wretch ! but think not to escape, for 
 thou shall have thy recompense. \Exit. 
 
 Lop. Why, what a mischievous jade is this, to make such an 
 uproar in a family the first day of her marriage ! Why, my master 
 won't so much as get a honeymoon out of her ! Egad, I'd let her 
 go. If she be thus in her soft and tender youth, she'll be rare 
 company at threescore. Well, he may do as he pleases ; but were 
 she my dear, I'd let her go such a foot at her tail, I'd make the 
 truth bounce out at her mouth like a pellet out a pot-gun. [Exit.
 
 SCENE I,] THE MISTAKE. 8* 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE l.A Street. 
 Enter CAMILLO and ISABELLA. 
 
 Isab. Tis an unlucky accident indeed ! 
 
 Cam. Ah, Isabella, fate has now determined my undoing ! This 
 thing can ne'er end here ; Leonora and Lorenzo must soon come 
 to some explanation ; the dispute is too monstrous to pass over 
 without further inquiry, which must discover all, and what will be the 
 consequence I tremble at. For whether Don Alvarez knows of the 
 imposture, or 'whether he is deceived with the rest of the world, 
 when once it breaks out, and that the consequence is the loss of 
 that great wealth he n ow enjoys by it, what must become of me ? 
 All paternal affections then must cease, and regarding me as an 
 unhappy instrument in the trouble which will then o'erload him, he 
 will return me to my humble birth, and then I'm lost forever. For 
 what, alas ! will the deceived Lorenzo say ? A wife, with neither 
 fortune, birth, nor beauty, instead of one most plenteously endowed 
 with all. O Heavens ! what a sea of misery I have before me ! 
 
 Isab. Indeed you reason right, but these reflections are ill-timed : 
 why did you not employ them sooner ? 
 
 Cam. Because I loved. 
 
 Isab. And don't you do so now ? 
 
 Cam. I do, and therefore 'tis I make these cruel just reflections. 
 
 Isab. So that love, I find, can do anything. 
 
 Cam. Indeed it can. Its powers are wondrous great, its pains no 
 tongue can tell, its bliss no heart conceive; crowns cannot rtcom- 
 pensc its torments, heaven scarce supplies its joys. My stake is of 
 this value. Oh, counsel me how I shall save it ! 
 
 Isab. Alas ! that counsel's much beyond my wisdom's force, I see 
 no way to help you. 
 
 Cam. And yet 'tis sure there's one. 
 
 Isab. What? 
 
 Cam. Death. 
 
 Isab. There possibly may be another ; I have a thought this 
 moment perhaps there's nothing in it ; yet a small passage comes 
 to my remembrance, that I regarded little when it happened I'll 
 go and search for one may be of service. But hold ; I see Don 
 Carlos. He'll but disturb us :.uw, let us avoid him. \Exeunt, 
 
 Enter DON CARLOS and SANCHO. 
 
 Don Car. Repulsed again ! this is not to be borne. What though 
 this villain's story be a falsehood, was I to blame to hearken to it ? 
 This usage cannot be supported : how was it she treated thee ? 
 
 San. Never was ambassador worse received. Madam, my 
 master asks ten thousand pardons, and humbly begs one moment's
 
 82 THE MISTAKE. [ACT iv. 
 
 interview : Begone, you rascal you ! Madam, what answer shall 
 I give my master? Tell him he's a villain. Indeed, fair lady, 
 I think this is hasty treatment. Here, my footmen ! toss me this 
 fellow out at the window ; and away she went to her devotions. 
 Don Car. Did you see Jacinta ? 
 
 Sun. Yes ; she saluted me with half-a-score rogues and rascals 
 too. I think our destinies are much alike, sir ; and, o' my 
 conscience, a couple of scurvy jades we are hampered with. 
 
 .Don Car. Ungrateful woman ! to receive with-such contempt so- 
 quick a return of a heart so justly alarmed. 
 San. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Don Car. What, no allowance to be made tcrthe first transports 
 of a lovers fury, when roused by so dreadful an appearance ! As 
 just as my suspicions were, have I long suffered 'em' to arraign her ? 
 San. No. 
 
 Don Car. Have I waited for oaths or imprecations to clear her ? 
 San. !^o. 
 
 Don Car. Nay, even now is not the whole world still in suspense 
 about her ? whilst I alone conclude her innocent. 
 San. 'Tis very true. 
 
 Don Car. She might, methinks, through this profound respect, 
 Observe a flame another would have cherish'd ; 
 She might support me against groundless fears, 
 And save me from a rival's tyranny ; 
 She might release me from these cruel racks, 
 And would, no doubt, if she could love as I do. 
 San. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Don Car.. But since she don't, what do I whining here ? 
 Curse on the base humilities of love ! 
 San. Right. 
 
 Don Car. Let children kiss the rod that flays 'em, 
 Let dogs lie down, and lick the shoe that spurns 'erm 
 San. Ay. 
 
 Don Car. I am a man by nature meant for power ; 
 The sceptre's given us to wield, and we 
 Betray our trust whenever 
 We meanly lay it at a woman's feet. 
 
 San. True, we are men, boo ! Come, master, let us both be in a 
 passion; here's my sceptre [s/wiinng a cudgel.'] Subject Jacinta, 
 look about yon. Sir, was you ever in Muscovy ? the women there 
 love the men dearly. Why ? because [shaking his stick] there's 
 your love-powder for you. Ah, sir, were we but wise and stout, 
 what work should we make with them 1 But this humble love- 
 making spoils 'em all. A rare way indeed to bring matters about 
 with 'cm ! We are like to succeed truly ! 
 
 Don Car. For my part, I never yet could bear a slight from any- 
 thing, nor will I now. There's but one way, however, to resent it 
 from a woman, and that's to drive her bravely from your heart, and 
 place a worthier in her vacant throne.
 
 SCENE i.] THE MISTAKE. 83 
 
 San. Now, with submission to my betters, I have another way, 
 sir ; I'll drive my tyrant from my heart, and place myself 
 in her throne. Yes, I will be lord of my own tenement, 
 and keep my household in order. Would you would do so too, 
 master ! For, look you, I have been servitor in a college at 
 Salamanca, and read philosophy with the doctors ; where I found 
 that a woman, in all times, has been observed to be an animal hard 
 to understand, and much inclined to mischief. Now, as an animal 
 is always an animal, and a captain always a captain, so a woman is 
 always a woman : whence it is that a certain 6reek says, her head 
 is like a bank of sand ; or, as another, a solid rock ; or, according 
 to a third, a dark lantern. Pray, sir, observe, for this is close 
 reasoning ; and so as the head is the head of the body ; and that the 
 body without a head, is like a head without a tail ; and that where 
 there is neither head nor tail, 'tis a very strange body : so I say a 
 woman is by comparison, do you see, (for nothing explains things 
 like comparisons), I say by comparison, as Aristotle has often said 
 before me, one may compare her to the raging sea. For as the sqa, 
 when the wind rises, knits its brows like an angry bull, and that 
 waves mount upon rocks, and rocks mount upon waves ; that por- 
 poises leap like trouts, and whales skjp about like gudgeons ; that 
 ships roll like beer-barrels, and mariners pray like saints ; just, so, 
 
 I say, a woman A woman, I say, just so, when her reason is 
 
 shipwrecked upon her passion, and the hulk pf her understanding 
 lies thumping against the rock of her fury ; then it is, I say, that by 
 certain immotions, which um cause, as one may suppose, a sort 
 of convulsive yes hurricanious um like in short, a woman is 
 like the devil- 
 
 Don Car. Admirably reasoned indeed, Sancho ! 
 
 San. Pretty well, I thank Heaven. But here come the crocodiles 
 to weep us into mercy. 
 
 Enter LEONORA and JACINTA. 
 
 Master, let us show ourselves men, and leave their briny tears to 
 wash their dirty faces. 
 
 Don. L'ar. It is not in the power of charms to move me. 
 
 San. Nor me, I hope ; and yet I fear those eyes will look out 
 sharp to snatch up such a prize. [PdirttfngYo JACINTA. 
 
 yac. He's coming to us, madam, to beg pardon; but sure you'll 
 never grant it him ! 
 
 Leo. If I do, may Heaven never grant me mine. 
 
 Jac. That's brave. 
 
 Don Car. You look, madam, upon me as if you thought I came 
 to trouble you with my usual importunities ; I'll ease you of that 
 pain, by telling you, my business now is calmly to assure you, but 
 I assure it you with heaven and hell lor seconds ; i~>r may the joys 
 of one fly from me, whilst the pains of t'other overtake me, if all 
 your charms displayed e'er shake my resolution; I'll never sec 
 you more.
 
 84 THE MISTAKE. [ACT iv. 
 
 San. Bon ! 
 
 Leo. You are a man of that nice honour, sir, I know you'll keep 
 your word : I expected this assurance from you, and came this way 
 only to thank you for'L 
 
 Jac. Very well ! 
 
 Don Car. You did, imperious dame, you did ! How base is 
 woman's pride ! How wretched are the ingredients it is foimed of! 
 If you saw cause for just disdain, why did you not at first repulse 
 me ? Why lead a slave in chains that could not grace your 
 triumphs ? If I am thus to be contemned, think on the favours you 
 have done the wretch, and hide your face for ever. 
 
 San. Well argued. 
 
 Leo. I own you have hit the only fault the world can charge me 
 with : the favours I have done to you I am indeed ashamed of ; 
 but, since women have their frailties, you'll allow me mine. 
 
 Don Car. 'Tis well, extremely well, madam. I'm happy, how- 
 ever, you at last speaK frankly. I thank you for it, from my soul I 
 thank you ; but don't expect me grovelling at your feet again ; don't, 
 for if I do 
 
 Leo. You will be treated as you deserve ; trod upon. 
 
 Don Car. Give me patience ! But I don't want it ; I am calm. 
 Madam, farewell ; be happy if you can ; by Heavens I wish you so, 
 but never spread your net for me again ; for if you do 
 
 Leo. You'll be running into it. 
 
 Don Car. Rather run headlong into fire and flames ; 
 Rather be torn with pincers bit from bit ; 
 Rather be broiled like martyrs upon gridirons ! 
 But I am wrong ; this sounds like passion, and Heaven can tell I 
 am not angry. Madam, I think we have no farther business 
 together : your most humble servant. 
 
 Leo. Farewell t'ye, sir. 
 
 Don Car. \to SANCHO.] Come along. [Goes to the scene and 
 returns^ Yet once more before I go (lest you should doubt my 
 resolution) may I starve, perish, rot, be blasted, dead, or any other 
 thing that men or gods can think on, if on any occasion whatever, 
 civil or military, pleasure or business, love or hate, or any other 
 accident of life, I, from this moment, change one word or look with 
 you. \_A s he goes off, SANCHO claps him on the back. 
 
 Leo. Content ! Come away, Jacinta. 
 
 Re-enter DON CARLOS. 
 
 Don Car. Yet one word, madam, if you please. I have a little 
 thing here belongs to you, a foolish bauble I once was fond of 
 [twitching her picture from his breast]. Will you accept a trifle 
 from your servant ? 
 
 Leo, Willingly, sir. I have a bauble too I think you have some 
 claim to ; you'll wear it for my sake. 
 
 \Breaks a bracelet from her arm, and gives it him. 
 
 Don Car. Most thankfully. This too I should restore you, it once
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 8$ 
 
 was yours {giving her a table-book.'] By your favour, madam 
 there is a line or two in it I think you did me once the honour to 
 write with your own fair hand. Here it is. {Reads. 
 
 You love me, Carlos, and would know 
 
 The secret movements of my heart, 
 
 Whether I give you mine or no, 
 With yours, methinks, I'd never, never part. 
 
 Thus you have encouraged me, and thus you have deceived me. 
 
 San. Very true. 
 
 Leo. [pulling out a table-book.} I have some faithful lines too ; 
 I think I can produce 'em. [Reads. 
 
 How long soe'er, to sigh in vain, 
 
 My destiny may prove, 
 My fate (in spite of your disdain^ 
 Will let me glory in your chain, 
 
 And give me leave eternally to love. 
 
 There, sir, take your poetry again {throwing it at his feet.] 'Tis 
 not much the worse for my wearing ; 'twill serve again upon a fresh 
 occasion. 
 
 Jac. Well done ! 
 
 Don Car. I believe I can return the present, madam, with a 
 pocketfull of your prose. There ! 
 
 t Throwing a handful of letters at her feet. 
 is letters. There, sir, not to be behind- 
 hand with you. 
 
 {Takes a handful of his letters out of a box, and throws 
 
 them in his face. 
 Jac. And there ! and there ! and there, sir ! 
 
 [JAC1NTA throws the rest at him. 
 
 San. Bless my life, we want ammunition ! but for a shift there ! 
 and there ! you saucy slut you ! 
 
 [SANCHO pulls a pack of dirty cards out of his pocket, and 
 throws them at her; then they close; he pulls off' her 
 headclothes, and she his wig, and then part, she running 
 to her tnislress, he to his master. 
 
 Jac. I think, madam, we have clearly the better on't. - 
 Leo. For a proof, I resolve to keep the field. 
 Jac. Have a care he don't rally and beat you yet though : pray 
 walk off. 
 
 Leo. Fear nothing. 
 
 San. How the armies stand and gaze at one another after the 
 battle ! What think you, sir, of showing yourself a great general, 
 by making an honourable retreat ? 
 
 Don Car. I scorn it ! O Leonora t Leonora ! a heart like mine 
 should not be treated thus ! 
 
 Leo. Carlos ! Carlos ! I have not deserved this usage ! 
 Don Car. Barbarous Leonora ! but 'tis useless to reproach you ;
 
 86 TjiE MISTAKE. 
 
 she that is capable of what you have done, is formed too cruel ever 
 to repent of it. Go on, then, tyrant ; make your, bliss complete; 
 torment me still, for still, alas ! I love enough to be tormentea. 
 
 Leo. Ah Carlos ! little do you know the tender movements of that 
 thing you name ; the heart where love presides, admits no thought 
 against the honovir of its ruler. 
 
 Don Car. 'Tis not to call that honour into doubt, 
 If, conscious of our own unworthincss, 
 We interpret everv frown to our destruction. 
 
 Lfo. When jealousy proceeds from such humble apprehensions, 
 it shows itself with more respect than yours has done. 
 
 tion Car. 'And where a heart is guiltless, it easily forgives a 
 greater crime. 
 
 Leo. Forgiveness is not now in our debate ; if both have been in 
 fault, 'tis fit that both should suffer for it ; our separation will do 
 justice on us. 
 
 Don Car. But since we are ourselves the judges of our crimes, 
 what if we should inflict a gentler punishment ? 
 
 Leo. 'Twould but encourage us to sin again. 
 
 Don Car. And if it should 
 
 Leo. 'Twould give a fresh occasion for the pleasing exercise of 
 mercy. 
 
 Don Car. Right ; and. so > 
 We act the part 01 earth 'arid heaven together, , 
 Of men and gods, and taste of both their pleasures. ' 
 
 Leo. The banquet's too inviting to refuse it. 
 
 Don Car. Then let's fall on, arid feed upon't for ever. 
 
 {Carries her off, embracing her, and kissing her hand. 
 
 Jdc. Ah woman ! foolish, foolish woman ! .*',. 
 
 San. Very foolish indeed. 
 
 Jac. But don't expect I'll follow her example. 
 
 San. You would, Mopsy, if Pd let you. 
 
 'Jac. I'd sooner tear my eyes out ; ah that she had a little of 
 jpy spirit in her ! 
 
 San. I believe I shall find thou hast a great deal of her flesh, 
 my charmer ; but 'twon't do ; I am all rock,hard rock, very marble. 
 
 Jac. A very pumice stone, you rascal you, if one would try thec ! 
 But to prevent thy humilities, and show thee all submission, would 
 be vain ; to convince thec thou hast nothing but misery and despair 
 before thee, here take back thy paltry thimble, and be in my debt, 
 for the shirts I Irave made thee with it'. ' 
 
 San. Nay, if y'are at that sport, mistress, I believe I shall lose 
 nothing by the balance of the presents. There, take thy tobacco- 
 stopper, and stop thy- 
 
 Jac. Hdre ; take thy satin pincushion, with tliy curious half- 
 hundred of pins in't, thou madest such a vapouring about yesterday. 
 Tell 'em carefully, there's not' one wanting. 
 
 San. There's thy ivory-hafted knife again, whet it well ; 'tis so 
 blunt 'twill cut nothing but love.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 87 
 
 Jac. And there's thy pretty pocket' scissors thou hast honoured 
 me with, they'll cut off a leg or ari arm. Heaven bless 'em ! 
 
 San. Here's the enchanted handkerchief you were pleased to 
 endear with yovir precious blood, \vhcn the violence of your love at 
 dinner t'other day made you 'cut your fingers. There. 
 
 \_ ; Bf0ws Ms nose in it and gives it her. 
 
 Jac. The rascal so provokes me, I won't even keep his paltry 
 garters from him. D' you see these? You pitiful beggarly 
 scoundrel ydu ! There, take 'em, there. 
 
 [She iilkes her g arters flff', and flaps them abortt his face. 
 
 San. I have but one thing more c-f thine \sKowmg 'it's cudgel, j 
 1 own 'tis the top of all thy presents, and might be useful to me ; 
 but that fhou mayest have nothing to upbraid me with, e'en take it 
 again with the rest of 'em. 
 
 [Lifting it tip to strike her, she leaps about his neck. 
 
 Jac. Ah, cruel Sancho ! Now beat me, Sancho, do ! 
 
 San. Rather, like Indian beggars, beat my precious self. 
 
 [ Throws, away his stick and embraces her. 
 Rather let infants' blood about the streets, 
 Rather Jet all the wine about the cellar. 
 Rather let : ()h, Jacinta thou hast, o'ercome. 
 How foolish arc the great resolves of man ! 
 Resolves, which we neither would keep, nor can. 
 When those bright eyes in kindness please to shine, 
 Their goodness 1 must needs return with mine : 
 Bless my Jacinta in her Sancho's arms 
 
 Jac. And I my Sancho with Jacinta's charms. \12xcunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. A Street. 
 Enter LOPEZ. 
 
 Lop. As soon as it is night, says my master to me, though it 
 :ost me my life, I'll enter Leonora's lodgings ; therefore make- 
 haste, Lopez, prepare everything necessary, three pair of pocket- 
 pistols, two wide-mouthed blunderbusses, some six. ells of sword- 
 blade, and a couple of dark lanterns. When my master said this 
 to me ; Sir, said I to my master, (that is, t would have said it if I 
 had not been in such a fright I could say nothing, however I'll say 
 it to him now, and shall probably have a quiet hearing,) look you, 
 sir, by dint of reason I intend to confound you. You are resolved, 
 you say, to get into LconorVs lodgings, though the devil stand in 
 the doorway? Yes, Lopez, that's my resolution. Very Well; iuid 
 what do you intend to do when you are there ? Why, what an 
 injured man should do ; make her sensible of- mrike her sensible 
 of a pudding! don't you see she's a jade ? She'll raise the house
 
 83 THE MISTAKE. [ACT v. 
 
 about your care, arm the whole family, set the great dog at you. 
 Were there legions of devils to repulse me, in such a cause I could 
 disperse them all. Why, then, you have no occasion for help, sir, 
 you may leave me at home to lay the cloth. No ; thou art my 
 ancient friend, my fellow traveller, and to reward thy faithful 
 services this night thou shalt partake my danger and my glory. 
 Sir, I have got glory enough under you already, to content any 
 reasonable servant for his life. Thy modesty makes me willing to 
 double my bounty ; this night may bring eternal honour to thee 
 and thy family. Eternal honour, sir, is too much in conscience for 
 a serving man ; besides, ambition has been many a great soul's un- 
 doing. I doubt thou art afraid, my Lopez ; thou shalt be armed 
 with back, with breast, and head-piece. They will encumber me in 
 my retreat. Retreat, my hero ! thou never shalt retreat. Then by 
 my troth I'll never go, sir. But here he comes. 
 
 Enter DON LORENZO. 
 
 Don Lor. Will it never benight ! sure 'tis the longest day the sun 
 e'er travelled. 
 
 Lop. Would 'twere as long as those in Greenland, sir, that you 
 might spin out your life t'other half-year. I don't like these nightly 
 projects ; a man can't see what he does. We shall have some 
 scurvy mistake or other happen ; a brace of bullets blunder through 
 your head in the dark perhaps, and spoil all your intrigue. 
 Don Lor. Away, you trembling wretch, away ! 
 Lop. Nay, sir, what I say is purely for your safety ; for as to 
 myself, I no more value the losing a quart of blood than I do 
 drinking a quart of wine. Besides, my veins are too full, my 
 physician advised me but yesterday to let go twenty ounces for my 
 health. So you see, sir, there's nothing of that in the case. 
 
 Don Lor. Then let me hear no other objections ; for till I sec 
 Leonora I must lie upon the rack. I cannot bear her resentment, 
 and will pacify her this night, or not live to see to-morrow. 
 
 Lop. Well, sir, since you are so determined, I shan't be imperti- 
 nent with any farther advice ; but I think you have laid your design 
 to [coughs] (I have got such a cold to-day !) to get in privately, 
 have you not ? 
 
 Don Lor. Yes ; and have taken care to be introduced as far as 
 her chamber door with all secresy. 
 
 Lop. [coughing."] This unlucky cough ! I had rather have had a 
 fever at another time. Sir, I should be sorry to do you more harm 
 than good upon this occasion : if this cough should come upon me in 
 the midst of the action [coughs] and give the alarm to the family, 
 I should not forgive myself as long as I lived. 
 
 Don Lor. I have greater ventures than that to take my chance 
 for, and can't dispense with your attendance, sir. 
 
 Lop. This 'tis to be a good servant, and make one's self 
 necessary !
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. $9 
 
 Enter TOLEDO. 
 
 Tol. Sir, I am glad I have found you. 1 am a man of honour, 
 you know, and do always profess losing my life upon a handsome 
 occasion. Sir, I come to offer you my service. I am informed 
 from unquestionable hands that Don Carlos is enraged against you 
 to a dangerous degree ; and that old Alvarez has given positive 
 directions to break the legs and arms of your servant Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Look you therenow, I thought what 'twould come to ! 
 What do they meddle with me for ? what have I to do in my 
 master's amours ? The old Don's got out of his senses, I think ; 
 have I married his daughter? 
 
 Don Lor. Fear nothing, we'll take care o' thee. Sir, I thank you 
 for the favour of your intelligence, 'tis nothing however but what I 
 expected, and am provided for. 
 
 7W. Sir, I would advise you to provide yourself with good 
 friends, I desire the honour to keep your back hand myself. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis very kind indeed. Pray, sir, have you ne'er a servant 
 with you could hold a racket for me too ? 
 
 Tol. I have two friends fit to head two armies ; and yet a word 
 in your ear, they shan't cost you above a ducat a piece. 
 
 Lop. Take 'em by all means, sir, you were never offered a better 
 pennyworth in your life. 
 
 Tol. Ah, sir ! little Diego you have heard of him ; he'd have 
 been worth a legion upon this occasion. You know, I suppose, 
 how they have served him. They have hanged him, but he made 
 a noble execution ; they clapped the rack and the priest to him at 
 once, but could neither get a word of confession nor a groan of 
 repentance ; he died mighty well, truly. 
 
 Don Lor. Such a man is indeed much to be regretted : as for 
 the rest of your escort, captain, I thank you for 'em, but shall not 
 use 'em. 
 
 Tol. I'm sorry fort, sir, because I think you go in very great 
 dangtr ; I'm much afraid your rival won't give you fair play. 
 
 Lop. If he does, I'll be hanged ! he's a passionate fellow, and 
 cares not what mischief he does. 
 
 Don Lor. I shall give him a very good opportunity ; for I'll 
 have no other guards about me but you, sir. So come along. 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, this is the sin of presumption ; setting heaven at 
 defiance, making jack-pudding of a blunderbuss. 
 
 Don Lor. No more, but follow. Hold ! turn this way ; I see 
 Camillo there. I would avoid him, till I see what part he takes in 
 this odd affair of his sister's. For I would not have the quarrel 
 fixed with him, if it be possible to avoid it. [Ejrft. 
 
 Lop. Sir ! Captain Toledo ! one word if you please, sir. I'm 
 mighty sorry to see my master won't accept of your friendly offer. 
 Look ye, I'm not very rich ; but as fnr as the expense of a dollar 
 went, if you'd be so kind to take a little care of me, it should be at 
 your service.
 
 go THE MISTAKE. (ACT V. 
 
 Tol, Let me see ; a dollar you say ? but suppose I'm wounded ? 
 
 Lop. Why, you shall be put to no extraordinary charge upon 
 that: I have been prentice to a barber, and will be your surgeon 
 myself. 
 
 Tol. 'Tis too cheap in conscience ; but my land-estate is so ill 
 paid this war time 
 
 Lap. That a little industry may be commendable; so say no 
 more, that matter's fixed. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter CAMILLO.** 
 
 Cam. How miserable a perplexity have I brought myself into 1 
 Yet why do I complain ? since, 
 "With all the dreadful torture I endure, 
 I can't repent of one wild step I've made. 
 O love ! what tempests canst thou raise, what storms ; 
 Canst thou assuage! 
 
 To all thy cruelties I am resign'd. Long years 
 Through sdas of torment I'm content to roll, 
 So thou wilt guide me to the happy port 
 Of my Lorenzo's arms, 
 And bless me there with one calm day at list. 
 
 Enter ISABELLA. 
 
 What news, dear Isabella? Methinks there's something cheerful 
 in your looks may give a trembling lover hopes. If you have com- 
 fort for me, speak, for I indeed have need of it. 
 
 hob. Were your wants yet still greater than they are, I bring a 
 plentiful supply. 
 
 Cam. O Heavens ! is't possible ! 
 
 hab. New mysteries are out, and if you can find charms to win 
 Lorenzo from your sister, no other obstacle is in your way to all 
 you wish. 
 
 Cam. Kind messenger from Heaven, speak on. 
 
 Isab. Know then, that you are daughter to Alvarez I 
 
 Cam. How! daughter to Alvarez ! 
 
 Isab. You are : the truth this moment's come to light ; and till 
 this moment he, although your father, was a stranger to it ; nay, 
 did not even know you were a woman. In short, the great estate, 
 which has occasioned these uncommon accidents, was left but on 
 condition of a son ; great hopes of one there was, when you -destroyed 
 'em, and to your parents came a most unwelcome guest. To repair 
 the disappointment, you were exchanged for that young Camilio, 
 who few months after died. Your father then was absent, but your 
 mother, quick in contrivance, bold in execution, during that infant's 
 sickness, had resolved his death should not deprive her family of 
 those advantages his life had given it ; so ordered things with such 
 ^dexterity, that once again there passed a change between you. Of 
 this (for reasons yet unknown to me) she made a secret to her
 
 SCENE I.] THE MTSfftRE. g i 
 
 husband, and took such wise precautions, that till this hoiir 'twas 
 so to all. the world, except the person from whom I now have 
 heard it. 
 
 Cam. This news indeed affords a view of no unhappy termination ; 
 yet there arc difficulties still may be of fatal hindrance. 
 
 hab. None, except that one I just now named to you ; for to 
 remove the rest, know I have already unfolded all both to Alvarez 
 and .Don Felix. 
 
 Cam. And how have they received it ? 
 
 hab. To your wishes both. As for Lorenzo, he is vet a stranger 
 to all has passed, and the two old Esthers desire he may some 
 moments longer continue so. They have agreed to be a little 
 merry with the heats he fs in,' and' engage you in a family quarrel 
 with him. 
 
 .Cam. I doubt, Isabella, I shall act that part but faintly. 
 
 Isab. No matter, you'll make amends for it in the scene of 
 reconciliation. 
 
 Cam. Pray Heaven it be my lot to act it' with him. 
 
 Isab. Here comes Don P"elix to wish you joy. 
 
 Enter DON FELIX, 
 
 Don Fcl. Come near, my daughter, and with extended arms of 
 great affection let me receive thee. [Kisses JterJ\ Thou art a dainty 
 wench, good faith thou art, and 'tis a mettled action thou hast 
 .done ; if Lorenzo don't like thee the better for't,' he's a pitiful 
 fellow. 
 
 Cam. I'm so encouraged by your forgiveness, sir, methinks I have 
 some flattering hopes of his. 
 
 Don Fel. Of his ! egad and he had best ; I believe ho'll meet 
 with his match if he don't. What dost think of trying his courage 
 a little, by way of a joke or so ? 
 
 Isab. I was just telling her your design, sir. 
 
 Don Fel. Why I'm in a mighty witty way upon this whimsical 
 occasion ; but I see him coming. You must not appear yet ; go 
 your way in to the rest of the people there, and I'll inform him what 
 a squabble he has worked himself into here. 
 
 CAMILLO and ISABELLA. 
 
 Rc-cr.lcr DON LOKKNVO and LOPEZ. 
 
 Lop. Pray, sir, don't be so obstinate now, don't affront Heaven at 
 this rate. I had a vision last night about this business on purpose 
 to forewarn you ; I dreamt of goose-eggs, a blunt knife, and the 
 snuff of a candle ; I'm sure there's mischief towards. 
 
 Don Lor. You cowardly rascal, hold your tongue. 
 
 Don Fcl. Lorenzo, come hither, my boy, I was just going to send 
 for thee. The honour of our ancient family lies in thy hands ; there 
 is a combat preparing, thou must fight, my son. 
 
 Lop. Look you there now, did not I tell you? Oh, dreams arc 
 wondrous things ! I never knew that snuff of a candle fail yet.
 
 92 THE MISTAKE. [ACT v. 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, I do not doubt but Carlos seeks my life, I hope 
 he'll do it fairly. 
 
 Lop. Fairly, do you hear, fairly ! give me leave to tell you, sir, 
 folks are not fit to be trusted with lives that don't know how to look 
 better after 'em. Sir, you gave it him, I hope you'll make him take 
 a little more care on't 
 
 Don Pel. My care shall be to make him do as a man of honour 
 ought to do. 
 
 Lop. What, will you let him fight then ? Let your own flesh and 
 blood fight ? 
 
 Don Fel. In a good cause, as this is. 
 
 Lop. O monstrum horrendum .' Now I have that humanity 
 about me, that if a man but talks to me of fighting, I shiver at the 
 name on't. 
 
 Don Lor. What you do on this occasion, sir, is worthy of you ; 
 and had I been wanting to you, in my due regards before, this noble 
 action would have stamped that impression, which a grateful son 
 ought to have for so generous a father. 
 
 Lop. \_asiiic.~] Very generous truly ! gives him leave to be run 
 through for his posterity to brag on a hundred years hence. 
 
 Don Lor. I think, sir, as things now stand, it won't be right for 
 me to wait for Carlos's call ; I'll if you please prevent him. 
 
 Lop. Ay, pray sir, do prevent him by all means ; 'tis better made 
 up, as you say, a thousand times. 
 
 Don Fel. Hold your tongue, you impertinent jack-a-napes ! I will 
 have him fight, and fight like a fury too ; if he don't he'll be worsted, 
 I can tell him that. For know, son, your antagonist is not the per- 
 son you name, it is an enemy of twice his force. 
 
 Lop. O dear ! O dear ! O dear ! and will nobody keep 'em 
 asunder ? 
 
 Don Lor. Nobody shall keep us asunder, if once I know the man 
 I have to deal with. 
 
 Don Fel. Thy man then is Camillo. 
 
 Don Lor. Camillo ! 
 
 Don Fel. Tis he ; he'll suffer nobody to decide this quarrel but 
 himself. 
 
 Lop. Then there are no seconds, ST ? 
 
 Don Fel. None. 
 
 Lop. He's a brave man. 
 
 Don Fel. No, he says nobody's blood shall be spilled on this 
 occasion but theirs who have a title to it. 
 
 Lop. I believe ht'll scarce have a lawsuit upon the claim. 
 
 Don Fel. In short, he accuses thee of a shameful falsehood, in 
 pretending his sifter Leonora was thy wife ; and has upon it pre- 
 vailed with his father, as thou hast done with thine, to let the 
 debat be ended by the sword 'twixt him and thee. 
 
 Lop. And pray, sir, with submission, one short question, if you 
 please ; what may the gentle Lconor.i say of this business ? 
 
 Don Fel. She approves of the combat, and marries Carlos.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISTAKE. 93 
 
 Lop, Why, God a-mercy ! 
 
 Don Lor. Is it possible ? sure, she's a devil, not a woman. 
 Lop. Yes, sir, a devil and a woman both, I think. 
 Don Pel. Well, thou sha't have satisfaction of some of 'em. 
 Here they all come. 
 
 Enter DON ALVAREZ, DON CARLOS, LEONORA, JACINTA 
 and SANCHO. 
 
 Don Alv. Wi.-ll, Don Felix, have you prepared your son? for 
 mine, he's ready to engage. 
 
 Don Lor. Ai.d so is nis. My wrongs prepare me for a thousand 
 combats. My hand bis hitherto been held by the regard I've had 
 to everything of kin to Leonora ; but since the monstrous part she 
 acts has driven her from my heart, I call for reparation from her 
 family. 
 
 Don Alv. You'll have it, sir; Camillo will attend you instantly. 
 
 Lop. O lack ! O lack ! will nobody do a little something to pre- 
 vent bloodshed? [7> LEONORA] Why, madam, have you no 
 pity, no bowels ? Stand and see one of your husbands stotercd 
 before your face ? } Tis an arrant shame. 
 
 Leo. If widowhood be my fate, I must bear it as I can. 
 
 Lop. Why, did you ever hear the like ? 
 
 Don Lor. Talk to her no more. Her monstrous impudence is 
 no otherwise to be replied to than by a dagger in her brothers 
 heart. 
 
 Leo. Yonder he's coming to receive it. But have a care, brave 
 sir, he does not place it in another's. 
 
 Don Lor. It is not in his power. He has a rotten cause upon 
 his sword, I'm sorry he is engaged in't ; but since he is he must 
 take his fate. \_To DON CARLOS.] For you, my bfavo, expect me 
 in your turn. 
 
 Don Car. You'll find Camillo, sir, will set your hand out. 
 
 Don Lor. A beardless boy ! You might have matched me better, 
 sir ; but prudence is a virtue. 
 
 Don Pel. Nay, son, I would not have thee despise thy adversary 
 neither ; thou'lt find Camillo will put thee hardly to't. 
 
 Don Lor. I wish we were come to the trial. Why docs he not 
 appear. 
 
 Jtic. Now do I hate to hear people brag thus. Sir, with my 
 lady's leave, I'll hold a ducat he disarms you. \Tkey laugh. 
 
 Don Lor. Why, what ! I think I'm sported with. Take heed, 
 I warn you all ; I am not to be trifled with. 
 
 Re-enter CAMILLO and ISABELLA. 
 
 Leo. You shan't, sir ; here's one will be in earnest with you. 
 
 Don Lor. He's welcome : though I had rather have drawn my 
 sword against another. I'm sorry, Camillo, we should meet on 
 such bad terms as these ; yet more sorry your sister should be the
 
 94 THE MISTAKE. [ACT v. 
 
 wicked cause on't ; but since nothing will serve her but the blood 
 either of a husband or brother, she shall be glutted with't. Draw ! 
 
 Lop. Ah Lard ! ah Lard ! ah Lard ! 
 
 Don Lor, And yet, before I take this instrument of death into 
 my fatal hand, hear me, Camillo ; hear, Alvarez ; all ! 
 I imprecate the utmost powers of Heaven 
 To shower upon my head the deadliest of its wrath ; 
 I ask that all hell's torments may unite 
 To round my soul with one eternal anguish, 
 If wicked Leonora ben't my wife. 
 
 All, O Lord ]r O Lord ! 'O Lord ! 
 
 Leo. Why then, may all those curses pass him by, 
 And wrap me in their everlasting pains, 
 If ever once I had a fleeting thought 
 Of making him my husband. 
 
 Lop. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Leo. Nay more ; to strike him dumb at once, and show what 
 men with honest looks can practise, know he's married to another. 
 
 Don Alv. &* Don Fel. How ! 
 
 Lea. The truth of this is known to some here. 
 
 Jac. Nay, 'tis certainly so. 
 
 /sad. 'Tis to a friend of mine. 
 
 Don Car. I know the person. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis false ! and thou art a villain for thy testimony. 
 
 Cam. Then let me speak ; what they aver is true, and I myself 
 was, in disguise, a witness of its doing. 
 
 Don Lor. Death and confusion I he a villain too ! Have at thy 
 heart. [He draws. 
 
 Lop. Ah ! I can't bear the sight on't. 
 
 Cam. Put up that furious thing, there's no business for"t. 
 
 Don Lor. There's business for a dagger, stripling ; 'tis that should 
 be thy recompense. 
 
 Cam. Why then to show thee naked to the world, and close thy 
 mouth for ever I am myself thy wife 
 
 Don Lor. What docs the dog mean ? 
 
 Cam. To fall upon the earth and sue for mercy. 
 
 [Kneels and lets her periwig fall off. 
 
 Don Lor. A woman ! 
 
 Lop. Ecod, and a pretty one too ; you wags you ! 
 
 Don Lor. I'm all amazement ! Rise, Camillo, (if I am still to 
 call you by that name,) and let me hear the wonders you have for 
 me. 
 
 Isab. That part her modesty will ask from me. 
 I'm to inform you then, that this disguise 
 Hides other. mysteries besides a woman ; 
 A large and fair estate was cover'd by't, 
 Which with the ludy now will be rcsign'd you. 
 'Tis true, injustice it was yours before ; 
 But 'tis 'the god of love has done you right. 
 1
 
 SCENE i.] THE MISTAKE. 95 
 
 To him you owe this strange discovery ; 
 
 Through him you are to know the true Camillo's dead, and that this 
 
 fair adventurer is daughter to Alvarez. 
 
 Don Lor. Incredible ! But go on ; let me hear more. 
 Don Pel. She'll tell thee the rest herself the next .c|ark tiight she 
 meets thee in the garden. 
 
 Don Lor. Ha ! Was it Camillo then, that 1 
 
 Isab. It was Camillo who there mack: you happy ; .and who has 
 virtue, beauty, wit, and love enough to make you so while life shall 
 last you. 
 
 Don Lor. The proof she gives me of her love deserves a large 
 acknowledgment indeed. Forgive me, therefore, Leonora, if what 1 
 owe this goodness and these charms, I with my utmost care, my life, 
 my soul, endeavour to repay. 
 
 Cam. Is it then possible you can forgive me ? 
 Don Lor. Indeed I can ; few crimes have such a claim 
 To mercy. But join with me then, dear Camillo, 
 (For still I know you by no other name,) 
 Join with me to obtain your father's pardon. 
 Yours, Leonora, too, I must implore ; 
 
 And yours, my friend, for now we may be such. [70 CARLOS. 
 
 Of all I ask forgiveness ; and since there is 
 So fair a cause of all- my wild mistakes, 
 I hope I by her interest shall obtain it. 
 
 Don Alv. You have a claim to mine, Lqrenzo, I wish I had so 
 strong a one to yours ; but if by future services, (though I lay down 
 my life amongst 'em) I may blot out of your remembrance a fault 
 (I 'cannot name), I then shall leave the world in peace. 
 
 Don Lor. In peace then, sir, enjoy it ; for from this very hour, 
 whate'er is past with me is gone for ever. Your daughter is too fair 
 a mediatrix to be refused his pardon, to whom she owes the charms 
 she pleads with for it. 
 
 From this good day, then let all discord cease ; 
 
 Let those to come be harmony and peace : 
 
 Henceforth let all our different interests join, 
 
 Let fathers, lovers, friends, let all combine, 
 
 To make etich other's days as blcss'd as she will mine. 
 
 [Exeunt outfits.
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER* 
 
 (MOLIER&S " LE MISANTHROPE.") 
 BY WILLIAM WYCHERLEY. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONA. 
 
 MANLY, of an honest, surly, nice 
 humour, supposed first, in. the 
 time of the Dutch War, to have 
 procured the command of a ship, 
 out of honour, not interest ; and 
 choosing a sea-life only to avoid 
 the world. 
 
 FREEMAN, MANLY'S Lieutenant, a 
 gentleman well educated, but of 
 a broken fortune, a compiler with 
 the age. 
 
 VERNISH, MANLY'S bosotn and only 
 friend. 
 
 NOVEL, a pert railing Coxcomb, and 
 an admirer of novelties, makes 
 love to OLIVIA. 
 
 MAJOR OLDKOX, an old impertinent 
 Fop, given to scribbling, makes 
 love to the WIDOW BLACKACRK. 
 
 LORD PLAUSIBLE, a ceremonious. 
 
 supple, commending Coxcomb, in 
 
 love with OLIVIA. 
 JERRY BLACKACRE, a true raw 
 
 Squire, under age, and his 
 
 Mother's government, bred to the 
 
 Law. 
 
 OLIVIA, MANLY'S Mistress. 
 FIDELIA, in lo-se u<ith MANLY, and 
 
 followed him to sea in man's 
 - clothes. 
 
 ELIZA. Cousin to OLIVIA. 
 LETTICE, OLIVIA'S Woman. 
 WIDOW BLACK /VCRE. a petulant, 
 
 litigious Widow, always in Law, 
 
 and Mother to } ERRY. 
 
 Lawyers. Knights of the Post. Bailiffs 
 and Aldermen, a Booksellers 
 Apprentice, a Foot-boy, Sailors, 
 Waiters, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE. LONDON. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. Manly s Lodging. 
 
 Enter MANLY, surlily, my LORD ?\M3$\K13L following hint J and 
 two SAILORS behind. 
 
 Man. Tell not me, my good Lord Plausible, of your decorums, 
 supercilious forms, and slavish ceremonies ! your little tricks, which 
 you, the spaniels of the world, do daily over and over, for and to 
 one another ; not out of love or duty, but your servile fear. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, i't'aith. i'faith, you are too passionate ; and I must 
 humbly beg your pardon and leave to tell you, they arc the arts and 
 rules the urudent of the world walk by.
 
 SCENE i.] . THE PLAIN DEALER. 97 
 
 Man. Let 'em. But I'll have no leading-strings ; I can walk 
 alone : I hate a harness, and will not tug on in a faction, kissing 
 my leader behind, that another slave may do the like to me. 
 
 Plaus. What, will you be singular then, like nobody? follow, 
 love, and esteem nobody ? 
 
 Man. Rather than be general, like you, follow everybody ; court 
 and kiss everybody ; though perhaps at the same time you hate 
 everybody. 
 
 Plaus. Why, seriously, with your pardon, my dear friend 
 
 Man. With your pardon, my no friend, I will not, as you do, 
 whisper my hatred or my scorn ; call a, man fool or knave by 
 signs or mouths over his shoulder, whilst you have him in your 
 arms. For such as you, like common women and pickpockets, arc 
 only dangerous to those you embrace. 
 
 Plaus. Such as I ! Heavens defend me ! upon my honour 
 
 Man. Upon your title, my lord, if you'd have me believe you. 
 
 Plaus. Well, then, as I am a person of honour, I never attempted 
 to abuse or lessen any person in my life. 
 
 Man. What, you were afraid ? 
 
 Plaus. No ; but seriously, I hate to do a rude thing ; no, faith, 
 I speak well of all mankind. 
 
 Man. I thought so ; but know, that speaking well of all mankind 
 is the worst kind of detraction, for it takes away the reputation of 
 the few good men in the world, by making all alike. Now, I speak 
 ill of most men, because they deserve it ; I, that can do a rude 
 thing, rather than an unjust thing. 
 
 Plaus. Well, tell not me, my dear friend, what people deserve ; I 
 ne'er mind that. I. like an author in a dedication, never speak 
 well of a man for his sake, but my own ; I will not disparage any 
 man, to disparage myself; for to speak ill of people behind their 
 backs, is not like a person of honour ; and, truly, to speak ill of 'em 
 to their faces, is not like a complaisant person. But if I did say or 
 do an ill thing to anybody, it should be sure to be behind their 
 backs, out of pure good manners. 
 
 Man. Very well ; but I, that am an unmannerly sea-fellow, if I 
 ever speak well of people (which is very seldom indeed), it should 
 be sure to be behind their backs ; and if I would say or do ill to 
 any, it should be to their faces. 1 would jostle a proud, strutting, 
 overlooking coxcomb, at the head of his sycophants, rather than 
 put out my tongue at him when he were past me ; would frown in 
 the arrogant, big, dull face of an overgrown knave of business, 
 rather than vent my spleen against him when his back were turned ; 
 would give fawning slaves the lie whilst they embrace or commend 
 me ; cowards whilst they brag ; call a rascal by no other title, 
 though his father had left him a duke's ; laugh at fools aloud before 
 their mistresses ; and must desire people to leave me. when their 
 visits grow at last as troublesome as they were at first impertinent. 
 
 Plaus. \ would not have my visits troublesome. 
 
 Af<ifi. The only way to be sure not to have 'cm troublesome, is to 
 
 I;
 
 9 S THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT i. 
 
 make ! cm when people are not at home ; for your visits, like other 
 good turns, arc most obliging when made or done to a man in his 
 absence. Why should any one, because he has nothing to do, go 
 and disturb another man's business ? 
 
 Plmis. I beg your pardon, my dear friend. What, you have 
 business ? 
 
 Man. If you have any, I would not detain your lordship. 
 
 P!,::ts. Detain me, dear sir ! I can never have enough of yonr 
 company. 
 
 Man. I'm afraid I should be tiresome : I know not what you 
 think. 
 
 Plans. Well, dear sir, I see you'd have me gone. 
 
 Man. But I see you won't. [Aside. 
 
 Plans. Your most faithful : 
 
 Man. God be wi'ye, my lord. 
 
 Plans. Your most humble 
 
 Man. Farewell. 
 
 Plaus. And eternally -*' 
 
 Man. And eternally ceremony. [Aside.] Then the devil take thee 
 eternally. 
 
 Plaus. You shall use no ceremony, by my life. 
 
 Man. I do not intend it. 
 
 Plaus. Why do you stir then ? 
 
 Man. Only to see you out of doors, that I may shut : em against 
 more welcomes. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, faith, that shall not pass upon your most faithful 
 humble servant. 
 
 Man. Nor this any more upon me. [Aside. 
 
 Plans. Well, yon are too strong for me. 
 
 Man. [aside.'] I'd sooner be visited by the plague ; for that only 
 would keep a man from visits, and his doors shut. 
 
 [Ex?/, thrusting ont my LORD PLAUSIBLE. 
 
 1 Sail. Here's a finical fellow. Jack ! What a brave fair-weather 
 captain of a ship he would make ! 
 
 2 Sail. He a captain of a ship ! it must be when she's in the 
 dock then ; for he loc-ks like one of those that get the king's com- 
 missions for hulls to sell a. king's ship, when a brave fellow hasfoughf 
 her almost to a long-boat. 
 
 1 Sail. On my conscience then, Jack, that's the reason our bully 
 tar sunk our ship ; not only that the Dutch might :iot have her, 
 but that the courtiers, who laugh at wooden legs, might not make 
 her prize. 
 
 2 Sail. A plague of his sinking, Tom ! we have mnde a base, 
 broken, short voyage of it. 
 
 1 'Sail. Ay, your brisk dealers in honour always make quick 
 returns with their ships to the dock, and their men to the hospitals. 
 Tis. let me see, just a month since we set out of the river, and the 
 wind was almost as cross to us as the Dutch, 
 
 2 Sail. Well, I forgive him sinking my own poor truck, if he
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 99 
 
 would but have given me time and leave to have saved blacl: ivuic 
 of Wapping's small venture. 
 
 1 Sail. Faith, I forgive him, since, as the purser told me, he sunk 
 the value of five or six thousand pound of his own, with which he- 
 was to settle himself somewhere in the Indies ; for our merry lieu- 
 tenant was to succeed him in his commission for the ship back ; 
 for he was resolved never to return again for England. 
 
 2 Sail. So it seemed, by his fighting 
 
 1 Sail. No ; but he was a-weary of this side of the world here, 
 they say. 
 
 2 Sail. Ay, or else he would not have bid so fair for a passage 
 into t'other. 
 
 1 Sail. Jack, thou thinkest thyself in the forecastle, thou'rt so 
 waggish. But I tell you, then, he had a mind to go live and bask 
 himself on the sunny side of the globe. 
 
 2 Sail. What, out of any discontent ? for he's always as dogged 
 as an old tarpaulin, when hindered of a voyage by a youn 
 pantaloon captain. 
 
 1 Sail. 'Tis true I never saw him pleased but in the fight; and 
 then he looked like one of us coming from the pay-table with a new 
 lining to our hats under our arms. 
 
 2 Sail. He's like the bay of Biscay, rough and angry, let the 
 wind blow where 'twill. 
 
 1 Sail. Nay, there's no more dealing with him, than with the land 
 in a storm, no near 
 
 2 Sail. Tis a hurry-durry blade. Dost thou remember after \ve 
 had tugged hard the old leaky long-boat to save his life, when 
 I welcomed him ashore, he gave me a box on the ear, arid called 
 me fawning water-clog ? 
 
 Re-enter MANLY with FREEMAN. 
 
 i Sail. Hold thy peace, jack, and stand by ; .the foul weather's 
 coming. 
 
 Man. You rascals ! dogs 1 how could this tame thing get through 
 you ? 
 
 1 Sail. Faith, to tell your honour the truth, v:c were at hob in 
 the hall, and whilst my brother and 1 \.j:c quarrelling about a 
 cast, he slunk by us. 
 
 2 Sail, lie's a sneaking fellow 1 warrant for't. 
 
 Man. Have more care for the future, you slaves. Co, and with 
 drawn cutlasses stand at the stair-foot, and keep all that ask for 
 me from coming up ; suppose you were guarding the scuiile to 
 the powder-room. Let none enter here, at your and their peril. 
 
 1 Sail. No, for the danger would be tuc same: you wouiu blo\v 
 them and us up, if we should. 
 
 2 Sail. Must no one come to you, sir? 
 Man. No man, sir. 
 
 \ Sail. No man, sir ; but a woman then, an't like your honour 
 
 Man. No woman neither, you impertinent dog !
 
 too THE PLAtN DEALER. [ACT r 
 
 2 Sail. Indeed, an't like your honour, 'twill be hard for us to 
 deny a woman anything, since we are so newly come on shore. 
 
 I Sail. We'll let no old woman come up, though it were our 
 trusting landlady at Wapping. 
 
 Man, Would you be witty, you brandy casks you ? you become a 
 jest as ill as you do a horse. Begone, you dogs ! I hear a noise 
 on the stairs.' {Exeunt SAILORS. 
 
 Free. Faith, I am sorry you would let the fop go, I intended to 
 have had some sport with him. 
 
 Man. Sport with him ! Then why did you not stay ? You 
 should have enjoyed your coxcomb, and had him to yourself for 
 me. 
 
 Free. No, I should not have cared for him without you neither ; 
 for the pleasure which fops afford is like that of drinking, only good 
 when : tis shared ; and a fool, like a bottle, which would make you 
 merry in company, will make you dull alone. But how could you 
 turn a man of his quality down stairs ? You use a lord with very 
 little ceremony, it seems. 
 
 Man. A lord ! What, thoti art one of those who esteem men 
 only by the marks and value fortune has set upon : em, and never 
 consider intrinsic worth ! but counterfeit honour will not be current 
 with me : I weigh the man, not his title ; 'tis not the king's stamp 
 can make the metal better or heavier. Your lord is a leaden 
 shilling, which you bend every way, and debases the stamp he bears, 
 instead of being raised by it. Here again, you slaves ! 
 
 Re-enter SAILORS. 
 
 1 Sail. Only to receive farther instructions, an't like your honour. 
 What if a man should bring you money, should we turn him 
 back ? 
 
 Man. All men, I say: must I be pestered with you too? You 
 dogs, away ! 
 
 2 Sail. Nay, I know one man your honour would not have us 
 hinder coming to you, I'm sure. 
 
 Man. \Vho's that ? speak quickly, slaves. 
 
 2 Sail. Why, a man that should bring you a challenge. For 
 though you refuse money, I'm sure you love fighting too well to 
 refuse that. 
 
 Man. Rogue ! rascal ! dog ! \Kicks the SAILORS out. 
 
 Free. Nay, let the poor rogues have their forecastle jests : they 
 cannot help 'em in a fight, scarce when a ship's sinking. 
 
 Man. A plague on their untimely jests ! a servant's jest is more 
 sauciness than his counsel. 
 
 Free. But what, will you see nobody ? not your friends ? 
 
 Man. Friends ! I have but one, and he, I hear, is not in town ; 
 nay, can have but one friend, for a true heart admits but of one 
 friendship, as of one love. But in having that friend, I have a 
 thousand ; for he has the courage of men in despair, yet the ditn- 
 dency and caution of cowards ; the secrecy of the revengeful, and
 
 SCENE l.] THE PLAIN DEALEK. 101 
 
 the constancy of martyrs ; one fit to advise, to keep a secret, to fight 
 and die for his friend. Such I think him ; for I have trusted him 
 with my mistress in my absence ; and the trust of beauty is sure the 
 greatest we can show. 
 
 Free. Well, but all your good thoughts are not for him alone, 
 I hope ? Pray what d'ye think of me for a friend ? 
 
 Man. Of thee ! Why, thou art a latitudinarian in friendship, 
 that is, no friend ; thou dost side with all mankind, but wilt suffer 
 for none. Thou art indeed like your Lord Plausible, the pink of 
 courtesy, therefore hast no friendship ; for ceremony and great 
 professing renders friendship as much suspected as it does religion. 
 
 Fret. And no professing, no ceremony at all in friendship, were 
 as unnatural and as undecent as in religion ; and there is hardly 
 such a thing as an honest hypocrite, who professes himself to be 
 worse than he is, unless it be yourself ; for though I could never get 
 you to say you were my friend, I know you'll prove so. 
 
 Man. I must confess, I am so much your friend, I would not 
 deceive you ; therefore must tell you, not only because my heart is 
 taken up, but according to your rules of friendship, I cannot be 
 your friend. 
 
 Free. Why, pray ? 
 
 Man. Because he that is, you'll say, a true friend to a man, is a 
 friend to all his friends. But you must pardon me, I cannot wish 
 well to flatterers, detractors, and cowards, stiff-nodding knaves, and 
 supple, pliant, kissing fools. Now, all these I have seen you use like 
 the dearest friends in the world. 
 
 Free. Ha ! ha ! ha ! What, you observed me, I warrant, in the 
 galleries at Whitehall, doing the business of the place ? Pshaw ? 
 Court professions, like Court promises,' go for nothing, man. But, 
 faith, could you think I was a friend to all those 1 hugged, kissed, 
 flattered, bowed to ? Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Man. You told 'em so, and swore it too ; I heard you. 
 
 Free. Ay, but when their backs were turned, did not I tell you 
 they were rogues, villains, rascals, whom I despised and hated ? 
 
 Man. Very fine ! But what reason had I to believe you spoke 
 your heart to me, since you professed deceiving so many? 
 
 Free. Why, don't you know, good captain, that telling truth is a 
 quality as prejudicial to a man that would thrive in the world, as 
 square play to a cheat ? Would you have a man speak truth to his 
 ruin ? You are severer than the law. which requires no man to swear 
 against himself. You would have me speak truth against myself I 
 warrant, and tell my promising friend the courtier, he has a bad 
 memory. 
 
 Man. Yes. 
 
 Free. And so make him remember to forget my business ? And 
 I should tell the great lawyer too, that he takes oftener fees to hold 
 his tongue than to speak? 
 
 Man. No doubt on't. 
 
 Free. Ay, and have him hang *r rin me, when he should come
 
 102 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT L 
 
 to be a judge, and 1 before him ? And you would have me tell the 
 new officer, who bought his employment lately, that he is a coward ? 
 
 Man. Ay. 
 
 Free* And so get myself cashiered, not him, he having the better 
 friends, though I the better sword ? And I should tell the scribbler 
 of honour, that heraldry were a prettier and fitter study for so fine a 
 gentleman than poetry ? 
 
 Man. Certainly. 
 
 Free. And so find myself mauled in his next hired lampoon ? 
 And you would have me tell the holy lady, too, she is close with 
 her chaplain ? j[* 
 
 Man. No doubt on't 
 
 Free. And so draw the clergy upon my back, and want a good 
 table to dine at sometimes ? And by the same reason too, I should 
 tell you that the world thinks you a mad man. a brutal, and have you 
 cut my throat, or worse, hate me. What other good success of all 
 my plain-dealing could I have, than what I've mentioned ? 
 
 Man. Why, first, your promising courtier would keep his word 
 cut of fear of more reproaches, or at least would give you no more 
 vain hopes : your lawyer would serve you more faithfully ; for he, 
 having no honour but his interest, is truest still to him he knows 
 suspects him : the new officer would provoke thee to make him a 
 coward, and so be cashiered, that thou, or some other honest fellow, 
 who had more courage than money, might get his place : the noble 
 sonnetteer would trouble thee no more with his madrigals ; and I, 
 instead of hating thee, should love thee for thy plain dealing ; and 
 in lieu of being mortified, am proud that the world and I think not 
 well of one another. 
 
 Free. Well, doctors differ. You are for plain dealing, I find ; but 
 against your particular notions, I have the practice of the whole 
 world. Observe but any morning what people do when they get 
 together on the Exchange, in Westminster- hall, or the galleries in 
 Whitehall. 
 
 Man. I must confess, there they seem to rehearse Bayes's grand 
 dance. Here you see a bishop bowing low to a gaudy atheist ; a 
 judge to a doorkeeper ; a great lord to a fishmonger, or scrivener 
 with a jack-chain about his neck ; a lawyer to a sergeant-at-arms ; a 
 velvet physician to a threadbare chemist ; and a supple gentleman- 
 usher to a surly beefeater ; and so tread round in a preposterous 
 huddle of ceremonfto each other, whilst they can hardly hold their 
 solemn false countenances. 
 
 Free. Well, they understand the world. 
 
 Man. Which I do not, I confess. 
 
 Free. But, sir, pray believe the friendship I promise you real, 
 whatsoever I have professed to others : try me, at least 
 
 Man. Why, what would you do for me ? 
 
 Free. I would fight for you. 
 
 Man. That you would do for your own honour. But what 
 else?
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. ioj 
 
 v "\- r \.<. i 
 
 Free. I would lend you money, if I had it. 
 
 Man. To borrow more of me another time. That were putting 
 your money to interest ; a usurer would be as good a friend. But 
 what other piece of friendship ? 
 
 Free. I would speak well of you to your enemies. 
 
 Man. To encourage others to be your friends, by a show of 
 gratitude. Rut what else ? 
 
 Free. Nay, I would not hear you ill spoken of behind your back 
 by my friend. 
 
 Man. Nay, then, thou'rt a friend, indeed. But it were unreason- 
 able to expect it from thee, as the world goes now, when new 
 friends, like new mi Crosses, are got by disparaging old ones. 
 
 I Enter FIDKI.I \. 
 
 But here comes another, will say as much at least Dost thou not 
 love me too, my little volunteer, as well as he or any man can ? 
 
 Fid. Better than any man can love you, my dear captain. 
 
 Man. Look you there, I told you so. 
 
 Fid. As well as you do truth or honour, sir, as well. 
 
 Man. Nay, good young gentleman, enough, for shame ! Thou 
 hast been a page, by thy flattering and lying, to one of those 
 praying ladies who love flatten' so well they are jealous of it ; and 
 wert turned away for saying the same things to the old housekeeper 
 for sweetmeats, as you did to your lady ; for thou flattereat every- 
 thing 'and everybody alike. 
 
 Fid. You, dear sir, should not suspect the truth of what I say of 
 you, though to you. Fame, the old liar, is believed when she 
 speaks wonders of you : you cannot be flattered, sir, your merit is 
 unspeakable. 
 
 Man. Hold, hold, sir, or I shall suspect worse of you, that you 
 have been a cushion-bearer to some State hypocrite, and turned 
 away by the chaplains, for out-flattering their probation-sermons for 
 a benefice. 
 
 Fid. Suspect me for anything, sir, but the want of love, faith, and 
 duty to you, the bravest, worthiest of mankind ; believe me, I could 
 die for you, sir. 
 
 Man. Nay, there you lie, sir ; did not I see thce more afraid in 
 the fight than the chaplain of the ship, or the purser that bought 
 his place ? 
 
 Fid. Can he be said to be afraid, that ventures to sea with you ? 
 
 Man. Fie ! fie ! no more ; I shall hate thy flatter)- worse than thy 
 cowardice, nay, than thy bragging. 
 
 Fid. Well, I own then I was afraid, mightily afraid : yet for you 
 I would be afraid again, a hundred times nfraid. Dying is ceasing 
 to be afraid, and that I could do sure for you, and you'll believe me 
 one day. [/f-Vr/f, 
 
 Free. Poor youth ! believe his eyes, if not his tongue : he seem* 
 to speak truth with them.
 
 104 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT I. 
 
 Man. What, does he cry ? A plague on't ! a maudlin flatterer is 
 as nauseously troublesome as a maudlin drunkard. No more, you 
 little milksop, do not cry. I'll never make thee afraid again ; for of 
 all men, if I had occasion, thou shouldst not be my second ; and 
 when I go to sea again, thou shall venture thy life no more with me. 
 
 Fid. Why, will you leave me behind then? [Aside.] If you 
 would preserve my life, I'm sure you should not 
 
 Man. Leave thee behind ! ay, ay, thou art a hopeful youth for 
 the shore only. Here thou wilt live to be cherished by fortune and 
 the great ones ; for thou mayst easily come to out-flatter a dull poet, 
 outlie a coffee-house or gazette-writer, outswear a knight of the post, 
 outfawn a rook, outpromise a lover, outrail a wit, and outbrag a sea 
 captain : all this thou canst do, because thou'rt a coward, a thing 
 I hate ; therefore thou'lt do better with the world than with me, and 
 these are the good courses you must take in the world. There's 
 good advice, at least, at parting ; go, and be happy with't. 
 
 Fid. Parting, sir ! O let me not hear that dismal word. 
 
 Man. If my words frighten thee, begone the sooner; for to be 
 plain with thee, cowardice and I cannot dwell together. 
 
 Fid. And cruelty and courage never dwelt together sure, sir. Do 
 not turn me off to shame and misery, for I am helpless and 
 friendless. 
 
 Man. Friendless ! there are half a score friends for thee then. 
 \Offers fur gold.~\ I leave myself no more : they'll help thee a little. 
 Begone, go, I must be cruel to thee (if thou callest it so) out of pity. 
 
 Fid. If you would be cruelly pitiful, sir, let it be with your sword, 
 not gold. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter First SAILOR. 
 
 1 Sail. We have, with much ado, turned away two gentlemen, 
 who told us, forty times over, their names were Mr. Novel and 
 Major Oldfox. 
 
 Man. Well, to your post again. [Exit SAILOR.] But how come 
 those puppies coupled always together ? 
 
 Free. O, the coxcombs keep each other company, to show each 
 other, as Novel calls it ; or, as Oldfox says, like two knives, to whet 
 one another. 
 
 Man. And set other people's teeth on edge. 
 
 Re-enter Second SAILOR. 
 
 2 Sail. Here is a woman, an't like your honour, scolds and 
 bustles with us, to come in, as much as a seaman's widow at the 
 Navy office : her name is Mrs. Blackacre. 
 
 Man. That fiend too ! 
 
 Free. The widow Blackacre, is it not ? that litigious she petti- 
 fogger, who is at law and difference with all the world ; but I wish 
 I could make her agree with me in the church. They say she has 
 fifteen hundred pounds a year jointure, and the care of her son, 
 that is, the destruction of his estate.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 105 
 
 Man. Her lawyers, attorneys, and solicitors, have fifteen hundred 
 pounds a year, whilst she is contented to be poor, to make other 
 people so. For she is as vexatious as her father was, the great at- 
 torney, nay, as a dozen Norfolk attorneys, and as implacable an 
 adversary as a wife suing for alimony, or a parson for his tithes ; 
 and she loves an Easter term, or any term, not as other country 
 ladies do, to come up to be fine, and take their pleasure ; for she has 
 no pleasure but in vexing others. When she is in town, she lodges 
 in one of the inns of Chancery, where she breeds her son, and is 
 herself his tutoress in law French ; and for her country abode, 
 though she has no estate there, she chooses Norfolk. But, bid her 
 come in, with a plague to her ! she is Olivia's kinswoman, and may 
 make me amends for her visit, by some discourse of that dear 
 woman. [E.rit SAILOR. 
 
 Enter WIDOW BLACKACRE with a mantle, and a green bag, and 
 several papers in the other hand: JERRY BLACKACRE, in a gown, 
 laden with green bags, following her. 
 
 Wid. I never had so much to do with a judge's doorkeeper as 
 with yours ; but 
 
 Man. But the incomparable Olivia, how does she since I went ? 
 
 Wid. Since you went, my suit 
 
 Man. Olivia, I say, is she well ? 
 
 Wid. My suit, if you had not returned 
 
 Man. Plague on your suit ! how does your cousin Olivia ? 
 
 Wid. My suit, I say, had been quite lost ; but now 
 
 Man. But now, where is Olivia ? in town ? for 
 
 Wid. For to-morrow we are to have a hearing. 
 
 Man. Would you would let me have a hearing to-day ! 
 
 Wid. But why won't you hear me ? 
 
 Man. I am no judge, and you talk of nothing but suits ; but, pray 
 tell me, when did you see Olivia ? 
 
 Wid. I am no visitor, but a woman of business ; or if I ever visit, 
 'tis only the Chancery-lane ladies, ladies towards the law ; and not 
 any of your lazy, good-for-nothing flirts, who cannot read law-French, 
 though a gallant writ it. But, as I was telling you, my suit 
 
 Man. Out upon these impertinent vexatious people of business, 
 of all sexes ! they are still troubling the world with the tedious 
 recitals of their lawsuits ; and one can no more stop their mouths 
 than a wit's when he talks of himself, or an intelligencer's when he 
 talks of other people. 
 
 Wid. And a plague of all vexatious, impertinent lovers ! they are 
 still perplexing the world with the tedious narrations of their love- 
 suits, and discourses of their mistresses ! You are as troublesome 
 to a poor widow of business, as a young coxcombly rhyming lover. , 
 
 Man. And thou art as troublesome to me, as a rook to a losing 
 gamester, or a young putter of cases to his mistress or sempstress, 
 who has love in her head for another.
 
 io6 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT I. 
 
 Wid. Nay, since you talk of putting of cases, and will not hear 
 me speak, hear our Jerry a little ; let him put our case to you, for 
 the trials, to-morrow ; and since, you are my chief witness, 1 would 
 have your memory refreshed and your judgment informed, that you 
 may not give your evidence improperly. Speak out, child. 
 
 Jer. Yes, forsooth- Hem ! hem ! John-a-Stiles 
 
 Man. You may talk, young lawyer, but I shall no more mind you, 
 than a hungry judge does a cause after the clock has struck one. 
 
 Free. Nay, you'll find him as peevish too. 
 
 Wid. No matter. Jerry, go on. Do you observe it then, sir ; 
 for I think I have seen you in a gown once. Lord, I could hear our 
 Jerry put cases all day long. Mark him, sir. 
 
 Jer. John-a-Stiles no there are first, Fitz, Pere, and Ayle, 
 no, no, Ayle, Pere, and Fitz ; Ayle is seised in fee of Blackacre ; 
 John-a-Stiles disseises Ay^ e '> Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor 
 dies ; then the Ayle no, the Fitz 
 
 Wid. No, the Pere, sirrah. 
 
 Jer. Oh. the Pere ! ay, the Pere, sir, and the Fitz no, the Ayle, 
 no, the Pere and the Fitz, sir, and 
 
 Man. Damn Pere, Mere, and Fitz, sir ! 
 
 Wid. No, you are out, child. Hear me, captain, then. There 
 are Ayle, Pere, and Fitz ; Ayle is seised in fee of Blackacre ; and, 
 being so seised, John-a-Stiles disseises the Ayle, Ayle makes claim, 
 and the disseisor dies ; and then the Pere re-enters, the Pere, sirrah, 
 the Pere {to JERRY,] and the Fitz enters upon the Pere, and the 
 Ayle brings his writ of disseisin in the post ; and the Pere brings 
 his writ of disseisin in the Pere, and 
 
 Man. Canst thou hear this stuff, Freeman ? I could as soon suffer 
 a whole noise of flatterers at a great man's leve"e in a morning ; but 
 thou hast servile complacency enough to listen to a quibbling 
 statesman in disgrace, nay, and be beforehand with him, in laughing 
 at his dull no-jest ; but I [Offering to go out. 
 
 Wid. Nay, sir, hold ! Where's the subpoena, Jerry ! I must 
 serve you, sir. You are required by this, to give your testi- 
 mony 
 
 Man. I'll be forsworn to be revenged on thee. 
 
 [Exit, throwing away (he subp&na. 
 
 Wid. Get you gone, for a lawless companion ! Come, Jerry, I 
 had almost forgot, we were to meet at the master's at three : let us 
 mind our business still, child. 
 
 Jer. Ay, forsooth, e'en so let's. 
 
 free. Nay, madam, now I would beg you to hear me a little, a 
 little of my business. 
 
 Wid. I have business of my own calls me away, sir. 
 
 free. My business would prove yours too, dear madam. 
 
 Wid. Yours would be some sweet business, I warrant. What! 
 'tis no Westminster Hall business ? would you have my advice ? 
 
 free. No, faith, 'tis a little Westminster Abbey business j I would 
 have your consent.
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 107 
 
 Wid. O fie, fie. sir ! to me such discourse, before my dear minor 
 there ! 
 
 fer. Ay, ay, mother, lie would be taking livery and seisin of your 
 jointure, by digging the turf; but I'll watch your waters, bully, 
 i'fac. Come away, mother. [Exit, hailing away his mother. 
 
 Re-enter FIDELIA. 
 
 Fid. Dear sir. you have pity ; beget but some in our captain 
 for me. 
 
 Free. Where is he. 
 
 Fid. Within, swearing as much as he did in the great storm, and 
 cursing you, and sometimes sinks into calms and sighs, and talks 
 of his Olivia. 
 
 Free. He would never trust me to see her. Is she handsome ? 
 
 Fid. No, if you'll take my word ; but I am not a proper judge, 
 
 Free. What is she ? 
 
 Fid. A gentlewoman, I suppose, but of as mean a fortune as 
 beauty ; but her relations would not suffer her to go with him to 
 Hie Indies ; and his aversion to this side of the world, together with 
 the late opportunity of commanding the convoy, would not let him 
 stay here longer, though to have her. 
 
 Free. He loves her mightily then. 
 
 Fid. Yes, so well, that the remainder of his fortune (I hear 
 about five or six thousand pounds) he has left her, in case he had 
 died by the way, or before she could prevail with her friends to 
 follow him, which he expected she should do, and has left be- 
 hind him his great bosom friend to be her convoy to him. 
 
 Free. What charms has she for him, if she be not handsome ? 
 
 Fid. He fancies her, I suppose, the only woman of truth and 
 sincerity in the world. 
 
 Free. No common beauty. I confess. 
 
 Fid. Or else sure he would not have trusted her with so great 
 a share of his fortune, in his absence, I suppose (since his late 
 loss) all he has. 
 
 Free. Why. has he left it in her own custody ? 
 
 Fid. I am told so. 
 
 Free. Then he has showed love to her, indeed, in leaving her, 
 like an old husband that dies as soon as he has made his wife a 
 good jointure. But I'll go into him, and speak for you, and know 
 more from him of his Olivia. [Exit. 
 
 Fid. His Olivia, indeed, his hr.ppy Olivia ! 
 Yet she was left behind, when I was with him : 
 But she was ne'er out of his mind or heart. 
 She has told him she loved him ; I have show'd it. 
 And durst not tell him so, till I had done, 
 Under this habit, such convincing acts 
 Of loving friendship for him, that through it 
 He first might find out both my sex and love ; 
 And, when I'd had him from his fair Olivia,
 
 loS THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT i. 
 
 And this bright world of artful beauties here, 
 
 Might then have hoped, he would have look'd on me, 
 
 Amongst the sooty Indians ; and I could, 
 
 To choose, there live his wife, where wives are forced 
 
 To live no longer when their husbands die ; 
 
 Nay, what's yet worse, to share 'em whilst they live 
 
 With many rival wives. But here he comes, 
 
 And I must yet keep out of his sight, not 
 
 To lose it for ever. [".'/. 
 
 Re-enter MANLY and FREEMAN. 
 
 Free. But pray what strange charms has she that could make 
 you love ? 
 
 Man. Strange charms indeed ! She is so perfect a beauty, that 
 art could not better it, nor affection deform it. Yet all this is 
 nothing. Her tongue, as well as face ne'er knew artifice ; nor ever 
 did her words or looks contradict her heart. She is all truth, and 
 hates the lying, masking, daubing world, as I do ; for which I love 
 her, and for which I think she dislikes not me. For she has often 
 shut out of her conversation for mine, the gaudy fluttering parrots 
 of the town, apes and echoes of men only, and refused their com- 
 mon-place pert chat, flatten- and submissions, to be entertained with 
 my sullen bluntness, and honest love ; and, last of all, swore to me, 
 since her parents would not suffer her to go with me, she would stay 
 behind for no other man ; but follow me without their leave, if not 
 to be obtained. Which oath 
 
 Free. Did you think she would keep? 
 
 Man. Yes ; for she is not (I tell you) like other women, but can 
 keep her promise, though she has sworn to keep it. But, that she 
 might the better keep it, I left her the value of five or six thousand 
 pounds ; for women's wants are generally the most importunate 
 solicitors to love or marriage. 
 
 Free. And money summons lovers more than beauty, and aug- 
 ments but their importunity, and their number ; so makes it the 
 harder for a woman to deny 'em. For my part, I am for the French 
 maxim : Jf you would have your female subjects loyal, keep 'em 
 poor. But, in short, that your mistress may not marry, you have 
 given her a portion. 
 
 Man. She had given me her heart first, and I am satisfied with 
 the security ; I can never doubt her truth and constancy. 
 
 Free. It seems you do, since you arc fain to bribe it with money. 
 But how come you to be so diffident of the man that says he loves 
 you, and not doubt the woman that says it ? 
 
 Man. I should, I confess, doubt the love of any other woman but 
 her, as I do the friendship of any other man but him I have trusted ; 
 but I have such proofs of their faith as cannot deceive me. 
 
 Free. Cannot ! 
 
 Man. Not but I know that generally no man can be a great 
 enemy but under the name of friend ; and if you are cheated in your
 
 SCENE i.> THE PLAIN DEALER. 109 
 
 fortune, 'tis your friend that does it, for your enemy is not made 
 your trustee : if your honour or good name be injured, 'tis your friend 
 that does it still, because your enemy is not believed against you. 
 Therefore, I rather choose to go where honest, downright barbarity 
 ;s professed, where men devour one another like generous hungry- 
 lions and tigers, not like crocodiles ; where they think the devil 
 white, of our complexion ; and I am already so far an Indian. But 
 if your weak faith doubts this miracle of a woman, come along with 
 me, and believe ; and thou wilt find her so handsome, that thou. 
 who art so much my friend, wilt have a mind to discover what her 
 faith and thine is to me. 
 
 When we're in love, the great adversity, 
 
 Our friends and mistresses at once we try. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. OLIVIA'S Lodging. 
 Enter OLIVIA, ELIZA and LETTICE. 
 
 Oliv. Ah, cousin, what a world 'tis we live in ! I am so weary 
 of it. 
 
 Eliza. Truly, cousin, I can rind no fault with it, but that we can- 
 not always live in't, for I can never be weary of it. 
 
 Oliv. O hideous ! you cannot be in earnest sure, when you say 
 you like the filth}' world. 
 
 Eliza. You cannot be in earnest, sure, when you say you dislike it. 
 
 Oliv. You arc a very censorious creature, I find. 
 
 Eliza. I must confess, 1 think we women as often discover where 
 we love by railing, as men when they lie by their swearing ; and the 
 world is but a constant keeping gallant, whom we fail not to quarrel 
 with when anything crosses us, yet cannot part with't for our hearts. 
 
 Let. A gallant indeed, madam, whom ladies first make jealous, 
 and then quarrel with it for being so ; for if, by her indiscretion, a 
 lady be talked of for a man, she cries presently, 'Tis a censorious 
 world! if by her vanity the intrigue be found out, 'Tis a frying 
 malicious world .' if by her over-fondness the gallant proves uncon- 
 stant, ''Tis afaiseworldf and if by her niggardliness the chamber- 
 maid tells, 'Tis a perfidious world! But that I'm sure, your ladyship 
 cannot say of the world yet, as bad as 'tis. 
 
 Oli'i 1 . But I may say, 'Tis a very impertinent world ! Hold your 
 peace. And, cousin, if the world be a gallant, 'tis such a one as 
 is my aversion. Pray name it no more. 
 
 Eliza. But is it possible the world, which has such variety of 
 charms for other women, can have none for you ? Let's see first, 
 what d'ye think of dressing and fine clothes ? 
 
 Oliv. Dressing! Fy, fy, 'tis my aversion [To LETTICE.] But 
 come hither, you dowdy ; mcthinks you might have opened this 
 toure better ; O hideous ! I cannot suffer it ! D've sec how't sits ?
 
 no THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 Eliza. Well enough, cousin, if dressing be your aversion. 
 
 Oliv. 'Tis so ; and for variety of rich clothes, they are more my 
 aversion. 
 
 Let. Ay, 'tis because your ladyship wears 'cm too long ; for in- 
 deed s, gown, like a gallant, grows one's aversion by having too 
 much of it. 
 
 Oliv. Insatiable creature ! I'll be sworn I have had this not 
 above three days, cousin, and within this month have made some 
 six r.>ore. 
 
 E!;~a. Then your aversion to 'em is not altogether so great. 
 
 Ofh'. Alas ! 'tis for my woman only I wear 'em, cousin. 
 
 L--i. If it be for me only, madam, pray do not wear 'em. 
 
 Eliza. But what d'ye think of visits balls ? 
 
 O/Z'T. Oh. I detest 'em ! 
 
 Eliza. Of plays ? 
 
 Oliv. I abominate 'em ; fikhy, obscene, hideous things ! 
 
 Eliza. What say you to masquerading in the winter, and Hyde- 
 park in the summer ? 
 
 Olir. Insipid pleasures I taste not. 
 
 Eliza. Nay, if you are for more solid pleasures, what think you 
 of a rich young husband!" 
 
 Oliv. 6 horrid ! marriage ! what a pleasure you have found out ! 
 I nauseate it of all tilings. 
 
 Let. But what does your ladyship think then of a liberal hand- 
 some young lever ? 
 
 Eliza. A handsome young fellow, you impudent! begone out of 
 my sight. Name a handsome young fellow to me ! foh ! a hideous 
 handsome young fellow I abominate ! \Spits. 
 
 Eliza. Indeed ! but let's see will nothing please you ? what d'ye 
 think of the Court ? 
 
 Olir. How, the Court ! the Court, cousin ! my aversion, my aver- 
 sion, my aversion of all aversions ! 
 
 Eliza. How, the Court ! where 
 
 Off?'. Where sincerity is a quality as much out of fashion and m 
 unprosperous asbashfulness : I could not laugh at a quibble, though 
 it were a fat privy councillor's, nor praise a lord's ill vrrses, though 
 I were myself the subject ; nor an old lady's young looks, though I 
 were her woman ; nor sit to a vain young smile-maker, though he 
 flattered me. In short, I could not glout upon a man when he 
 comes into a room, and laugh at him when he goes out ; I cannot 
 rail at the absent to flatter the standers-by ; I 
 
 Eliza. Wei!, but railing now is so common, that 'tis no more 
 malice, but the fashion ; and the absent think they are no more the 
 worse for being railed at, than the present think they're the better 
 for being flattered. And for the Court 
 
 Olh>. Nay, de not defend the Court ; for you'll make me rail at 
 it like a trusting citizen's widow. 
 
 J-'.liza. Or like a Holborn lady, who cor'.d not get in to the last 
 ball, or was out of countenance in the drawing-room the last Sunday
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 1 1 r 
 
 of her appearance there. For none rail at the Court but those who 
 cannot get into it, or else who are ridiculous when they are there ; 
 and I shall suspect you were laughed at when you were last there, 
 or would be a maid of honour. 
 
 Oliv. I a maid of honour ! To be a maid of honour were yet of 
 all things my aversion. 
 
 Eliza. In what sense am I to understand you? But, in fine, by 
 the word aversion, I'm sure* you dissemble; for I never knew 
 woman yet used it who did not. Come, our tongues belie our hearts 
 more than our pocket-glasses do our faces. But mcthinks we ought 
 to leave off dissembling, since 'tis grown of no use to us; for all 
 wise observers underbuild us novv-a-days, as they do dreams, alma- 
 nacks, and Dutch gazettes, by the contrary ; and a man no more 
 believes a woman, when she says she has an aversion for him, than 
 when she says she'll cry out. 
 
 Oliv. O filthy ! hideous ! Peace, cousin, or your discourse will 
 be my aversion ; and you may believe me. 
 
 Eliza. Yes ; for if anything be a woman's aversion, 'tis plain 
 dealing from another woman ; and perhaps that's your quarrel to 
 the world ; for that will talk, as your woman says. 
 
 Oliv. Talk ? not of me sure ; for what men do I converse with ? 
 what visits do I admit ? 
 
 E 'ntcr BOY. 
 
 Boy. Here's the gentleman to wait upon you, madam. 
 
 Oliv. On me ! you little unthinking fop ; d'ye know what you say ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, madam, 'tis the gentleman that comes every day to 
 you, who 
 
 Oliv. Hold your peace, you heedless little animal, and get you 
 gone. [Exit BOY.] This country boy, cousin, takes my dancing- 
 master, tailor, or the spruce milliner, for visitors. 
 
 Let. No, madam ; 'tis Mr. Novel, I'm sure, by his talking so 
 loud : I know his voice too, madam. 
 
 Oliv. You know nothing, you buffle-headed stupid creature you : 
 you would make my cousin believe I receive visits. But if it be 
 Mr. what did you call him ? 
 
 Let. Mr. Novel, madam ; he that 
 
 Oliv. Hold your peace ; I'll hear no more of him. But if it be 
 
 your Mr. (I cannot think of his name again) 1 suppose he has 
 
 followed my cousin hither. 
 
 Eliza. No, cousin, I will not rob you of the honour of the visit: 
 'tis to you, cousin ; for I know him not. 
 
 Oliv. Nor did 1 ever hear of him before, upon my honour, cousin ; 
 besides, han't I told you, that visits, and the business ot visits 
 flattery and detraction, are my aversion? D'ye think then 1 would 
 admit such a coxcomb as he is? who rather than not r.ul, will rail at 
 the dead, whom none speak ill of ; rather than not flatter, will flatter 
 the poets of the age, whom none v.iil ilattcr ; who affects novelty as 
 much as the fashion, and is as fantastical aj ch.-.n-c.uMe, and as
 
 U2 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 well known as the fashion ; who likes nothing but what is new, nay, 
 would choose to have his friend or his title a new one. In fine, he is 
 my aversion. 
 
 Eliza. I find you do know him, cousin ; at least, have heard of him. 
 
 Oliv. Yes, now I remember, I have heard of him. 
 
 Eliza. Well ; but since he is such a coxcomb, for heaven's 
 sake, let him not come up. Tell him, Mrs. Lettice, your lady is not 
 within. 
 
 Oliv. No, Lettice, tell him my cotisin is here, and that he may 
 come up. For notwithstanding I detest the sight of him, you may 
 like his conversation ; and though I would use him scurvily, I will 
 not be rude to you in my own lodging : since he has followed you 
 hither, let him come up, I say. 
 
 Eliza. Very fine ! pray let him go, I say, for me : I know him 
 not, nor desire it. Send him away, Mrs. Lettice. 
 
 Oliv. Upon my word, she shan't : I must disobey your com- 
 mands, to comply with your desires. Call him up, Lettice. 
 
 Eliza. Nay, 'III swear she shall not stir on that errand. 
 
 [Holds LETTICE. 
 
 Oliv. Well then, I'll call him myself for you, since you will have 
 it so. [Calls out at the door.'} Mr. Novel, sir, sir ! 
 
 Enter NOVEL. 
 
 NOT. Madam, I beg your pardon ; perhaps you were busy : I did 
 not think you had company with you. 
 
 Elisa. Yet he comes to me, cousin ! {Aside to OLIVIA. 
 
 Oliv. Chairs there. [ They sit. 
 
 Nov. Well ; but, madam, d'ye know whence I come now ? 
 
 Oliv. From some melancholy place, I warrant, sir, since they 
 have lost your good company. 
 
 Eliza. So! 
 
 Nov. From a place where they have treated me at dinner with so 
 much civility and kindness, a plague on them ! that I could hardly 
 get away to you, dear madam. 
 
 Oliv. You have a way with you so new and obliging, sir ! 
 
 Eliza. You hate flatter)', cousin ! {Apart to OLIVIA. 
 
 Nov. Nay, faith, madam, d'ye think my way new ? Then you 
 are obliging, madam. I must confess, I hate imitation, to do any- 
 thing like other people. All that know me do me the honour to say, 
 I am an original, faith. But, as I was saying, madam, I have been 
 treated to-day with all the ceremony and kindness imaginable at my 
 Lady Autumn's. But, the nauseous old woman at the upper end of 
 her table 
 
 Oliv. Revives the old Grecian custom, of serving in a death's 
 head with their banquets. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha ! fine, just, i'faith, nay, and new. 'Tis like eating 
 with the ghost in the Libertine : she would frighten a man from her 
 dinner with her hollow invitation, and spoil one's stomach
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 113 
 
 Oliv. To meat or women. I detest her hollow cherry cheeks : 
 she looks like an old coach new painted ; affecting an unseemly- 
 smugness, whilst she is ready to drop in pieces. 
 
 Eliza. You hate detraction, I see, cousin. [Apart to OLIVIA. 
 
 Noi'. But the silly old fury, whilst she affects to look like a 
 woman of this age, talks 
 
 Oliv. Like one of the last ; and as passionately as an old courtier 
 who has outlived his office. 
 
 Nov. Yes, madam ; but pray let me give you her character. Then 
 she never counts her age by the years, but 
 
 Oliv. 15y the masques she has lived to see. 
 
 Nov. Nay then, madam, J see you think a little harmless railing 
 too great a pleasure for any but yourself ; and therefore I've done. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, faith, you shall tell me who you had there at dinner. 
 
 Nov. If you would hear me, madam. 
 
 Oliv. Most patiently ; speak, sir. 
 
 Nov. Then, we had her daughter- - 
 
 Oliv. Ay, her daughter ; the very disgrace to good clothes, which 
 she always wears but to heighten her deformity, not mend it ; for 
 she is still most splendidly, gallantly ugly, and looks like an ill piece 
 of daubing in a rich frame. 
 
 Nov. So ! But have you done with her, madam ? and can you 
 spare her to me a little now ? 
 
 Oliv. Ay, ay, sir. 
 
 Nov. Then, she is like 
 
 Oliv. She is, you'd say, like a city bride ; the greater fortune, but 
 not the greater beauty, for her dress. 
 
 Nov. Well : yet have you done, madam ? Then she 
 
 Oliv. Then.she bestows as Unfortunately on her face all the graces 
 in fashion, as the languishing eye, the hanging or pouting lip. But 
 as the fool is never more provoking than when he aims at wit, the 
 ill-favoured of our sex are never more nauseous than when they 
 would be beauties, adding to their natural deformity the artificial 
 ugliness of affectation. 
 
 Eliza. So, cousin, I find one may have a collection of all one's 
 acquaintance's pictures as well at your house as at Mr. Lely's. Only 
 the difference is, there we find 'em much handsomer than they are, 
 and like ; here much uglier, and like : and vou are the first of the 
 profession of picture-drawing I ever knew without flatter)'. 
 
 Oliv. I draw after the life ; do nobody wrong, cousin. 
 
 Eliza. No, you hate flattery and detraction. 
 
 Oliv. But, Mr. Novel, who had you besides at dinner ? 
 
 Nov. Nay, the devil take me if I tell you, unless you will allow 
 me the privilege of railing in my turn. But, now I think on't, the 
 women ought to be your province, as the men are mine ; and you 
 must know we had him whom 
 
 Oliv. Him, whom 
 
 Nov. What, invading me already ? and giving the character 
 before vou know the man ?
 
 214 THE PLAIN DEALER, [ACT II. 
 
 El sa. No, that is not fair, though it be usual. 
 
 Oliv. I beg your pardon, Sir. Novel ; pray go on. 
 
 Nov. Then, I say, we had that familiar coxcomb who is at home 
 wheresoe'er he comes. 
 
 Oliv. Ay, that fool 
 
 Nov. Nay then, madam, your servant ; I'm gone. Taking the 
 fool out of one's mouth is worse than taking the bread out of one's 
 mouth. 
 
 Oliv. I've done ; your pardon, Mr. Novel : pray proceed. 
 
 Nov. I say, the rogue, that he may be the only wit in company, 
 will let nobody else talk, and- 
 
 Oliv. Ay, those fops who love to talk all themselves are of all 
 things my aversion. 
 
 Nov. Then you'll let me speak, madam, sure. The rogue. I say, 
 will force his jest upon you ; and I hate a jest that's forced upon a. 
 man, as much as a glass. 
 
 Eliza. Why, I hope, sir, he does not expect a man of your tem- 
 perance in jesting should do him reason ? 
 
 Nov. What ! interruption from this side too ? I must then 
 
 {Offers to rise. OLIVIA holds Mm. 
 
 Oliv. No, sir. You must know, cousin, that fop he means, 
 though he talks only to be commended, will not give you leave to do't. 
 
 Nov. But, madam 
 
 Oliv. He a wit ! Hang him ; he's only an adopter of straggling 
 jests and fatherless lampoons ; by the credit of which he eats at 
 good tables, and so, like t^ie barren beggar-woman, lives by bor- 
 rowed children. 
 
 Nov. Madam 
 
 Oliv. And never was author of anything but his news ; but that 
 is still all his own. 
 
 Nov. Madam, pray 
 
 Oliv. An eternal babbler ; and makes no more use of his ears, 
 than a man that sits at a play by his mistress, or in Fop-corner. 
 He's, in fine, a base detracting fellow, and is my aversion. But 
 who else, prithee Mr. Novel, was there with you ? Nay, you 
 shan't stir. 
 
 Nov. I beg your pardon, madam ; I cannot stay in any place 
 where I'm not allowed k little Christian liberty of railing. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, prithee Mr. Novel, stay ; and though you should rail at 
 me, I would hear you with patience. Prithee, who else was tiicre 
 with you ? 
 
 Nov. Your servant, madam. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, prithee tell us, Mr. Novel, prithee do. 
 
 Nov. We had nobody else. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, faith. I know you had. Come, my Lord Plausible 
 was there too: who is, cousin, a 
 
 Eliza. You need not tell me what he is, cousin ; for I know him 
 to be a civil, good-natured, harmless gentleman, that speaks well ot 
 all the world, and is always in good humour; and
 
 SCENE i. j THE PLAIN DEALER. 115 
 
 Oliii. Hold, cousin, hold ; I hate detraction. But I must tell you, 
 cousin, his civility is cowardice, his good nature want of wit ; and 
 he has neither courage nor sense to rail ; and for his being always 
 in humour, 'tis because he is never dissatisfied with himself. In 
 fine, he is my aversion ; and I never admit his visrts beyond my hall. 
 
 Nov. No, he visit you ! The cringing, grinning rogue ! if I should 
 sec him coming up to you, I would make bold to kick him down 
 again. Ha ! 
 
 Enter my LORD PLAUSIBLE. 
 
 My dear lord, your most humble servant. 
 
 [Rises and salutes PLAUSIBLE, and kisses him. 
 
 Eliza. So, I find kissing and railing succeed each other with the 
 angry men as well as with the angry women ; and their quarrels 
 are like love-quarrels, since absence is the only cause of them ; for 
 as soon as the man appears again, they are over. \Aside. 
 
 Plaus. Your most faithful humble servant, generous Mr. Novel. 
 And, madam, I am your eternal slave, and kiss your fair hands ; 
 which I had done sooner, according to your commands, but 
 
 Oliv. No excuses, my lord. 
 
 Eliza. What, you sent for him, then, cousin ? [Afiart to OLIVIA. 
 
 NOIL Ha ! invited ! [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. I know you must divide yourself; for your good company 
 is too general a good to be engrossed by any particular friend. 
 
 Plaits. O lord, madam, my company ! your most obliged, faithful, 
 humble servant. But I could have brought you good company 
 indeed ; for I parted at your door with two of the worthiest, bravest 
 men 
 
 Oliv. Who were they, my lord ? 
 
 Nov. Who do you call the worthiest, bravest men, pray? 
 
 Platis. O, the wisest, bravest gentlemen ! men of such honour 
 and virtue ! of such good qualities ? ah ! 
 
 Eliza. This is a coxcomb that speaks ill of all people a different 
 way, and libels everybody with dull praise, and commonly in the 
 wrong place ; so makes his panegyrics abusive lampoons. [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. But pray let me know who they were ? 
 
 Plans. Ah ! such patterns of heroic virtue ! such 
 
 N(>v. Well ; but who were they ? 
 
 Plans. The honour of our nation ! the glory of our age ! Ah, I 
 could dwell a twelvemonth on their praise; which indeed I might 
 spare by telling their names ; Sir John Current and Sir Richard 
 Court-Title. 
 
 Nov. Court-Title ! ha ! lin ' 
 
 Oliv. And Sir John Current ! Why will you keep such a wretch 
 company, my lord ? 
 
 Plaus. O madam, seriously you arc n little too severe : for he is 
 a man of unquestioned reputation in everything. 
 
 Oliv. Yes, because he endeavours only with the women to pass 
 for a man of cour.icre. and with the bullies for a wit: with the wits
 
 ii6 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT H. 
 
 for a man of business, and with the men of business for a favourite 
 at Court ; and at Court for city security. 
 
 Nov. And for Sir Richard, he 
 
 Plaus. He loves your choice picked company, persona that 
 
 Oliv. He loves a lord indeed ; but 
 
 No v. Pray, dear madam, let me have but a bold stroke or two at 
 his picture. He loves a lord, as you say, though 
 
 Oliv. Though he borrowed his money, and ne'er paid him 
 again. 
 
 Nm>. And would bespeak a place three days before at the back- 
 end of a lord's coach to Hyde Park. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, i'faith, i'faith, you are both too severe. 
 
 Oliv. Then to show yet more his passion for quality, he makes 
 fove to that fulsome coach-load of honour, my Lady Goodly, for he ; s 
 always at her lodging. 
 
 Plaus. Because it is the conventicle-gallant, the meeting-house of 
 all the fair ladies, and glorious superfine beauties of the town. 
 
 Nov. Very fine ladies ! there's first 
 
 Ohv. Her honour, as fat as a hostess. 
 
 Plaus. She is something plump indeed, a goodly, comely, grace- 
 ful person. 
 
 Nov. Then there's my lady Frances what d'ye call her? as 
 
 ugly 
 
 Oliv. As a citizen's lawfully begotten daughter. 
 
 Plaus. She has wit in abundance, and the handsomest heel, 
 elbow, and tip of an ear you ever saw. 
 
 Nov. Heel and elbow! ha! ha! And there's my lady Betty, 
 you know 
 
 Oliv. As sluttish and slatternly as an Irish woman bred in 
 France. 
 
 Plaus. Ah ! all she has hangs with a loose air indeed, and be- 
 coming negligence. 
 
 Eliza. You see all faults with lovers' eyes, I find, my lord. 
 
 Plaus. Ah, madam, your most obliged, faithful, humble servant 
 to command ! But you can say nothing sure against the superfine 
 mistress 
 
 Oliv. I know who you mean. She is as censorious and detracting 
 a jade as a superannuated sinner. 
 
 Plaus. She has a smart way of raillery, 'tis confessed. 
 
 Nov. And then for Mrs. Grideline 
 
 Plaus. She, I'm sure, is 
 
 Oliv. One that never spoke ill of anybody, : tis confessed. For 
 she is as silent in conversation as a country lover, and no better 
 company than a clock, or a weather-glass ; for if she sounds, 'tis but 
 once an hour to put you in mind of the time of day, or to tell you 
 'twill be cold or hot, rain or snow. 
 
 Plaus. Ah, poor creature ! she's extremely good and modest. 
 
 Nov. And for Mrs. Bridlechin, she's 
 
 Oliv. As oroud as a churchman's wife.
 
 SCEMEI.] THE PLAIN DEALER. it; 
 
 Plaus. She's a woman of great spirit and honour, and will not 
 make herself cheap, 'tis true. 
 
 Nov. Then Mrs. Hoyden, that calls all people by their surnames, 
 and is 
 
 Oliv. As familiar a duck 
 
 Nov. As an actress in the tiring-room. There I was once before- 
 hand with you, madam. 
 
 Plaus. Mrs. Hoyden ! a poor, affable, good-natured soul. But the 
 divine Mrs. Trifle comes thither too. Sure her beauty, virtue, and 
 conduct, you can say nothing to. 
 
 Oliv. No! 
 
 Nov. No ! Pray let me speak, madam. 
 
 Oliv. First, can any one be called beautiful that squints ? 
 
 Plaus. Her eyes languish a little, 1 own. 
 
 Nov. Languish ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Oliv. Languish ! Then, for her conduct, she was seen at the 
 Country Wife* after the first day. There's for you, my lord. 
 
 Plaus. But, madam, she was not seen to use her fan all the play 
 long, turn aside her head, or by a conscious blush discover more 
 guilt than modesty. 
 
 Oliv. Very fine ! Then you think a woman modest that sees 
 the hideous Country Wife without blushing, or publishing her 
 detestation of it ? D'ye hear him, cousin ? 
 
 Eliza. Yes, and am, I must confess, something of his opinion ; 
 and think, that as an over-conscious fool at a play, by endeavouring 
 to show the author's want of wit, exposes his own to more censure, 
 so may a lady call her own modesty in question, by publicly cavil- 
 ling with the poet's. For all those grimaces of honour and artificial 
 modesty disparage a woman's real virtue, as much as the use of 
 white and red does the natural complexion ; and you must use 
 very, very little, if you would have it thought your own. 
 
 Oliv. Then you would have a woman of honour with passive 
 looks, ears, and tongue, undergo all the hideous obscenity she 
 hears at nasty plays. 
 
 Eliza. Truly, I think a woman betrays her want of modesty, by 
 showing it publicly in a playhouse, as much as a man docs his want 
 of courage by a quarrel there ; for the truly modest and stout say 
 least, and are least exceptious, especially in public. 
 
 Oliv. O hideous, cousin ! thi- cannot be your opinion. But you 
 are one of those who have the confidence to pardon the filthy play. 
 
 Eliza. Why, what is there of ill in't, say you ? 
 
 Olh>. O fy ! fy ! fy ! would you put me to the blush anew ? call 
 all the blood into my face again ? But to satisfy you then ; first, 
 the clandestine obscenity in the very name of Horntr. 
 
 Eliza. Truly, 'tis so hidden I cannot find it out, 1 confess. 
 
 Oliv. O horrid ! Does it not give you the rank conception or 
 image of a goat, or town-bull, or a satyr ? 
 
 * A 1'lav of Wvclierlev's.
 
 Ii8 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 Eliza. What then? I can think of a goat, a bull, or a satyr, 
 without any hurt. 
 
 O//V. Ay ; but cousin, one cannot stop there. 
 Eliza. I can, cousin. 
 
 Oliv. O no ; for when you have those filthy creatures in your 
 head once, the next thing you think, is what they do. Nay, 
 
 further 
 
 Eliza. Nay, no farther, cousin. We have enough of your com- 
 ment on the play, which will make me more ashamed than the play 
 itself. 
 
 Oliv. O, believe me, 'tis a filthy play ! and you may take my 
 word for a filthy play as soon as another's. But the filthiest thing in 
 that play, or any other play, is 
 
 Eliza. Pray keep it to yourself, if it be so. 
 
 Oliv. No, faith, you shall know it ; I'm resolved to make you out 
 of love with the play. I say, the lewdest, filthiest thing is his 
 china ; nay, I will never forgive the beastly author his china. He 
 has quite taken away the reputation of poor china itself, and sullied 
 the most innocent and pretty furniture of a lady's chamber; inso- 
 much that I was fain to break all my defiled vessels. You see I 
 have none left ; nor you, I hope. 
 
 Eliza. You'll pardon me, I cannot think the worse of my china 
 for that of the playhouse. 
 
 Oliv. Why, you will not keep any now, sure ! 'Tis now as unfit 
 an ornament for a lady's chamber as the pictures that come from 
 Italy and other hot countries ; as appears by their nudities, which I 
 always cover, or scratch out, wheresoe'er I find 'em. But china! 
 out upon't, filthy china ! nasty, debauched china ! 
 
 Eliza. All this will not put me out of conceit with china, nor the 
 play, which is acted to-day, or another of the same beastly author's, 
 as you call him, which I'll go see. 
 
 OTiv. You will not, sure ! nay, you shall not venture your reputa- 
 tion by going, and mine by leaving me alone with two men here : 
 
 nay, you'll disoblige me for ever, if [Pulls her back. 
 
 Eliza. I stay ! your servant. [Exit. 
 
 Oliv. But what think you, Mr. Novel, of the play? though I 
 know you are a friend to all that arc new. 
 
 Nov. Faith, madam, I must confess, the new plays would not be 
 the worse for my advice, but I could never get the silly rogues, 
 the poets, to mind what I say ; but I'll tell you what counsel I gave 
 the surly fool you spake of. 
 Oliv. 'What was't? 
 
 Nov. Faith, to put his play into rhyme ; for rhyme, you know, 
 often makes mystical nonsense pass with the critics for wit, and a 
 double-meaning saying with the ladies, for soft, tender, and moving 
 passion. But now I talk of passion, I saw your old lover this 
 morning Captain {Whispers.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 119 
 
 Enter MANLY, FREEMAN, and FIDELIA, standing behind, 
 
 Oliv. Whom ? nay, you need not whisper. 
 
 Man. We are luckily got hither unobserved. How ! in a close 
 conversation with these supple rascals, the outcasts of sempstresses' 
 shops ! 
 
 Free. Faith, pardon her, captain, that, since she could no longer 
 be entertained with your manly bluntnessand honest love, she takes 
 up with the pert chat and common-place flattery of these fluttering 
 parrots of the town, apes and echoes of men only. 
 
 Man. Do not you, sir, play the echo too, mock me, dally with 
 my own words, and show yourself" as impertinent as they are. 
 
 Free. Nay, captain 
 
 Fid. Nay, lieutenant, do not excuse her ; methinks she looks 
 very kindly upon 'em both, and seems to be pleased with what that 
 fool there says to her, 
 
 Man. You lie, sir ! and hold your peace, that I may not be pro- 
 voked to give you a worse reply. 
 
 Oliv. Manly returned, d'ye say ! and is he safe ? 
 
 Nov . My lord saw him too. Hark you, my lord. 
 
 {Whispers to PLAUSIBLE. 
 
 Man. She yet seems concerned for my safety, and perhaps they 
 are admitted now here but for their news of me : for intelligence 
 indeed is the common passport of nauseous fools, when they go 
 their round of good tables and houses. \_Aside. 
 
 Oliv. I heard of his fighting only, without particulars, and confess 
 I always loved his brutal courage, because it made me hope it 
 might rid me of his more brutal love. 
 
 Man, What's that ? {Aside. 
 
 Oliv. But is he at last returned, d'ye say, unhurt? 
 
 Nov. Ay, faith, without doing his business ; for the rogue has 
 been these two years pretending to a wooden leg, which he would 
 take from fortune, as kindly as the staff of a marshal of France, and 
 rather read his name in a gazette 
 
 Oliv. Than in the entail of a good estate. 
 
 Man. So! [Aside. 
 
 Nov. I have an ambition, I must confess, of losing my heart 
 before such a fair enemy as yourself, madam ; but that silly rogues 
 should be ambitious of losing their arms, and 
 
 Oliv. Looking like a pair of compasses. 
 
 Nov. But he lias no use of his arms but to set 'em on kimbow, for 
 he never pulls off his hat, at least not to me, I'm sure ; for you must 
 know, madam, he has a fanatical haired to good company : he cau : t 
 abide me. 
 
 Plans. O, be not so severe to him, as to say he hates good com- 
 pany ; for I assure you he has a great respect, esteem and kindness 
 for me. 
 
 Man. That kind, civil rogue has spoken yet ten thousand times 
 worse of me than t'other. [Asith.
 
 120 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT n. 
 
 Oliv. Well, if he be returned, Mr. Novel, then shall I be pestered 
 again with his boisterous sea-love ; have my alcove smell like a 
 cabin, my chamber perfumed with his taupaulin Brandenburgh ; and 
 hear volleys of brandy-sighs, enough to make a fog in one's room. 
 Foh ! I hate a lover that smells like Thames Street. 
 
 Man. [_tisidi:'} I can bear no longer, and need hear no more. 
 [7f OLIVIA.] But since you have these two pulvillio boxes, these 
 essence-bottles, this pair of musk-cats here, 1 hope I may venture 
 to come yet nearer you. 
 
 Oliv. Overheard us then ! 
 
 Nov. I hope he heard me not. [Aside. 
 
 Plans. Most noble and heroic captain, your most obliged, faithful, 
 humble servant. 
 
 Nov. Dear tar, thy humble servant. 
 
 Man. Away \ XT/trusts NOVEL and PLAUSIBLE on each side.] 
 Maciam 
 
 Oliv. Nay, I think I have fitted you for listening. 
 
 Man. You have fitted me for believing you could not be fickle, 
 though you were young ; could not dissemble love, though 'twas 
 your interest ; nor be vain, though you were handsome ; nor break 
 your promise, though to a parting lover ; nor abuse your best friend, 
 though you had wit ; but I take not your contempt of me worse 
 than your esteem, or civility for these things here, though you 
 know : em. 
 
 Nov. Things! 
 
 Plaus. Let the captain rally a little. 
 
 Man. Ye^, things .' Canst thou be angry, thou thing? 
 
 [Coming up to NOVEL. 
 
 Nov. No, since my lord says you speak in raillery ; for though 
 your sea-raillery be something rough, yet, I confess, we use one 
 another too as bad every- day at Locket's, and never quarrel for the 
 matter. 
 
 Plans. Nay, noble captain, be not angry with him. A word with 
 you, I beseech you [ Whispers to MANLY. 
 
 Oliv. Well, we women, like the rest of the cheats of the world, 
 when our creditors have found us out, and will or can trust no 
 longer, pay debts and satisfy obligations with a quarrel, the kindest 
 present a man can make to his mistress, when he can make no more 
 presents. For oftentimes in love, as at cards, we^ire forced to play 
 foul, only to give over the game ; and use our lovers like the cards, 
 when we can get no more by them, throw 'em up in a pet upon the 
 first dispute. [Aside. 
 
 Man. My lord, all that you have made me know by your whisper- 
 ing, which I knew not before, is, that you have a stinking breath ; 
 there's a secret for your secret. 
 
 Plaus. Pshaw ! pshaw ! 
 
 Man. But, madam, tell me, pray, what was't about this spark 
 could take you ? Was it the merit of his fashionable impudence ; 
 the briskness of his noise, the wit of his laugh, his judgment, or fancy
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 121 
 
 in his garniture ? or was it a well-trimmed glove, or the scent of it, 
 that charmed you ? 
 
 Nov. Very well, sir : 'gad these sea-captains : . .lie nothing of 
 dressing. But let me tell you, sir, a man by his dress, as much as 
 by anything, shows his wit and judgment ; nay, and his courage too. 
 
 Free. How, his courage, Mr. Novel ? 
 
 Nov. Why, for example, by red breeches, tucked-up hair or peruke, 
 a greasy broad belt, and now-a-days a short sword. 
 
 Man. Thy courage will appear more by thy belt than thy sword, 
 I dare swear. Then, madam, for this gentle piece of courtesy, this 
 man of tame honour, what could you find in him ? Was it his 
 languishing affected tone? his mannerly look? his second-hand 
 flattery ? the refuse of the playhouse tiring-rooms ? or his slavish 
 obsequiousness in watching at the door of your box at the playhouse, 
 for your hand to your chair ? or his jaunty way of playing with your 
 fan ? or was it the gunpowder spot on his hand, or the jewel in his 
 ear, that purchased your heart ? 
 
 Oliv. Good jealous captain, no more of your 
 
 Plaus. No, let him go on, madam, for perhaps he may make you 
 laugh ; and I would contribute to your pleasure any way. 
 
 Man. Gentle rogue ! 
 
 Oliv. No, noble captain, you cannot sure think anything could 
 take me more than th.it heroic title of yours, captain ; for you know 
 we women love honour inordinately. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha ! faith, she is with thee, bully, for thy raillery. 
 
 Man. Faith, so shall I be with you, no bully, for your grinning. 
 
 [Aside to NOVEL. 
 
 Oliv. Then that noble lion-like mien of yours, that soldier-like, 
 weather-beaten complexion, and that manly roughness of your 
 voice ; how can they otherwise than charm us women, who hate 
 effeminacy ! 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha ! faith I can't hold from laughing. 
 
 Man. Nor shall I from kicking anon. [Aside to NOVEL. 
 
 Oliv. And then, that captain-like carelessness in your dress, but 
 especially your scarf ; 'twas just such another, only a little higher 
 tied, made me in love with my tailor as he passed by my window 
 the last training-day ; for we women adore a martial man, and you 
 have nothing wanting to make you more one, or more agreeable, 
 but a wooden leg. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, i'faith, there your ladyship was a wag, and it was 
 fine, just, and well rallied. 
 
 Nov. Ay, ay, madam, with you ladies too, martial men must 
 needs be very killing. 
 
 Man. Peace, you Bartholomew-fair buffoons ! And be not you 
 vain that these laugh on your side, for they will laugh at their own 
 dull jests ; but no more of 'em, for I will only suffer now this lady 
 to be witty and merry. 
 
 Oliv. You would not have your panegyric interrupted. I ^u on 
 then to your humour. Is there anything more agreeable than the
 
 122 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 pretty sullenncss of that ? than the greatness of your courage, which 
 most of all appears in your spirit of contradiction ? for you dare 
 give all mankind the lie ; and your opinion is your only mistress, 
 for you renounce that too, when it becomes another man's. 
 
 Nm>. Ha ! ha ! I cannot hold, I must laugh at thee, tar. faith ! 
 
 Plaus. And i'faith, dear captain, I beg your pardon, and leave to 
 laugh at you too, though I protest I mean you no hurt ; but when a 
 lady rallies, a stander-by must be complaisant, and do her reason 
 in laughing. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Man. Why. you impudent, pitiful wretches, you presume sure 
 upon your effeminacy to urge m ; for you are in all things so like 
 women, that you may think it in me a kind of cowardice to beat 
 you. 
 
 Oh'z'. No hectoring, good captain. 
 
 Man. Or, perhaps, you think this lady's presence secures you ; 
 but have a care, she has talked herself out of all the respect I had 
 for her ; and by using me ill before you. has given me a privilege of 
 using you so before her ; but if you would preserve your respect to 
 her, and not be beaten before her, go, begone immediately. 
 
 Nov. Begone ! what ? 
 
 Plaus. Nay, worthy, noble, generous, captain 
 
 Man. Begone, I say ! 
 
 Nov. Begone again ! to us begone ! 
 
 Man. No chattering, baboons, instantly begone, or 
 
 [Puts them out of the room : NOVEL struts, PLAUSIBLE cringes. 
 
 Nov. Well, madam, we'll go make the cards ready in your bed- 
 chamber : sure you will not stay long with him. 
 
 [Exeunt PLAUSIHLE and NOVEL. 
 
 Oli-'. Turn hither your rage, good Captain Swaggerhuff, and be 
 saucy with your mistress, like a true captain ; but be civil to your 
 rivals and betters, and do not threaten anything but me here ; no, 
 not so much as my windows ; nor do not think yourself in the 
 lodgings of one of your suburb mistresses beyond the Tower. 
 
 Man. Do not give me cause to think so ; for those less infamous 
 women part with their lovers, just as you did from me, with unforced 
 vows of constancy and floods of willing tears ; but the same winds 
 bear away their lovers and their vows ; and for their grief, if the 
 credulous unexpected tools return, they find new comforters, such 
 as I found here. The mercenary love of those women too suffers 
 shipwreck with their gallants' fortunes ; now vou have heard chance 
 has used me scurvily, therefore you do too. Well, persevere in your 
 ingratitude, falsehood, and disdain ; have constancy in something, 
 and I promise you to be as just to your real scorn as I was to your 
 feigned love ; and henceforward will despise, contemn, hate, loathe, 
 and detest you most faithfully. 
 
 Enter LETTICE. 
 
 Oliv. Get the ombre-cards ready in the next room, Lettice, 
 and [ Whispers to LETTtCE, who goes out.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 123 
 
 Free. Braveiy resolved, captaiu ! 
 
 Fid. And you'll be sure to keep your word, 1 hope, sir ? 
 
 Man. I hope so too. 
 
 Fid. Do you but hope it, sir? If you are not as good as your 
 word, 'twill be the first time you ever bragged, sure. 
 
 Man. She has restored my reason with my heart. 
 
 Free. But now you talk of restoring, captain, there are other 
 things, which next to one's heart one would not part with ; I mean 
 your jewels and money, which it seems she has, sir? 
 
 Man. What's that to you, sir ? 
 
 Free. Pardon me, whatsoever is yours I have a share in't I'm 
 sure, which I will not lose for asking, though you may be too 
 generous or too angry now to do't yourself. 
 
 Fid. Nay, then I'll make bold to make my claim, too. 
 
 [Both going towards OLIVIA. 
 
 Man. Hold, you impertinent, officious tops \/lsidc^\ How 
 
 have I been deceived ! 
 
 Free, Madam, there are certain appurtenances to a lover's, heart, 
 called jewels, which always go along with it. 
 
 Fid. And which, with lovers, have no value in themselves, but 
 from the heart they come with. Our captain's, madam, it seems 
 you scorn to keep, and much more will those worthless things with- 
 out it, I am confident. 
 
 Oliv. A gentleman so well made as you are may be confident 
 us easy women could not deny you anything you ask, if 'twere for 
 yourself; but, since 'tis for another, I beg your leave to give him 
 my answer. [A side ^\ An agreeable young fellow this and would 
 not be my aversion. [Aloud.] Captain, your young friend here 
 has a very persuading face, I confess ; yet you might have asked 
 me yourself for those trifles you* left with me, which (hark you a 
 little, for I dare trust you with the secret ; you are a man of so 
 much honour, I'm sure) I say then, not expecting your return, or 
 hoping ever to see you again, I have delivered your jewels to 
 
 Man. Whom? 
 
 Oliv. My husband. 
 
 Man. Your husband ? 
 
 Oliv. Ay, my husband. For since you could leave me, I am 
 lately and privately married to one, who is a man of so much honour 
 and experience in the world, that I dare not ask him for your jewels 
 again to restore 'em to you ; lest he should conclude you never 
 would have parted with 'em to me on any other score but the ex- 
 change of my honour ; which rather than you'd let me lose, you'd 
 lose I'm sure yourself, those trifles of yours. 
 
 Man. Triumphant impudence ! but married too ! 
 
 Oliv. O, speak not so loud, my servants know it not : I am mar- 
 ried ; there's no resisting one's destiny or love, you know. 
 
 Man. Why. did you love him too? 
 
 Oliv. Most passionately : nay, love him now, though I have mar- 
 ried him, and he me : which mutual love 1 hope you are loo good,
 
 124 1HE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT ri. 
 
 too generous a man to disturb, by any future claim, or visits to me. 
 Tis true, he is now absent in the country, but returns shortly : 
 therefore I beg of you, for your own ease and quiet, and my honour, 
 you will never see me more. 
 
 Man. 1 wish I had never seen you. 
 
 Oliv. But if you should ever have anything to say to me hereafter, 
 let that young gentleman there be your messenger. 
 
 Man. You would be kinder to him ; I find he should be welcome. 
 
 Oliv. Alas ! his youth would keep my husband from suspicions, 
 and his visits from scandal ; for we women may have pity for such 
 as he, but no love ; and I already think you do not well to spirit 
 him away to sea ; and the sea is already but too rich with the spoil 
 of the shore. 
 
 Man. True perfect woman ! If I could say anything more in- 
 jurious to her now, I would ; for I could out-rail a kicked coward ; 
 but now I think on't, that were rather to discover my love than 
 hatred ; and I must not talk, for something I must do. \Aside. 
 
 Olii'. I think I have given him enough of me now, never to be 
 troubled with him again. [Aside. 
 
 Re-enter LETTICE. 
 
 Well, Lettice, are the cards and all ready within ? I come then. 
 Captain, I beg your pardon : you will not make one at ombre ? 
 
 Man. No, madam, but I'll wish you a little good luck before you 
 go. 
 
 Oliv. No, if you would have me thrive, curse me : for that you'll 
 do heartily, I suppose. 
 
 Man. Then if you will have it so, may all the curses light upon 
 you women ought to fear, and you deserve ! First, may the curse 
 of loving play attend your sordid tovetousness, and fortune cheat 
 you, by trusting to her, as you have cheated me ; the curse of pride, 
 or a good reputation, fall on your lust ; the curse of affectation on 
 your beauty ; the curse of your husband's company on your plea- 
 sures ; and the curse of scorn, jealousy, or despair on your love; 
 and then the curse of loving on ! 
 
 Oliv. And to requite all your curses, I will only return you your 
 last ; may the curse of loving me still fall upon your proud hard 
 heart, tbat could be so cruel to me in these horrid curses ! but 
 Heaven forgive you ! [Exit. 
 
 Free. Well, you see now, mistresses, like friends, are lost by 
 letting 'em handle your money ; and most women are such kind of 
 witches, who can have no power over a man, unless you give 'em 
 money ; but when once they have got any from you, they never 
 leave you till they have all. Therefore I never dare give a woman 
 a farthing. 
 
 Man. Well, there is yet this comfort by losing one's money with 
 one's mistress, a man is out of danger of getting another ; of being 
 made prize again by love, who, like a pirate, takes you by spreading
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 125 
 
 false colours ; but when once you have run your ship aground, the 
 treacherous picaroon loofs ; so by your ruin you save yourself from 
 slavery at least. 
 
 Enter BOY. 
 
 Boy. Mrs. Lettice, here's Madam Blackacre come to wait upon 
 her honour. \_Exettnt LETTICE and BOY. 
 
 Man. D'ye hear that ? Let us begone before she comes : for 
 henceforward I'll avoid the whole sex for ever, and woman as a 
 sinking ship. [Exeunt MANLY and FIDELIA. 
 
 Free. And I'll stay, to revenge on her your quarrel to the sex ; 
 for out of love to her jointure, and hatred to business, I would 
 marry her, to make an end of her thousand suits, and my thousand 
 engagements, to the comfort of two unfortunate sort of people, my 
 plaintiffs and her defendants, my creditors and her adversaries. 
 
 Enter WIDOW BLACKACRE, led in by MAJOR OLDFOX, <7</ JERRY 
 BLACK ACRE following, laden with green bags. 
 
 Wid. 'Tis an arrant sea-ruffian ; but I am glad I met with him 
 at last, to serve him again, major ; for the last service was not good 
 in law. Boy, duck, Jerry, where is my paper of memorandums ? 
 Give me, child : so. Where is my cousin Olivia now, my kind 
 relation ? 
 
 Free. Here is one that would be your kind relation, madam. 
 
 Wid. What mean you, sir ? 
 
 Free. Why, faith (to be short), to marry you, widow. 
 
 Wid. Is not this the wild, rude person we saw at Captain Manly's ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, forsooth, an't please. 
 
 Wid. What would you ? What are you ? Marry me ! 
 
 Free. Ay, faith ; for I am a younger brother, and you are a 
 widow. 
 
 Wid. You are an impertinent person ; and go about your business. 
 
 Free. I have none, but to marry thee, widow. 
 
 Wid. But I have other business, I'd have you to know. 
 
 Free. But I'll make you pleasanter business than any you have ; 
 for the business, widow 
 
 Wid. Go, I'm sure you're an idle fellow. 
 
 Free. Try me but, widow, and employ me as you find my abilities 
 and industry. 
 
 Old. Pray be civil to the lady, Mr. ; she is a person of 
 
 quality, a person that is no person 
 
 Free. Yes, but she's a person that is a widow. Be you mannerly 
 to her, because you are to pretend only to be her squire, to arm her 
 to her lawyer's chambers ; but 1 will be impudent ; for she must 
 love and marry me. 
 
 li'id. Marry come up, you saucy familiar Jack! Gad forgive 
 me ! now-a-days, every idle, young, hectoring, roaring companion, 
 with a pair of turned red breeches, and a broad back, thinks to
 
 :26 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 carry away any widow ot the best degree. But I'd have you to 
 know, sir, all widows are not got, like places at Court, by impudence 
 and importunity only. 
 
 Old. No, no, soft, soft, you are a young man, and not fit 
 
 Free. For a widow ? yes sure, old man, the fitter, 
 
 Ohi. Go to, go to ; if others had not laid in their claims before 
 you 
 
 Free. Not you. I hope. 
 
 Old. Why not I, sir? sure 1 am a much more proportionable 
 match for her than you, sir ; I, who am an elder brother, of a com- 
 fortable fortune, and of equal years with her. 
 
 Wid. How's that, you unmannerly person ? I'd have you to 
 know, I was born in Ann' undc<? Caroli print. 
 
 Old. Your pardon, lady, your pardon ; be not offended with your 
 very humble servant But, I say, sir, you are a beggarly younger 
 brother, twenty years younger than her, without any land or stock, 
 bat your great stock of impudence ; therefore what pretension can 
 you have to her ? 
 
 Free. You have made it for me ; first, because I am a younger 
 brother. 
 
 Wid. Why, is that a sufficient plea to a relict ? how appears it, 
 sir? by what foolish custom? 
 
 Free. By custom time out of mind only. Then, sir, because I 
 have nothing to keep me after her death, I am the likelier to take" 
 care of her life. And for my being twenty years younger than her, 
 and having a sufficient stock of impudence, I leave it to her 
 whether they will be valid exceptions to me in her widow's law or 
 equity. 
 
 Old. Well, she has been so long in Chancery, that III stand to 
 her equity and decree between us. Come, lady, pray snap up this 
 young snap at first, or we shall be troubled with him. Give him a 
 city-widow's answer, that is, with all the ill-breeding imaginable. 
 \_Asiik to the Widow.] Come, madam. 
 
 Wid. Well then, to make an end of this foolish wooing, for 
 nothing internipts business more ; first, for you, major 
 
 Old. You declare in my favour, then ? 
 
 Free. What, direct the court ! Come, young lawyer, thou shall be 
 a counsel for me. [70 JERRY. 
 
 Jcr. Gad, I shall betray your cause then, as well as an older 
 lawyer ; never stir. 
 
 Wid. First, I say. for you, major, my walking hospital of an 
 ancient foundation ! tiiou bag of mummy, that wouklst fall asunder, 
 if 'twere not for cerecloths 
 
 Old. How, lady ! 
 
 Free. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jer. Hey, brave mother! use all suitors thus, for my sake. 
 
 Wid. Thou withered, hobbling, distorted cripple ; nay, thou art 
 n cripple all over ; wcv.ildst thou make me the staff of thy age. the 
 crutch of thy decrcpidness ? me
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 127 
 
 Free. Well said, widow ! Faith, thou wouldst make a man love 
 thee now, without dissembling. 
 
 Wid. Thou senseless, impertinent, quibbling, drivelling, feeble, 
 paralytic, nincompoop ! 
 
 Jer, Hey, brave mother, for calling of names, i : fac ! 
 
 Wid. Wouldst thou make a caudle-maker, a nurse of me ? can't 
 you be bedrid without a bedfellow ? won't your swan-skins, furs, 
 flannels, and the scorched trencher keep you warm there ? would 
 you have me your Scotch warming-pan ! me 
 
 Old. O heavens ! 
 
 Free. I told you I should be thought the fitter man, major. 
 
 Jer. Ay, you old fobus, and you would have been my guardian, 
 would you, to have taken care of my estate, that half oft should 
 never come to me, by letting long leases at peppercorn rents ? 
 
 Wid. If I would have married an old man, 'tis well known I 
 might have married an earl, nay, what's more, a judge, and been 
 covered the winter nights with the lamb-skins, which I prefer to 
 the ermines of nobles. And dost thou think I would wrong my 
 poor minor there for you ? 
 
 Free. Your minor is a chopping minor, God bless him ! 
 
 [StroKes JERRY on the head. 
 
 Old, Your minor may be a major of horse or foot, for his bigness : 
 and it seems you will have the cheating of your minor to yourself. 
 
 Wid. Pray, sir, bear witness ; cheat my minor ! Ill bring my 
 action of the case for the slander. 
 
 Free. Nay I would bear false witness for thee now, widow, since 
 you have done me justice, and have thought me the fitter man for 
 you. 
 
 Wid. Fair and softly, sir, 'tis my minor's case, more than my 
 own ; and I must do him justice now on you. 
 
 Free. How ! 
 
 Old. So then. 
 
 Wid. You are, first (I warrant), some renegado irom the inns of 
 court and the law ; and thou'lt come to suffer for"t by the law, that 
 is, be hanged. 
 
 Jer. Not about your neck, forsooth, I hope. 
 
 Free. But, madam 
 
 Old. Henr the Court. 
 
 Wid. Thou art some debauched, drunken, lewd, hectoring, 
 gaming companion, and wantcst some widow's old gold to nick 
 upon ; but I thank you, sir, that's for my lawyers. 
 
 Free. Faith, we should ne'er quarrel about that ; for guineas 
 would serve my turn. But, widow 
 
 Wid. Thou art a foul-mouthed boaster, a mere braggadocio, and 
 wilt belie thyself more than thou dost women, and art even- way a 
 base deceiver of women ; and would deceive me too, would you ? 
 
 Free. Nay, faith, widow, this is judging without seeing the 
 evidence. 
 
 Wid. I say, you are worn-out at livc-and-twenty, both in body
 
 I 2 8 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT It 
 
 and fortune ; and in fine, you are a cheating, cozening spendthrift ; 
 and having sold your own annuity, would waste my jointure. 
 
 Jcr. And make havoc of our estate personal, and all our gilt 
 plate ; I should soon be picking up all our mortgaged apostle- 
 spoons, bowls, and beakers, out of most of the ale-houses betwixt 
 Hercules-pillars and the Boatswain in Wapping ; nay, and you'd 
 be scouring amongst my trees, and make 'em knock down one 
 nnother, like routed, reeling watchmen at midnight j would you so, 
 bullv ? 
 
 Free. Nay, prithee, widow, hear me. 
 
 Wid. No, sir ; I'd have you to know, thou pitiful, paltry, lath- 
 backed fellow, if I would have married a young man, 'tis well known 
 I could have had any young heir in Norfolk, nay, the hopefullest 
 young man this day at the King's-bench bar ; I that am a relict and 
 executrix of known plentiful assets and parts, who understand my- 
 self .and the law. And would you have me under covert-baron 
 again ? No, sir, no covert-baron for me. 
 
 Free. But, dear widow, hear me. I value you only, not your 
 jointure. 
 
 Wid. Nay, sir, hold there ; I know your love to a widow is 
 covetousness of her jointure ; and a widow a little stricken in years, 
 with a good jointure, is like an old mansion-house in a good pur- 
 chase, never valued, but take one, take t'other ; and perhaps, when 
 you are in possession, you'd neglect it^ let it drop to the ground, lor 
 want of necessary repairs or expenses upon't. 
 
 Free. No, widow, one would be sure to keep all tight, when one 
 is to forfeit one's lease by dilapidation. 
 
 Wid. Fie, fie ! I neglect my business with this foolish discourse 
 of love. Jerry, child, let me sec the list of the jury ; I'm sure my 
 cousin Olivia has some relations amongst them. But where is she? 
 Free. Nay, widow, but hear me one word only. 
 Wid. Nay, sir, no more. pray. I will no more hearken to your 
 foolish love-motions, than to offers of arbitration. 
 
 {Exeunt WIDOW and JERRY. 
 
 Free. Well, I'll follow thee yet ; for he that has a pretension at 
 Court, or to a widow, must never give over for a little ill-usage. 
 
 Old, Therefore, I'll get her by assiduity, patience, and long suffer- 
 ings, which you will not undergo ; for you idle young fellows leave 
 off love when it comes to be business ; and industry gets more 
 women than love. 
 
 Free. Ay, industry, the fool's and old man's merit. But 111 be 
 industrious too, and make a business on't, and get her by law, 
 wrangling, and contests, and not by sufferings ; and, because you 
 are no dangerous rival, I'll give thee counsel, major : 
 If you litigious widow e'er would gain. 
 Sigh no: to her. but by the law complain. Exeunt.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DKA LER. 129 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE \.-Westminster Hall. 
 ' Enter MANLY and FREEMAN, two SAILORS behind. 
 
 Man. I hate this place worse than a. man that has inherited a 
 chancery suit : 1 wish I were well out on't again. 
 
 Free. Why, you need not be afraid of this place ; for a man with- 
 out money needs no more fear a. crowd of lawyers than a crowd of 
 pickpockets. 
 
 Man. This, the reverend of the law would have thought the 
 palace or residence of Justice ; but, if it be, she lives here with the 
 state of a Turkish emperor, rarely seen ; and besieged rather than 
 defended by her numerous black-guard here. 
 
 Free. Mcthinks 'tis like one of their own halls in Christmas time, 
 whither from all parts fools bring their money, to try by the dice 
 (not the worst judges) whether it shall be their own or no ; but after 
 a tedious fretting and wrangling, they drop away all their money on 
 both sides ; and, finding neither the better, at last go emptily and 
 lovingly away together to the tavern, joining their curses against 
 the young lawyer's box, that sweeps all, like the old ones. 
 Man. Spoken like a revelling Christmas lawyer. 
 Free. Yes, I was one, I confess, but was fain to leave the law, out 
 of conscience, and fall to making false musters : rather choose to 
 cheat the king than his subjects ; plunder rather than take fees. 
 
 Man. Well, a plague and a purse-famine light on the law ; and 
 that female limb of it who dragged me hither to-day ! But prithee 
 go see if, in that crowd of daggled gowns there ^pointing to a crowd 
 ^LAWYERS at the end of the stage\ thou canst find her. 
 
 [Ex-it FREEMAN. 
 How hard it is to be a hypocrite ! 
 At least to me, who am but newly so. 
 I thought it once a kind of knavery, 
 Nay, cowardice, to hide one's fault ; but now 
 The common frailty, love, becomes my shame. 
 He must not know I love the ungrateful still, 
 Lest he contemn me more than she ; for I, 
 It seems, can undergo a woman's scorn, 
 But not a man's 
 
 l-'nlcr F l r>K Li A. 
 
 Fid. Sir, good sir, generous captain. 
 
 Man. Prithee, kind impertinence, leave me. Why should--- thou 
 follow me, flatter my generosity now. since thou knowcst I h.;\c r.'j 
 money left ? if I had it. I'd give it thee, to buy my quiet. 
 
 Fid. I never followed yet, sir, reward or fame, but you alone ; 
 nor do I now beg anything but leave to share your miseries. You 
 
 L
 
 HO THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 should not be a niggard of 'cm, since, methinks, you have enough 
 to spare. Let me follow you now, because you hate me, as you 
 h.ivc often sai'.i. 
 
 Man. I ever hated a coward's company, I must confess. 
 
 Fid. Let me follow you till I am none, then ; for you, I'm sure, 
 will go through surh worlds of dangers, that, I shall be inured to 
 : em ; nay, I shall be afraid of your anger more than danger, and so 
 turn valiant out 01 fear. Dear captain, do not cast me off till you 
 have tried me once more ; do not, do not go to sea again without 
 me. 
 
 Man. Thou to sea ! to court, thou fool ; remember the advice \ 
 gave thee : thou art a handsome spaniel, and canst fawn naturally : 
 go, busk about anil run thyself into the next great man's lobby ; 
 (irst fawn upon the slaves without, and then run into the lady's 
 bedchamber. Go seek, I say. and lose me ; for I am not able to 
 keep thee ; I have not bread ior myself. 
 
 Fid. Therefore I will not go, because then I may help and serve 
 you. 
 
 Man. Thou ! 
 
 Fid. \ warrant you. .>ir ; for. at worst, I could beg or steal for 
 you. 
 
 Man. Nay, more bragging ! Dost thou not know there's ventur- 
 ing your life in stealing ? Go, prithee, away : thou art as hard 
 to shake off as that flattering, effeminating mischief, love. 
 
 Fid. Love did you name ? Why, you are not so miserable as to 
 be vet in love, sure ? 
 
 Man. No, no, prithee away, begone, or [Aside.! I had almost 
 
 discovered my love and shame ; Well, if I had, that thing could not 
 think trie worse of me or if he did no yes, he shall know it he 
 shall but then I must never leave him, for they are such secrets 
 that make parasites lords of their masters ; for any slavery or 
 tyranny is easier than love's. [Aloud.] Come hither, since thou 
 art so forward to serve me : hast thou but resolution enough to 
 endure the torture of a secret? for such to some is insupportable. 
 
 Fid. I would keep it as safe as if your dear, precious life de- 
 pended on : t. 
 
 Man. Out on your dearness. It concerns more than my life 
 my honour. 
 
 Fid. Doubt it not, sir. 
 
 Man. And do not discover it, by too much fear of discovering it ; 
 but have a great care you let not Freeman find it out. 
 
 Fid. I warrant you, sir, I am already all joy with the hopes of 
 your commands ; and shall be all wings in the execution of 'em : 
 speak quickly, sir. 
 
 Man. You said you'd beg for me. 
 
 Fid. I did, sir. 
 
 Man. Then YOU shall beg for me, 
 
 Fid. With aU my heart, sir. 
 
 .1. f ..v;. Make suit for me.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 131 
 
 Fid. How, sir ? 
 
 Man. D'ye start ! Thinkes.t thou, thou couldst do me any other 
 service ? Come, no dissembling honour : I know you can do it 
 handsomely, thou wert made fort. You have lost your time with 
 me at sea, you must recover it. 
 
 Fid. Do not, sir, beget yourself more reasons for your aversion to 
 me, and make my obedience to you a fault ; I am the unfittest in 
 the world to do you such a service. 
 
 Man. Your cunning arguing against it shows but how fit you are 
 for it. No more dissembling ; here (I say) you must go use it for 
 me to Olivia. 
 
 Fid. To her, sir ? 
 
 Man. Go flatter, lie, kneel, promise, anything to get her for me : 
 I cannot live unless I have her. Didst thou not say thou wouldst 
 do anything to save my life ? and she said you had a persuading 
 face. 
 
 Fid. But did not you say, sir, your honour was dearer to you 
 than your life ? and would you have me contribute to the loss of 
 that, and carry love from you to the most infamous, most false, 
 and 
 
 Man. And most beautiful 1 [Sighs aside. 
 
 Fid. Most ungrateful woman that ever lived ; for sure she must 
 be so, that could desert you so soon, use you so basely, and so 
 
 lately too : do not, do not forget it, i,ir, and think 
 
 Man. No, I will not forget it, but think of revenge. Go, begone, 
 and prevail for me, or never see me more. 
 Fid. You scorned her last night 
 
 Man. 1 know not what I did last night ; I dissembled last 
 night. 
 
 Fid. Heavens! 
 
 Man. Begone, I say, and bring me love or compliance back, 
 or hopes at least, or I'll never see thy face again, bj 
 ffid, O, do not swear, sir ! first hear me. 
 Man. I'm impatient, away ! you'll find me here till twelve. 
 
 [Turns away. 
 
 Fid. Sir 
 
 Man. Not one word, no insinuating argument more, or soothing 
 persuasion ; you'll li;ive need of ;ill your rhetoric with her : go 
 strive to alter her, not mo ; begone. 
 
 \_Rctires to the end vj the sdige, rtnd .v. '<( 
 Fid. Should I discover to him now my sex, 
 And lay before him his strange cruelty, 
 'T would but incense it more. No, 'tis not time. 
 For his love must I then betray my own? 
 Were ever love or chance till now severe ? 
 Or shifting woman posed with such a task ? 
 Forced to beg that which kills her, if obtain'd, 
 And give away her lover not to lose him ! 
 
 E3
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 [Enttr WIDOW BLACKACRE,/// the middle of half-a-dozen LAWYERS, 
 whispered to by a fellow in black, JERRY BLACKACRE/<?//W- 
 the crowd. 
 
 Wid. Offer me a reference, you saucy companion you ! d'ye know 
 who you speak to ? Art thou a solicitor in Chancery, and offer a 
 reference? A pretty fellow ! Mr. Serjeant Ploddon, here's a 
 fellow has the impudence to offer me a reference ! 
 
 Serf. Plod. Who's that has the impudence to offer a reference 
 within these walls ? 
 
 Wid. Nay, for a splitter of causes to do't ! 
 
 Serj. Plod. No, madam ; to a lady learned in the law, as you are, 
 the oner of a reference were to impose upon you. 
 
 Wid. No, no, never fear me for a reference, Mr. Serjeant. J3ut 
 come, have you not forgot your brief? Are you sure you shan't 
 make the mistake of hark you \Whispers^\ Go then, go to your 
 court of Common Pleas, and say one thing over and over again : 
 you do it so naturally, you'll never be suspected for protracting 
 time. 
 
 Serj. Plod. Come, I know the course of the court, and your 
 business. {Exit. 
 
 Wid. Let's see, Jerry, where are my minutes? Come, Mr. 
 Quaint, pray go talk a great deal for me in Chancery ; let your 
 words be easy, and your sense hard ; my cause requires it : branch 
 it bravely, and deck my cause with flowers, that the snake may lie 
 hidden. Go, go, and be sure you remember the decree of my Lord 
 Chancellor. Tricesimo quarf of the queen. 
 
 Quaint. I will, as I see cause, extenuate, or exemplify matter of 
 ftct ; baffle truth with impudence ; answer exceptions with questions, 
 though never so impertinent ; for reasons give 'cm words ; for law 
 and equity, tropes and figures ; and so relax and enervate the 
 sinews of their argument with the oil of my eloquence. But 
 when my lungs can reason no longer, and not being able to say 
 anything more for our cause, say everything of our adversary ; 
 whose reputation, though never so clear and evident in the eye of 
 the world, yet with sharp invectives 
 
 Wid. Alias, Billingsgate. 
 
 Quaint. With poignant and sour invectives, I say, I will deface, 
 wipe out, and obliterate his fair reputation, even as a record with 
 the juice of lemons ; and tell such a story (for the truth on't is, all 
 that we can do for our client in Chancery is telling a story) a fine 
 story, a long story, such a story 
 
 Wid. Go, save thy breath for the cause ; talk at the bar, Mr. 
 Quaint : you are so copiously fluent, you can weary any one's ears 
 sooner than your own tongue. Go, weary our adversaries' counsel, 
 and the court ; go, thou art a fine-spoken person : adad, I shall 
 make thy wife jealous of me, if you can but court the court into a 
 decree for us. Go, get you gone, and remember [Whispers.]
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 133 
 
 ' Exit QUAINT.] Come, Mr. Blunder, pray bawl soundly for me, 
 at the King's-bench, bluster, sputter, question, cavil ; but be sure 
 your argument be intricate enough to confound the court ; and then 
 you do my business. Talk what you will, but be sure your tongue 
 never stand still ; for your own noise will secure your sense from 
 censure : 'tis like coughing or hemming when one has got the belly- 
 ache, which stifles the unmannerly noise. Go, dear rogue, and 
 succeed ; and I'll invite thee, ere it be long, to more soused venison. 
 
 Blun. I'll warrant you, after your verdict, your judgment shall 
 not be arrested upon if's and and's. [Exit. 
 
 Wid. Come, Mr. Petulant, let me give you some new instructions 
 for our cause in the Exchequer. Are the barons sate ? 
 
 Pet. Yes, no ; may be they are, may be they are not ; what know 
 I ? what care I ? 
 
 Wid. Heyday ! I wish you would but snap up the counsel on 
 t'other side anon at the bar as much ; and have a little more 
 patience with me, that I might instruct you a little better. 
 
 Pet. You instruct me ! what is my brief for, mistress ? 
 
 Wid. Ay, but you seldom read your brief but at the bar, if you do 
 it then. 
 
 Pet. Perhaps I do, perhaps 1 don : t, and perhaps 'tis time enough ; 
 pray hold yourself contented, mistress. 
 
 Wid. Nay, if you go there too, I will not be contented, sir ; though 
 you, I see, will lose my cause for want of speaking, I wo' not : you 
 shall hear me. and shall be instructed. Let's sec your brief. 
 
 Pet. Send your solicitor to me. Instructed by a woman ! I'd 
 have you to know, I do not wear a bar-gown 
 
 Wid. By a woman '. and I'd have you to know, I am no common 
 woman ; but a woman conversant in the laws of the land, as well as 
 yourself, though I have no bar-gown 
 
 Pet. Go to, go to, mistress, you are impertinent, and there's your 
 brief for you : instruct me ! [Flings her breviate at her. 
 
 Wid. impertinent to me, you saucy Jack, you ! you return my 
 breviate, but where's my fee ? you'll be sure to keep that, and scan 
 that so well, that if there chance to be but a brass half-crown in't, 
 one's sure to hear on't again : would you would but look on your 
 brcviate half so narrowly ! But pray give me my fee too, as well as 
 my brief. 
 
 Pet. Mistress, that's without precedent. When did a counsel 
 ever return his fee, pray ? and you are impertinent and ignorant to 
 demand it. 
 
 Wid. Impertinent again, and ignorant, to me ! Gadsbodikins, 
 you puny upstart in the law, to use me so! you green -bag carrier, 
 you murderer of unfortunate causes, the clerk's ink is scarce off of 
 your fingers you tint newly come from lamp-blacking the judges' 
 shoes, and arc not tit to wipe mine : you call me impertinent and 
 ignorant ! I would ;jcive thee a cuff on the car, sitting the courts, if 
 I were ignorant. Marry-gcp, if it had not been for me, thou hadst 
 been yet but a hearing counsel at the bar. [Exit PETULANT.
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. (ACT n. 
 
 En/t'r MR. BUTTONGOWN, crossing the stage in haste. 
 
 Mr. Buttongown, Mr. Buttongown, whither so fast ? what, won't 
 you stay till we are heard ? 
 
 But. "l cannot, Mrs. Blackacre, I must be at the council, my lord's 
 cause stays there for me. 
 
 Wid. And mine suffers here. 
 
 But. I cannot help it. 
 
 Wid. I'm undone. 
 
 But. What's that to me ? 
 
 Wid. Consider the five-pound fee. if not my cause : that was 
 something to you. 
 
 But. Away, away ! pray be not so troublesome, mistress : I must 
 be gone. 
 
 Wid. Nay, but consider a little : I am your old client, my lord 
 but a new one ; or let him be what he will, he will hardly be a better 
 client to you than myself : I hope you believe I shall be in law as 
 long as I live ; therefore am no despicable client. WelJ, but go to 
 your lord ; I know you expect he should make you a judge one day ; 
 but I hope his promise to you will prove a true lord's promise. 
 But that he might be sure to fail you, I wish you had his bond 
 for't. 
 
 But. But what, will you yet be thus impertinent, mistress ? 
 
 Wid. Xay, I beseech you, sir, stay : if it be but to tell me my 
 lord's case : come, in short - 
 
 Bat. Xay. then \_E.vit. 
 
 WiJ. Well, Jerry, observe child, and lay it up for hereafter. 
 These are those lawyers who, by being in all causes, are in none : 
 therefore if you would have 'em for you, let your adversary fee 'em ; 
 for he may chance to depend upon them ; and so, in being against 
 thee, they'll be for thee. 
 
 Jcr. Ay, mother ; they put me in mind of the unconscionable 
 wooers of widows, who undertake briskly their matrimonial business 
 for their money ; but when they have ^ot it once, let who's will 
 look to them. Therefore have a care of 'em, forsooth. There's 
 advice for your advice. 
 
 Wid. Well said, boy. Come, Mr. Splitcruise, pray go see when 
 my cause in Chancery comes on ; and go spc;xk with Mr. Quillit in 
 the King's Bench, and Mr. Quirk in the Common Pleas, and see 
 how our matters go there. 
 
 Enter MAJOR OLDFOX. 
 
 Old. Lady, a good and propitious morning to you ; and may all 
 your causes go as well as if I myself were judge of 'em ! 
 
 \Vid. Sir, excuse me ; I am busy, and cannot answer compliments 
 in Westminster Hall. Go, Mr. Splitcause, and come to me again 
 to that bookseller's ; there I'll stay for you, that you maybe sure to 
 find me.
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 135 
 
 Old. No, sir, come to the other bookseller's: I'll Attend your 
 ladyship thither. \Exit SPLITCAUSE. 
 
 Wid. Why to the other ? 
 ' Old. Because he's my bookseller, lady. 
 
 Wid. What, to sell you lozenges for your catarrh ? or medicines 
 for your corns ? What else can a major deal with a bookseller for ? 
 
 Old. Lady, he prints for me. 
 
 Wid. Why. are you an author ? 
 
 Old. Of some few essays ; deign you. lady, to peruse 'em. 
 \Ast(fe.~\ She is a woman of parts ; and I must win her by showing 
 mine. 
 
 Bookseller's Soy. Will you see Culpepper, mistress ? Aristotle's 
 Problems ? 
 
 Wiil. No ; let's see Daltori, Hughs, Shepherd, Wingate. 
 
 B. Boy. We have no law books. 
 
 Wid. No ! you are a pretty bookseller then. 
 
 Old. Come, have you e'er a one of my essays left ? 
 
 B. Boy. Yes, sir, we have enough, and shall always have 'em. 
 
 Old. How so? 
 
 B. Boy. Why, they arc good, steady, lasting ware. 
 
 Old. Nay, I hope they will live ; let's see. Be pleased, madam, 
 to peruse the poor endeavours of my pen ; for I have a pen, though 
 I say it, that \Gives her a book. 
 
 Jer. Pray let me see St. George for Christendom, or, The Seven 
 Champions of England. 
 
 Wia. No, no ; give him the Young Clerk's Guide. -What, we 
 shall have you read yourself into a humour of rambling and fighting, 
 and studying military discipline, and wearing red breeches. 
 
 Old. Nay, if you talk of military discipline, show him my Trea- 
 tise of the Art Military. 
 
 Wid. Hold. I would as willingly he should read a play. 
 
 yer. O, pray forsooth, mother, let me have a play. 
 
 Wid. No, sirrah ; there are young students of the law enough 
 spoiled already by plays. They would make you in love with your 
 laundress, or, what s worse, some queen of the stage that was a 
 laundress. [Several crossing the staged] But stay, Jem-, is not 
 that Mr. What-d'ye-call-him, that goes there, he that offered to sell 
 me a suit in Chancery for five hundred pounds, for a hundred down, 
 and only paying the clerk's fees ? 
 yer. Ay, forsooth, 'tis he. 
 
 Wid. Then stay here, and have a care of the bags, whilst I follow 
 him. Have a care of the bags, I say. 
 
 Jer. And do you have a caie, forsooth, of the statute against 
 champarty, I say. [.47? WIDOW. 
 
 Re-enter FREEMAN. 
 
 Free, \asidf ^\ So, there's a limb of my widow, which was xrom 
 to be inseparable from her ; she can't be far. [Aloud.] How now, 
 my pivtty bun i;i-la\v that shall be, '.vhere's my widow?
 
 I 3 6 7.* Ji PLAIN DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 Jer. My mother, but not your widow, will be forthcoming pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Free. Your servant, mnjor. What, are you buying furniture for a 
 little sleeping closet, which you miscall a study ? For you only bind 
 your books up neatly and make 'em fine, for other people to use 'em. 
 And your bookseller is properly your upholsterer, for he furnishes 
 your room, rather than your head. 
 
 Old. Well, well, good sea-lieutenant, study you your compass ; 
 that's more than your he id can deal with. [Aside.] I will go find 
 out the widow, to keep her out of his sight, or he'll board her whilst 
 I am treating a peace. [Exit. 
 
 Jer. Nay, prithee, friend, now let me have but the Seven Cham- 
 pions. You shall trust me no longer than till my mother's Mr. 
 Splitcause comes ; for 1 hope he'll lend me wherewithal to pay 
 fort. 
 
 Free. Lend thee ! here I'll pay him. Do you want money, squire ? 
 I'm sorry a man of your estate should want money. 
 
 Jer. Nay, my mother will ne'er let me be at age ; and till then, 
 she says 
 
 Free. At age ! why, you are at age already to have spent an 
 estate, man. There are younger than you have lost many thousand 
 pounds at play. 
 
 Jer. Ay, they arc happy sparks ! Nay, I know some of my 
 schoolfellows, who, when we were at school, were two years younger 
 than me ; but now, I know not how, are grown men before me, and 
 ijo where they will, and look to themselves. But my curmudgeonly 
 mother won't allow me wherewithal to be a man of myself with. 
 
 Free. Why, there 'tis ; I knew your mother was in fault. Ask 
 but your schoolfellows what they did to be men of themselves. 
 
 Jfr. Why, I know they went to law with their mothers ; for they 
 say, there's no good to be done upon a widow mother till one goes 
 to law with her ; but mine is as plaguy a lawyer as any's of our inn. 
 Then would she marry too, and cut down my trees. Now, I should 
 hate, man, to have my father's wife kissed by another man ; and our 
 trees are the purest, tall, even, shady twigs, by my fa 
 
 Free. Come, squire, let your mother and your trees rail as she 
 pleases, rather than wear this gown and carry green bags all thy 
 life, and be pointed at for a Tony. But you shall be able to deal 
 with her yet the common way. Thou shalt make false love to some 
 lawyer's daughter, whose father, upon the hopes of thy marrying 
 her, shall lend thee money and law to preserve thy estate and trees ; 
 and thy mother is so ugly nobody will have her, if she cannot cut 
 down thy trees. 
 
 Jer. Nay. if I had but anybody to stand by me, I am as stomach- 
 ful as another. 
 
 Free. That will I ; I'll not see any hopeful young gentleman 
 abused. 
 
 B. Boy. By any but yourself. [Aside. 
 
 Jer. The truth on't is, mine's as arrant a widow-mother to her
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 137 
 
 poor child as any's in England. She won't so much as let one have 
 sixpence in one's pocket to see a motion, or the dancing of the ropes, 
 or 
 
 Free, Come, you shan't want money ; there's gold for you. 
 
 Jer. O lord, sir, two guineas ! D'ye lend me this? Is there no 
 trick in't ? Well, sir, I'll give you my bond for security. 
 
 Free. No, no ; thou hast given me thy face for security : any- 
 body would swear thou dost not look like a cheat. You shall have 
 what you will of me ; and if your mother will not be kinder to you, 
 come to me, who will. 
 
 Jer. [aside.} By my fa he's a curious fine gentleman ! [Aloud.} 
 But will you stand by one ? 
 
 Free. If you can be resolute. 
 
 Jer. Can be resolved ! Gad, if she gives me but a cross word, 
 I'll leave her to-night, and come to you. But now I have got 
 money, I'll go to Jack-of-all-Trades, at t'other end of the Hall, and 
 buy the neatest purest things 
 
 Free, [asidt'.} And I'll follow the great boy, and my blow at his 
 mother. Steal away the calf, and the cow will follow you. 
 
 {Exit JERRY, followed by FREEMAN. 
 
 Re-enter, on the other side, MANLY, WIDOW BLACKACRE and 
 OLD FOX 
 
 Man. Plague on your cause, can't you lose it without me ? which 
 you are like enough to do, if it be, as you say, an honest one : I 
 will suffer no longer for't. 
 
 Wid. Nay, captain, I tell you, you are my prime witness ; and 
 the cause is just now coming on, Mr. Splitcause tells me. Lord, 
 methinks you should take a pleasure in walking here, as half you 
 see now do ; for they have no business here, I assure you. 
 
 Man. Yes ; but I'll assure you then, their business is to perse- 
 cute me. But d'ye think I'll stay any longer, to have a rogue, 
 oecause he knows my name, pluck me aside and whisper a news- 
 book secret to me with a stinking breath ? a second come piping 
 angry from the court, and sputter in my face his tedious complaints 
 against it ? a third law-coxcomb, because he saw me once at a 
 reader's dinner, come and put me a long law case, to make a dis- 
 covery of his indefatigable dulness and my wearied patience ? a 
 fourth, a most barbarous civil rogue, who will keep a man half an 
 hour in the crowd with a bowed body, and a hat off", acting the 
 reformed sign of the Salutation tavern, to hear his bountiful profes- 
 sions of service and friendship, whilst he cares not if I were dead, 
 and I am wishing him hanged out of my way ? I'd as soon run tue 
 gauntlet, as walk t'other turn.
 
 1 3 S THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT ill. 
 
 Re-enter JERRY BLACKACRE, without /us vags, out laden with 
 trinkets, which he endeavours to hide from his Mother, and 
 followed at a distance by FREEMAN. 
 
 Wid. O, are you come, sir ? but where have you been, you ass ? 
 and how came you thus laden ? 
 
 Jer. Look here, forsooth, mother ; now here's a duck, here's a 
 boar-cat, and here's an owl. 
 
 [Making a noise with catcalls and other such like instruments. 
 
 Wid. Yes, there is an owl, sir. 
 
 Old. He's an ungracious bird indeed. 
 
 Wid. But go, thou trangame, and carry back those trangames, 
 which thou hast stolen or purloined ; for nobody would trust a 
 minor in Westminster Hall, sure. 
 
 Jcr. Hold yourself contented, forsooth : I have these commodi- 
 ties by a fair bargain and sale ; and there stands my witness and 
 creditor. 
 
 Wid. How's that? What, sir, d'ye think to get the mother by- 
 giving the child a rattle? But where are my bags, my writings, you 
 rascal ? 
 
 Jcr. O la ! where are they indeed ? [Aside. 
 
 tVid. How, sirrah ? speak, come 
 
 Man. You can tell her, Freeman, I suppose. [Apart to him. 
 
 Free. 'Tis true I made one of your salt-water sharks steal 'cm 
 whilst he was eagerly choosing his commodities, as he calls 'em, in 
 order to my design upon his mother. [Apart to him. 
 
 Wid. Won't you speak ? Where were you, I say, you son of a 
 
 an unfortunate woman ? O, major, I'm undone ! They are all 
 that concern my estate, my jointure, my husband's deed of gift, my 
 evidences for all my suits now depending ! What will become of 
 them ? 
 
 Free, {aside.} I'm glad to hear this .{A loud.] They'll be all safe, 
 I warrant you, madam. 
 
 Wid. O where ? where ? Come, you villain, along with me, and 
 show me where. [Exeunt WIDOW, JERRY, and OLDFOX. 
 
 Man. Thou hast taken the right way to get a widow, by making 
 her great boy rebel ; for when nothing will make a widow marry, 
 she'll do it to cross her children. But canst thou in earnest marry 
 this harpy, this volume of shrivelled blurred parchments and law, 
 this attorney's desk ? 
 
 Free. Ay, ay ; I'll marry and live honestly, that is, give my cre- 
 ditors, not her, due benevolence pay my debts. 
 
 Man. Thy creditors, you see, are not so barbarous as to put thcc 
 in prison ; and wilt thou commit thyself to a noisome dungeon for 
 thy life? which is the only satisfaction thou canst give thy creditor;, 
 by this match. 
 
 Free. Why, is not she rich ? 
 
 Man. Ay ; but he that marries a widow for her money, will find
 
 SCENK /.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 139 
 
 himself as much mistaken as the widow that marries a young fellow 
 for due benevolence, as you call it. 
 
 Free. Why, d'ye think I shan't deserve wages ? 
 
 Man. I tell thee again, he that is the slave in the mine has the 
 least proprietary in the ore. If thou wouldst have her money, rather 
 get to be her trustee than her husband ; for a true widow will make 
 over her estate to anybody, and cheat herself rather than be cheated 
 by her children or a second husband. 
 
 Re-enter JERRY, running in a fright. 
 
 Jer. O la, I'm undone ! Tin undone ! my mother will kill me; 
 you said you'd stand by one. 
 
 Free. So I will, my brave squire, I warrant thee. 
 
 Jer. Ay, but I dare not stay till she comes ; for she's as furious, 
 now she has lost her writings, as a bitch when she has lost her 
 puppies. 
 
 Man. The comparison's handsome. 
 
 Jer. O, she's here ! 
 
 Free. \Jo the SAILOR.] Take him, Jack, and make haste with him 
 to your master's lodging ; and be sure you keep him up till I come. 
 
 [Exeunt JERRY and SAILOR. 
 Re-enter WIDOW BLACKACRE and OLD FOX. 
 
 Wid. O my dear writings ! Where's this heathen rogue, my 
 minor? 
 
 Free. Gone to drown or hang himself. 
 
 \Vi'd. No, I know him too well ; he'll ne'er be felo de se that 
 way ; but he may go and choose a guardian of his own head, and 
 so be felo de ses biens ; for he has not yet chosen one. 
 
 Free. Say you so ? And he shan't want one. {Aside. 
 
 IVid. But, now I think on't, 'tis you, sir, have put this cheat upon 
 me. But I'll play fast and loose with you yet, if there be law, and 
 my mmor and writings arc not forthcoming ; I'll bring my action 
 of detinue or trover. But first. I'll try to find out this guardianless, 
 graceless villain.' Will you jog, major ? 
 
 Man. If you have lost your evidence, I hope your causes cannot 
 go on, and I may be gone ? 
 
 Wid. O no ; stay but a coughing while (as one may say) 
 and I'll be with you again. [Exeunt WIDOW and OLDFOX. 
 
 Free. Well ; sure I am the first man that ever began a love 
 intrigue in Westminster Hall. 
 
 Man. No, sure ; for the love to a widow generally begins here ; 
 and as the widow's cause goes against the heir or executors, the 
 jointure-rivals commence their suit to the widow. 
 
 Free. Well ; but how, pray, have you passed your time here, 
 since I was forced to leave you alone ? You have had a great deal 
 of patience. 
 
 Man, Is this a place to be alone, or have patience in? But I 
 Jtave had patience, indeed ; for I have drawn upon me, since I 
 came, but three quarrels and two lawsuits.
 
 1 40 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 i 
 
 Free. Nay, faith, you are too curst to be let loose in the world : 
 you should be tied up again in your sea-kennel, called a ship. But 
 how could you quarrel here ? 
 
 Man. How r.Duld 1 refrain ? A lawyer talked peremptorily and 
 saucily to me, and as good as gave me the lie. 
 
 Free. They do it so often to one another at the bar, that they 
 make no bones on : t elsewhere. 
 
 Man. However, I gave him a cuff on the ear ; whereupon he jogs 
 two men, whose backs were turned to us (for they were reading 
 at a bookseller's,) to witness I struck him. sitting the courts ; which 
 office they so readily promised, that I called ; em rascals and knights 
 of the post. One of 'cm presently calls two other absent witnesses, 
 who were coming towards us at a distance ; whilst the other, with 
 a whisper, desires to know my name, that he might have satisfac- 
 tion by way of challenge, .. t'other by way of writ ; but if it "were 
 not rather to direct his brother's writ, than his own challenge. 
 There, you see, is one of my quarrels, and two of iny lawsuits. 
 
 Free. So ! and the other two ? 
 
 Man. For advising a poet to leave off writing, and turn lawyer, 
 because he is dull and impudent, and says or writes nothing now 
 but by precedent. 
 
 Free. And the third quarrel ? 
 
 Man. Forgiving more sincere advice to a handsome, well-dressed 
 young fellow, who asked it too. 
 
 Free. .Nay, if you will be giving your sincere advice to lovers and 
 poets, you will not fail of quarrels. 
 
 Man. Or if I stay in this place ; for I see more quarrels crowd- 
 ing upon me. Let's be gone, and avoid 'em. 
 
 Enter NOVEL at a distance, coming towards them. 
 
 A plague on him, that sneer is ominous to us ; he is coming upon 
 us, and we shall not be rid of him. 
 
 N(n>. Dear bully, don't look so grum upon me ; you told me just 
 now, you had forgiven me a little harmless raillery upon wooden 
 legs last night. 
 
 Man. Yes, yes, pray begone, I am talking of business. 
 
 Nov. Can't I hear it ? I love thee, and will be faithful, and 
 always 
 
 Man. Impertinent. 'Tis business that concerns Freeman only. 
 
 Nov. Well, I love Freeman too, and would not divulge his secret. 
 Prithee speak, prithee, I must 
 
 Man. Prithee let me be rid of thce. I must be rid of thee. 
 
 Nov. Faith, thou canst hardly, I love thee so. Come, I must 
 know the business. 
 
 Man. [aside. ~] So, I have it now. [Aloud.] Why, if you needs 
 will know it, he has a quarrel, and his adversary bids him bring 
 two friends with him : now, 1 am one, and we are thinking who we 
 shall have for a third. [Several crossing the stage.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 141 
 
 Nov. A plague, there goes a fellow owes me a hundred pounds, 
 and goes out of town to-morrow : I'll speak with him, and come to 
 you presently. [Exit. 
 
 Man. No, but you won't. 
 
 Free. You are dexterously rid of him. 
 
 Re-enter OLD FOX. 
 
 Man. To what purpose, since here comes another as imperti- 
 nent ? 1 know by his grin he is bound hither. 
 
 Old. Your servant, worthy, noble captain. Well, I have left the 
 widow, because she carried me from your company : for, faith, 
 captain, I must needs tell thee thou art the only officer in England, 
 who was not an Edgehill officer, that I care for. 
 Man. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 Old. Why, wouldst thou have me love them ? 
 Man. Anybody rather than me. 
 
 Old. What ! you are modest, 1 see ; therefore, too, I love thee. 
 
 Man. No, I am not modest ; but love to brag myself, and can : t 
 
 patiently hear you fight over the last civil war. Therefore, go look 
 
 out the fellow I saw just now here, that walks with his sword and 
 
 stockings out at heels, and let him tell you the history of that scar 
 
 on his cheek, to give you occasion to show yours got in the field at 
 
 Bloomsbury, not that of Edgehill. Go to him, poor fellow ; he is 
 
 fasting, and has not yet the happiness this morning to stink of 
 
 brandy and tobacco : go, give him some to hear you ; I am busy. 
 
 Old. Well, egad. I love thee now, boy, for thy surliness. Thou 
 
 art no tame captain, I see, that will suffer 
 
 Man. An old fox. 
 
 Old. All that shan't make me angry. I consider that thou art 
 peevish, and fretting at some ill-success at law. Prithee, tell me 
 what ill luck you have met with here. 
 Man. You. 
 
 Old. Do I look like the picture of ill-luck? Nouns, I love thee 
 more and more. And shall I tell thee what made me love thee 
 first ? 
 
 Man. Do ; that I may be rid of that quality and thee. 
 Old. 'Twas thy wearing that broad sword there. 
 Man. Here, Freeman, let's change : I'll never wear it more. 
 Old. How ! you won't, sure. Prithee, don't look like one ol" our 
 holiday captains now-a-davs, with a bodkin by your side, you 
 martinet rogue. 
 
 Man. [ast'il?.] O, then, there's hopes. [Alond.\ What, d'ye find 
 fault with martinet ? Let me tell you, sir, 'tis the best exercise in 
 the world ; the most re:xdy, most easy, most graceful exercise that 
 
 ever was used, and the most 
 
 Old. Nay, nay, sir, no more : sir, your servant : if you praise 
 martinet once. 1 have done with vou. sir. Martinet ! martinet !
 
 142 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 free. Nay, you have made him leave you as willingly a's ever he 
 did an enemy ; for he was truly for the king and parliament : for 
 the parliament in their list; and for the king in cheating 'em of 
 their pay, and never hurting the king's party in the field. 
 
 Enter a LAWYER towards tiicm. 
 
 Man. A plague ! this way : here's a lawyer I know threatening 
 us with another greeting. 
 
 Law. Sir, sir, your very servant ; I was afraid you had forgotten 
 me. 
 
 Man. I was not afraid you had forgotten me. 
 
 Law. No, sir ; we -lawyers have pretty good memories. 
 
 Man. You ought to have by your wits. 
 
 Law. O. you arc a merry gentleman, sir ; I remember you were 
 merry when I was last in your company. 
 
 Man. I was never merry in thy company, Mr. Lawyer, sure. 
 
 Law. Why, I'm sure you joked upon me. and shammed me all 
 night long. 
 
 Man, Shammed ! prithee what barbarous law-term is that. 
 
 Law. Shamming ! why, don't you know that ? 'tis all our way of 
 wit, sir. 
 
 Man. I am glad I do not know it then. Shamming ! what does 
 he mean by't, Freeman ? 
 
 Free. Shamming is telling you an insipid dull lie with a dull face, 
 which the sly wag the author only laughs at himself; and m.-iking 
 himself believe 'tis a good jest, puts the sham only upon himself. 
 
 Man. So, your lawyer's jest, I find, like his practice, has more 
 knavery than wit in't. I should make the worst shammer in 
 England : I must always deal ingenuously, us I will with you, Mr. 
 Lawyer, and advise you to be seen rather with attorneys and 
 solicitors than such fello'.vt; as I am : they will credit your practice 
 more. 
 
 Law. No, sir, your company's an honour to me. 
 
 Man. No, faith ; go this way, there goes an attorney ; leave me 
 for him ; let it never be said a lawyer's civility did him hurt. 
 
 Law. No, worthy, honoured sir; I'll not leave you for any 
 attorney, sure. 
 
 Man. Unless he had a fee in his hand. 
 
 Law. Have you any business here, sir ? Try me : I'd serve you 
 sooner than any attorney breathing. 
 
 Man. Business [<mV//j. So, I have thought of a sure way. 
 [Aloud."} Yes, faith, I have a little business. 
 
 Law. faave you so, sir? In what court, sir? what is't, sir? Tell 
 me but how I may serve you, and I'll do't, sir, and take it for as 
 great an honour 
 
 Man. Faith, 'tis for a poor orphan of a sea-officer of mine, that 
 has no money. But if it could be followed hi formA panpcris, and 
 when the legacy's recovered
 
 SCEJN.K ;.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 14$ 
 
 Law. Forma pauperzs, sir ? 
 
 Man. Ay, sir. [Several crossing (he stage. 
 
 Law. Mr. Bumblecase, Mr. Bumblecase ! a word with you. Sir, 
 I beg your pardon at present ; I have a little business 
 
 Man. Which is not mformd pauperis. [Exit LAWYI:K. 
 
 Free. So, you have now found a way to be rid of people without 
 quarrelling ? 
 
 Enter ALDKRMAN. 
 
 Man. But here's a city rogue will stick as hard upon us, as if I 
 owed him money. 
 
 Aid. Captain, noble sir, I am yours heartily, d'ye see ; why should 
 you avoid your old friends ? 
 
 Man. And why should you follow me ? 1 owe you nothing. 
 
 A Id. Out of my hearty respects to you : for there is not a man 
 in England 
 
 Man. Thou wouldst save from hanging with the expense of a 
 shilling only. 
 
 Aid. Nay, nay, but, captain, you are like enough to tell me 
 
 Man. Truth, which you won't care to hear ; therefore you had 
 better go talk with somebody else. 
 
 Aid. No, I know nobody can inform me better of some young wit, 
 or spendthrift, that has a good dipped scat and estate in Middlesex, 
 Hertfordshire, Essex, or Kent ; any of these would serve my turn : 
 now, if you knew of such a one, and would but help 
 
 Man. You to finish his ruin. 
 
 Ala. I'faith, you should have a snip 
 
 Man. Of your nose, you thirty-in-thc-hundred rascal ; would you 
 make me your squire setter? [Takes him by the nose. 
 
 AM. Oh! 
 
 Free. Hold, or here will be your third law-suit. 
 
 Aid. Gads-precious, you hectoring person you, are you wild ? I 
 meant you no hurt, sir : I begin to think, as things go, land-security 
 best, and have for a convenient mortgage, some ten, fifteen or twenty 
 thousand pounds by me. 
 
 Man. Then go lay it out upon an hospital, and take a mortgage 
 of Heaven, according to your city custom ; for you think by laying 
 out a little money to hook in that too hereafter. Do, I say, and 
 keep the poor you've made by taking forfeitures, that Heaven may 
 not take yours. 
 
 Aid. No, to keep the cripples you make this war. This war 
 spoils our trade. ' 
 
 Man. Plague on your trade ! 'tis the better fort. 
 
 Aid. What, will you speak against our trade ? 
 
 Man. And dare you speak against the war, our trade ? 
 
 Aid. [aside. ~\ Well, he may be a convoy of ships I am concerned 
 in. [Aloud."] Coine, captain, I will have a fair correspondence with 
 you. say what you will. 
 
 Man. Then prithee be gone. .
 
 i M4 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT ill. 
 
 Aid. Xo, faith ; prithee, captain, let's go drink a dish of lacccl 
 coffee, and talk of the times. Come, I'll treat you : nay, you shall 
 go, for I have no business here. 
 Man. But I have. 
 
 Aid. To pick up a man to give thee a dinner. Come, I'll do thy 
 business for thee. 
 
 Man. Faith, now I think on't. so you may, as well as any man : 
 for 'tis to pick up a man to Ix; bound with inc. to one who expects 
 city security for- 
 
 Aid. Nay, then your servant, captain ; business must be done 
 
 Man. Ay, if it can. But, hark you, alderman ; without you 
 
 Aid. Business, sir, I say, must be done ; and there's an officer of the 
 
 treasury \several crossing the stagc\ I have an affair with \ E3.it. 
 
 Man. You see now what the mighty friendship of the world is ; 
 what all ceremony, embraces, and plentiful professions come to ! 
 You are no more to believe a professing friend than a threatening 
 enemy ; and as no man hurts you, that tells you he'll do you a 
 mischief, no man. you see, is your servant who says he is so. 
 Why, then, should a man be troubled with the flattery of knaves if 
 he be not a fool ; or witli the fondness of fools, if he be not a knave. 
 Free. Only for his pleasure; for there is some in laughing at 
 fools, and disappointing knaves. 
 
 Man. That's a pleasure, I think, would cost you too dear, as well 
 as marrying your widow to disappoint her. But, for my part, 
 I have no pleasure by : em but in despising 'em, wheresoe'er I meet 
 em ; and then the pleasure of hoping so to be rid of 'em. But now 
 my comfort is, 1 am not worth a shilling in the world, which all the 
 world shall know; and then I'm sure I shall have none of 'em come 
 near me. 
 
 Free. A very pretty comfort, which I think you pay too dear for. 
 But is the twenty pound gone since the morning? 
 
 Man. To my boat's crew. Would you have the poor, honest, 
 brave fellows want ? 
 
 Free. Rather than you or 1. 
 
 Man. Why, art thou without money ': thou who art a friend to 
 everybody ? 
 
 Free. I ventured my last stake upon the squire to nick him of his 
 mother ; and cannot help you to a dinner, unless you will go dine 
 with my lord 
 
 Man. No, no ; the ordinary is too dear for me, where flattery 
 must pay for my dinner : I am no herald or poeh 
 
 Free. We'll go then to the bishop's 
 
 Man. There you must flatter the old philosophy : 1 cannot 
 renounce my reason for a dinner. 
 
 Free. Why, then, let's go to your alderman's. 
 
 Man. Hang him, rogue ! that were not to dine, for he makes you 
 
 drunk with lees of sack before dinner, to take away your stomach ; 
 
 and there you must call usury and extortion God's blessing, or the 
 
 honest turning of the penny ; hear him brag of the leather breeches
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 145 
 
 in which he trotted first to town, and make a greatqr noise with his 
 money in his parlour, than his cashiers do in his counting-house, 
 without hopes of borrowing a shilling. 
 
 Free. Ay ! 'tis like dining with the great gamesters ; and when 
 they fall to their common dessert, to see the heaps of gold drawn 
 on all hands, without going to twelve. Let us go to my Lady 
 Goodly's. 
 
 Man. There to flatter her looks. You must mistake her grand- 
 children for her own ; praise her cook, that she may rail at him : 
 and feed her dogs, not yourself. 
 
 Free. What d'ye think of eating with your lawyer then ? 
 
 Man. Kat with him ! h ing him ! To hear him employ his 
 barbarous eloquence in a reading upon the two-and-thirty good bits 
 in a shoulder of veal, and be forced yourself to praise the cold 
 bribe-pie that stinks, and drink law- French wine as rough and 
 "harsh as his law-French. I'd rather dine in the Temple-rounds or 
 walks, with the knights without noses, or the knights of the post, 
 who are honester fellows and better company. But let us home 
 and try our fortune ; for I'll stay no longer here for your widow. 
 
 Free. Well, let us go home then ; for I must go for my widow, and 
 look after my new charge. Three or four hundred years ago a man 
 might have dined in this hall. 
 
 Man. But now the lawyer only here is fed ; 
 And, bully-like, by quarrels gets his bread. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. MANLY'S Lodging. 
 Enter MANLY and FIDELIA. 
 
 Well, there's success in thy face. Hast thou prevailed? 
 say. 
 
 ['id. As I could wish, sir. 
 
 Man. So ; I told thce what thou wert tit for, and thou would.M 
 not believe me. Come, thank me for bringing thee acquainted with 
 thy genius. Well, thou hast mollified her heart for me ? 
 
 Fid. No, sir, not so ; but what's better. 
 
 Man. How, what's better ? 
 
 Fid. I shall harden your heart against her. 
 
 Man. Have a care, sir ; my heart is too much in earnest to be 
 fooled with, and my desire at height, and needs no delays to incite 
 it. What, you know how to endear pleasure by withholding it ? 
 But leave off your tricks, sir, and tell me, will she be kind ? 
 
 Fid. Kinder than you could wish, sir. 
 
 Man. So, then : well, prithee, what said she ? 
 
 Fid. She said 
 
 Man. What ? thou'rt so tedious : speak comfort to me ; wh?< ?
 
 I 4 6 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 Fid. That of all things you are her aversion. 
 
 Man. How ! 
 
 Fid. That she would sooner take a bedfellow out of an hospital, 
 and diseases into her arms, than you. 
 
 Man. What? 
 
 Fid. That she would rather trust her honour with a dissolute 
 hector, nay worse, with a finical baffled coward, all over loathsome 
 with affectation of the fine gentleman. 
 
 Man. What's all this you say ? 
 
 Fid. Nay, that my offers of your love to her were more offensive, 
 than when parents woo their daughters to the enjoyment of riches 
 only ; and that you were in all circumstances as nauseous to her as 
 a husband on compulsion. 
 
 Man. Hold ! I understand you not. 
 
 Fid. So, 'twill work, I see. [Aside. 
 
 Man. Did you not tell me 
 
 Fid. She called you ten thousand ruffians. 
 
 Man. Hold, I say. 
 
 Fid. Brutes 
 
 Man. Hold. 
 
 Fid. Sea-monsters 
 
 Man. Out on your intelligence ! Hear me a little now. 
 
 Fid. Nay, surly coward she called you too. 
 
 Man. Won't you hold yet ? Hold, or 
 
 Fid. Nay, sir, pardon me ; I could not but tell you she had the 
 baseness, the injustice, to call you coward, sir ; coward, coward, 
 sir. 
 
 Man. Not yet 
 
 Fid. I've done : coward, sir. 
 
 Man. Did not you say, she was kinder than I could wish her? 
 
 Fid. Yes, sir. 
 
 Man. How then ? O I understand you now. At first she 
 appeared in rage and disdain ; the truest sign of a coming woman ; 
 but at last you prevailed, it seems ; did you not ? 
 
 Fid. Yes, sir. 
 
 Man. So then ; let's know that only : come, prithee, without 
 delays I'll kiss thee for that news beforehand. 
 
 Fid. So ; the kiss I'm sure is welcome to me, whatsoe'er the news 
 will be to you. [Aside. 
 
 Man. Come, speak, my dear volunteer. 
 
 Fid. How welcome were that kind word too, if it were not for 
 another woman's sake ! [Aside. 
 
 Man. What, won't you speak ? You prevailed for me at last, 
 you say ? 
 
 Fid. No, sir. 
 
 Man. No more of >our fooling, sir; it will not agree with my 
 impatience or temper. 
 
 Fid. Then not to fool you, sir, I spoke to her for you, but pre- 
 vailed for myself; she would not hear me when I spoke in your
 
 SCENE i.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 4 ft 
 
 behalf, but bid me say what I would in my own, though she gave me 
 no occasion, she was so coming, and so was kinder, sir, than you 
 could wish ; which I was only afraid to let you know, without some 
 warning. 
 
 Man. How's this ? Young man, you are of a lying age ; but I 
 must hear you out, and if 
 
 Fid. I would not abuse you, and cannot wrong her by any report 
 of her, she is so wicked. 
 
 Man. How, wicked ! had she the impudence, at the second sight 
 of you onl) 
 
 Fid. Impudence, sir! oh, she has impudence enough to put a 
 Court out of countenance. 
 
 Man. Why, what said she ? 
 
 Fid. Her tongue, I confess, was silent ; but her speaking 
 eyes 
 
 Man. I know there are those whose eyes reflect obscenity ; but 
 there are others, too, who use a little art with their looks, to make 
 'em seem more beautiful, not more loving ; which vain young fellows 
 like you are apt to interpret in their own favour, and to the lady's 
 wrong. 
 
 Fid. Seldom, sir. Pray, have you a care of gloating eyes ; for he 
 that loves to gaze upon 'em will find at last a thousand fools in 'cm 
 instead of Cupids. 
 
 Man. Very well, sir. But what, you had only eye-kindness from 
 Olivia ? 
 
 Fid. I tell you again, sir, no woman sticks there ; eye-promises 
 of love they only keep ; nay, they are contracts which make you 
 sure of 'em. In short, sir, she seeing me, with shame and amaze- 
 ment dumb, inactive, and resistless, threw her twisting arms about 
 my neck, and smothered me with a thousand tasteless kisses. 
 Believe me, sir, they were so to me. 
 
 Man. Why did you not avoid 'em then ? 
 
 Fid. I fenced with her eager arms, as you did with the grapples 
 of the enemy's fireship ; and nothing but cutting 'cm off could have 
 freed me. 
 
 Man. Lost, lost woman, that could be so false and infamous ! 
 and lost, lost heart of mine that cannot yet be false, though so in- 
 famous ! What easy, tame, suffering, trampled things does that 
 little god of talking cowards make of us ! but 
 
 Fid. So ; it works, I find, as I expected. [Asidf. 
 
 Man. But she was false to me before, she told me so herself, and 
 yet 1 could not quite believe it ; but she was, so that her second 
 falseness is a favour to me, not an injury, in revenging me upon the 
 man that wronged me first of her love. Her love ! a witch's love ! 
 But what, did she not kiss well, sir? Pin sure 1 thought her lips 
 but I must not think of 'em more but yet they' arc such I could 
 still kiss- grow to and then tear off with my teeth, grind 'em into 
 mammocks, and spit 'em into her false face. 
 
 Fid. Poor man. how uncasv he is ' 1 have hardlv the heart to
 
 148 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 give so much pain, though withal I give him a cure, and Jo myself 
 new life. [Aside. 
 
 Man. But what, her kisses sure could not but warm you into 
 a compliance with hers at le.ist ? 
 
 Fid. Nay, more, I confess 
 
 Man. What more ? speak. 
 
 Fid. All you could fear had passed between us. if I could have 
 been made to wrong you, sir, in that nature. 
 
 Man. Could have been made ! you lie. you did. 
 
 Fid. Indeed, sir, 'twas impossible for me ; besides, we were in. 
 terrupted by a visit ; but I confess, she would not let me stir till I 
 promised to return to her again within this hour, as soon as it should 
 be dark; by which time she would dispose of her visit, and her 
 servants and herself, for my reception ; which I was fain to promise, 
 to get from her. 
 
 Man. Ha ! 
 
 Fid. But if ever I go near ner again, may you, sir. think me as 
 false to you as she is ; hate and renounce me, as you ought to do 
 her, and, I hope, will do.now. 
 
 Man. Well, but now I think on't, you shall keep your word with 
 your lady. What, a young fellow, and fail the first, nay, so tempting 
 an assignation ! 
 
 Fid. How, sir? 
 
 Man. I say, you shall go to her when 'tis dark, and shall not 
 disappoint her. 
 
 Fid. I, sir ! I should disappoint her more by going, for 
 
 Man. How so ? 
 
 Fid. Her impudence and injustice to you will make me dis- 
 appoint her love, loathe her. 
 
 Man. Come, you have my leave ; and if you disgust her, I'll go 
 with you. and 'act love, whilst you shall talk it only. 
 
 Fid. You, sir ! nay, then I'll never go near her. You act love, 
 sir ! You must but act it indeed, after all I have said to you. 
 Think of your honour, sir : love 
 
 Man. Well, call it revenge, and that is honourable : I'll be 
 revenged on her ; and thou shalt be my second. 
 
 Fid. Not in a base action, sir, when you are your own enemy. O go 
 not near her, sir ; for Heaven's sake, for your own, think not of it ! 
 
 Man. How concerned you are ! I thought I should catch you. 
 What, you are my rival at last, and are in love with her yourself; 
 and have spoken ill of her out of your love to her, not me ; and 
 therefore would not have me go to her ! 
 
 Fid. Heaven witness for me, 'tis because I love you only, I would 
 not have you go to her. 
 
 Man. Come, come, the more I think on't, the more I'm satisfied 
 you do love her. Those kisses, young man, 1 knew were irresistible; 
 tis certain. 
 
 Fid. There is nothing certain in the world, sir, but my truth and 
 courage.
 
 SULNK I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 149 
 
 Man. Your servant, sir. Besides, false and ungrateful as she has 
 been to me., and though I may believe her hatred to me great as you 
 report it, yet I cannot think you are so soon and at that rate 
 beloved by her, though yc.u may endeavour it. 
 
 Fid. Nay, if that be all, and you doubt it still, sir, I will conduct 
 you to her ; and, unseen, your ears shall judge of her falseness, and 
 my truth to you, if that will satisfy you. 
 
 Man. Yes, there is some satisfaction in being quite out of doubt : 
 because 'tis that alone withholds us from the pleasure of revenge. 
 
 Fid. Revenge! What revenge can you have, sir? Disdain is 
 best revenged by scorn ; and faithless love, by loving another, and 
 making her happy with the other's losings. Which, if I might 
 advise 
 
 Enter FREEMAN. 
 
 Man. Not a word more. 
 
 Free. What, are you talking of love yet, captain ? 1 thought you 
 had done with't. 
 
 Man. Why, what did you hear me say ? 
 
 Free. Something imperfectly of love, 1 think. 
 
 Man. I was only wondering why fools, rascals, and desertless 
 wretches, should still have the better of men of merit with all 
 women, as much as with their own common mistress, Fortune. 
 
 Free. Because most women, like Fortune, are blind, seem to do 
 all things in jest, and take pleasure in extravagant actions. Their 
 love deserves neither thanks, or blame, for they cannot help it ; 'tis 
 all sympathy ; therefore, the noisy, the finical, the talkative, the 
 cowardly, and effeminate, have the better of the brave, the reason- 
 able, and rran of honour ; for they have no more reason in their 
 love or kindness, than Fortune herself. 
 
 Man. Yes, they have their reason. First, honour in a man they 
 fear too much to love ; and sense in a lover upbraids their want of 
 it : and they hate anything that disturbs their admiration of them- 
 selves ; but they are of that vain number, who had rather show their 
 false generosity, in giving away profusely to worthless flatterers, 
 than in paying just debts. And, in short, all women, like fortune 
 (as you say) and rewards, are lost by too much meriting. 
 
 Fid. All women, sir! sure there are some who have no other 
 quarrel to a lover's merit, but that it begets their despair of him. 
 
 Man. Thou art young enough to be credulous ; but we 
 
 Enter SAILOR. 
 
 Sail. Here are now below, the scolding, daggled gentlewoman, 
 and that Major Old Old Fop, I think you call him. 
 
 Free. Oldfox ? prithee bid 'em come up, with your leave, 
 captain, for now I can talk with her upon the square, if I shall 
 not disturb you. \Exit SAILOR. 
 
 Man. No ; for I'll begone. Come, volunteer.
 
 150 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT iv 
 
 Free. Nay, pray stay; the scene between us will not be so tedious 
 to you as you think. Besides, you shall see how I rigged my 
 'squire out, with the remains of my shipwrecked wardrobe ; he is 
 under your sea valet-de-chambre's hands, and by this time dressed, 
 and will be worth your seeing. Stay, and I'll fetch my fool. 
 
 Man. No ; you know 1 cannot easily laugh ; besides, my 
 volunteer and I have business abroad. 
 
 r Exeunt MANLY and FIDELIA on one side; FREEMAN on 
 tkc other. 
 
 Enter MAJOR OLDFOX and WIDOW BLACKACRE. 
 
 Wid. What, nobody here ! did not the fellow say he was within ? 
 
 Old. Yes, lady ; and he may be perhaps a little busy at present ; 
 but if you think the time long till he comes [unfolding papers] I'll 
 read you here some of the fruits of my leisure, the overflowings of 
 my fancy and pen. [Aside.'] To value me right, she must know 
 my parts. [Aloud.] Come 
 
 Wid. No, no ; I have reading work enough of my own in my 
 bag, I thank you. 
 
 Old. Ay, law, madam ; but here's a poem, in blank verse, which 
 I think a handsome declaration, of one's passion. 
 
 Wid. O, if you talk of declarations, I'll show you one of the 
 prettiest penned things, which I mended too myself, you must 
 know. 
 
 Old. Nay, lady, if you have used yourself so much to the reading 
 harsh law, that you hate smooth poetry, here is a character for 
 you, of , t 
 
 Wid. A character ! nay, then, I'll show you my bill in Chancery 
 here, that gives you such a character of my adversary, makes him 
 as black 
 
 Old. Pshaw ! away, away, lady ! But if you think the character 
 too long, here is an epigram, not above twenty lines, upon a cruel 
 lady, who decreed her servant should hang himself, to demonstrate 
 his passion. 
 
 Wid. Decreed ! if you talk of decreeing, I have soich a decree 
 here, drawn by the finest clerk 
 
 Old. O lady, lady, all interruption and no sense between us, as if 4 
 we were lawyers at the bar ! but I had forgot, Apollo and Littleton 
 never lodge in a head together. If you hate verses, I'll give you a 
 cast of my politics in prose. 'Tis a letter to a friend in the country, 
 which is now the way of all such sober solid persons as myself, 
 when they have a mind to publish their disgust to the times ; though 
 perhaps, between you and I, they have no friend hi th'e country. 
 And sure a politic, serious person, may as well have a 1 feigned friend 
 in the country to write to, as an idle poet a feigned mistress to write 
 to. And so here's my letter to a friend, or no friend, in the country, 
 concerning the late conjuncture of affairs, in relation to coffee- 
 houses; or, "The Coffee-man's Case."
 
 ? I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Wid. hay, if your letter have a case in't, 'tis something ; but first 
 I'll read you a letter of mine to a friend in the country, called a letter 
 of attorney. 
 
 Re-enter FRKKMAN, -with JERRY BLACKACRE in an old gaudy 
 suit and rfd breeches of FREEMAN S. 
 
 Old. What, interruption still ! O the plague of interruption ! 
 worse to an author than the plague of critics. [Aside. 
 
 IVid. What's this I see? Jerry Blackacre, my minor, in red 
 breeches ! What, hast thou left the modest seemly garb of gown 
 and cap for this? and have I lost all my good Inns-of-Chancery 
 breeding upon thee, then ? and thou wilt go a-breeding thyself from 
 our Inn of Chancery and Westminster Hall, at coffee-houses and 
 ordinaries, play-houses, and tennis-courts ? 
 
 Jcr. Ay, ay, what then ? perhaps I will ; but what's that to you ? 
 Here's my guardian and tutor now, forsooth, that I am out of 
 your huckster's hands. 
 
 Wid. How ! thou hast not chosen him for thy guardian yet ? 
 
 Jer. No, but he has chosen me for his charge, and that's all one ; 
 and I'll do anything he'll have me, and go all the world over with 
 him ; to ordinaries, and play-houses, or anywhere else. 
 
 Wid. To ordinaries and play-houses ! have a care, minor, thou 
 wilt enfeeble there thy estate and body ; do not go to ordinaries 
 and play-houses, good Jerry. 
 
 Jer. Why, how come you to know any ill by play-houses? You 
 never had any hurt by 7 em, had you, forsooth ? Pray hold yourself 
 contented ; for you used me so unnaturally, you would never let 
 me have a penny to go abroad with, nor so much as let me play at 
 hotcockles with your maidens, nor have any recreation with 'cm, 
 you were so unnatural a mother, so you were. 
 
 Free. Ay, a very unnatural mother, faith, squire. 
 
 Wid. But, Jerry, consider thou art yet but a minor; however, if 
 thou wilt go home with me again, and be a good child, thou shall 
 see -- 
 
 Free. Madam, I must have a better care of my heir under age, 
 than so ; I would sooner trust him alone with a waiting-woman and 
 a parson, than with his widow-mother and her lover or lawyer. 
 
 IV id. Why, thou villain, part mother and minor ! rob me of my 
 child and my writings ! but thou shall find there's law ; and as in 
 the case of ravishment of guard Westminster the Second. 
 
 Old. Young gentleman squire, pray be ruled by your mother and 
 your friends. 
 
 Jcr. Yes, I'll be ruled by my friends, therefore not by my mother. 
 so I won't. I'll choose him for my guardian till I am of age ; nay, 
 maybe, for as long as I live. 
 
 Wid. Wilt thou so, thou wretch ? and when thou'rt of age, thou 
 wilt sign, seal, and deliver too, wilt thou ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, marry will I, if you go there too.
 
 152 THE PLAltf DEALER. [ACT IV. 
 
 Wid. O do not squeeze wax, son ; rather go to ordinaries and 
 play-houses, than squeeze wax. If thou dost that, farewell the 
 goodly manor of Blackacr?, with all its woods, underwoods, and 
 appurtenances whatever ! Oh, oh ! \\Vceps. 
 
 Free. Come, madam, in short, you see I am resolved to Tiavc a 
 share in the estate, yours or your son's ; if I cannot grt you, I'll 
 keep him, who is less coy, you lind ; but if you would have your 
 son ag.iin, you must take me too. Peace or war ~i love or law ? You 
 see my hostage is in my hand; I'm in possession. 
 
 Wid. Nay, if one of us must be ruined, e'en let it be him. By my 
 body, a good one ! Did you ever know yet a widow marry or not 
 marry for the sake of her child ? I'd have you to know, sir, I shall 
 be hard enough for you both yet, without marrying you, if Jerry 
 won't be ruled by me. What say you, booby, will you be ruled : 
 speak. 
 
 Jer. Let one alone, can't you ? 
 
 Wid. Wilt thou choose him for guardian, whom I refuse for 
 husband ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, to choose, I thank you. 
 
 Wid. And are all my hopes frustrated ? Shall I never hear thee 
 put cases again to John the butler, or our vicar? never see thce 
 amble the circuit with the judges ; and hear thee, in our town-hall, 
 louder than the crier ? 
 
 Jer. No ; for I have taken my leave of lawyering and petti- 
 fogging. 
 
 Wid. Pettifogging ! thou profane villain, hast thou so ? Petti- 
 fogging then you shall take your leave of me, and your estate too; 
 thou shalt be an alien to me and it for ever. Pettifogging ! 
 
 Jer. O, but if you go there too, mother, we have the deeds and 
 settlements, I thank you. Would you cheat me of my estate, i'fac ? 
 
 Wid. No, no, I will not cheat your little brother Bob ; for thou 
 wcrt not born in wedlock. 
 
 Free. H ow's that ? 
 
 Jer. How ? what quirk has she got in her head now ? 
 
 Wid. I say, thou canst not, shall not, inherit the Blackacres 
 estate. 
 
 Jer. Why ? why, forsooth ? What do you mean, if you go there 
 too? 
 
 Wid. Thou art but my base child ; and according to the law. 
 canst not inherit it. Nay, thou art not so much as bastard eignc. 
 
 Jer. What, what am I, mother? 
 
 Wid. The law says 
 
 Free. Madam, we know what the law says ; but have a care 
 what you say. Do not let your passion to ruin your son ruin your 
 reputation. 
 
 Wid. Hang reputation, sir ! Am not I a widow ? have no hus- 
 band, nor intend to have any ? Nor would you, 1 suppose, now 
 have me for a wife. So I think now I'm revenged on my son and 
 you. without marrying, as I told you.
 
 SCENE II.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 153 
 
 Free. But consider, madam. 
 
 Jer. What, have you no shame left in you, mother ? 
 
 Wid. Wonder not at it, major. Tis often the poor pressed 
 widow's case, to give up her honour to save her jointure ; and seem 
 to be a light woman, rather than marry. [Aside to OLDFOX. 
 
 Free. But dne word ith you, madam. 
 
 Wid. No, no, sir. Come, major, let us make haste noiv to tlie 
 Prerogative Court. 
 
 Old. But, lady, if what you say be true, will you stigmati/e your 
 reputation on record? and if it be not true, how will you prove it ? 
 
 Wid. Pshaw ! I can prove anything ; and for my reputation, 
 know, major, a wise woman will no more value her reputation, in 
 disinheriting a rebellious son of a good estate, than she would in 
 getting him to inherit an estate. \Exeunt WIDOW and OLDFOX. 
 
 Free. Madam . We must not let her go so, squire. 
 
 Jer. Nay, the devil can't stop her though, if she has a mind to't. 
 But come, buily-guardian, we'll go and advise with three attorneys, 
 two proctors, two solicitors, and a shrewd man of Whitefriars, 
 neither attorney, proctor, or solicitor, but as pure a cub of the law 
 as any of 'em ; and sure all they will be hard enough for her, for I 
 fear, bully-guardian, you are too good a joker to have any law in 
 your head. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \l.Quvi\-$Loitging. 
 Enter LORD PLAUSIBLE and BOY with a candle. 
 
 Ptaus. Little gentleman, your most obedient, faithful, humble 
 servant. Where, I beseech you, is that divine person, your noble 
 lady? 
 
 Boy. Gone out, my lord ; but commanded me to give you this 
 letter. [Gives him a letter. 
 
 Enter NOVEL. 
 
 Plans. Which he must not observe. [Aside. Puts it up. 
 
 Not'. Hey, boy, where is thy lady ? 
 
 Boy. Gone out, sir ; but I must beg a word with you. 
 
 \Gives him a letter, and exit. 
 
 Noi>. For me? So. [Puts up the Letter^ Sen-ant, servant, 
 my lord ; you see the lady knew of your coming, for she is gone 
 out. 
 
 Plaus. Sir, 1 humbly beseech you not to censure the lady's good 
 breeding ; she has reason to use more liberty with me than with any 
 other man. 
 
 Nov. How, viscount, how ? 
 
 Plans. Nay, I humbly beseech you, be not in choler : whcic 
 there is most love, there may be most freedom. 
 
 Ktn>. Nay, then 'tis time to come to an ecliircissement with ycu, 
 and to tell ycu yor mu t think no more of this 1-uK's love.
 
 154 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 Plaus. Why, under correction, dear sir? 
 
 Nov. There are reasons, reasons, viscount. 
 
 Plaus. What, I beseech you, noble sir? 
 
 Nov. Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my lord ; some of you 
 lords are such conceited, well-assured, impertinent rogues. 
 
 Plans. And you noble wits are so full of shamming and drolling, 
 one knows not where to have you seriously. 
 
 NIK.'. Prithee, my lord, be not an ass. Dost thou think to get 
 her from me ? I have had such encouragements 
 
 Plaus. I have not been thought unworthy of 'em. 
 
 Nov. What, not like mine ! Come to an eclaircissement, as I 
 said. 
 
 Ptaus. Why, seriously then, she has told me viscountess sounded 
 prettily. 
 
 Nor. And me. that Novel was a name she would sooner change 
 hers for than for any title in England. 
 
 Pltitts. She has commended the softness and respectfulness ol 
 my behaviour. 
 
 'Nov. She has praised the briskness of my raillery, of all things, 
 man. 
 
 Pletus. The sleepiness of my eyes she liked. 
 
 Nm>. Sleepiness ! dulness, dulness. But the fierceness of mine 
 she adored. 
 
 Plaus. The brightness of my hair she liked. 
 
 Nov. The brightness ! no, the greasiness, I warrant. !kit the 
 blackness and lustre of mine she admires. 
 
 Plaus. The gentleness of my smile. ^ 
 
 Nm>. The subtlety of my leer. 
 
 Plaus. The clearness of my complexion. 
 
 Nov. The redness of my lips. 
 
 Plaus. The whiteness of my teeth. 
 
 Nm 1 . My jaunty way of picking them. 
 
 Plaus. The sweetness of my breath 
 
 NOT.'. Ha ! ha ! nay, then she abused vou, 'tis plain ; for you 
 know what Manly said : the sweetness of your pulvillio she might 
 mean ; but for your breath ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Your breath is such, 
 man. that nothing but tobacco can perflime ; and your complexion 
 nothing could mend but the small-pox. 
 
 Plaus. Well, sir, you may please to be merry ; but, to put you 
 out of all doubt, sir, she has received some jewels from me of value. 
 
 Nov. And presents from me ; besides what I presented her 
 jauntily, by way of ombre, of three or four hundred pounds value, 
 which I'm sure are the earnest-pence for our love-bargain. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, then, sir, with your favour, and to make an end of 
 all your hopes, look you there, sir, she has writ to me 
 
 Nov. How ! how ! well, well, and so she has to me ; look you 
 there [Deliver to each other their letters. 
 
 Plaus. What's here ? 
 
 Nov. How's this ?
 
 SCENE ii.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 155 
 
 [Reads outJ] My dear Lord, You'll excuse me for breaking #ty 
 word with you, si net 'twas to oblige, not offend you ; for J a in, only 
 gone abroad but to disappoint Novel, and meet you in the drawing- 
 room ; where I expect you with as much impatience as when 1 used 
 to suffer Novel's visits the most impertinent fop that ever affected 
 the name of a wit, therefore not capable, I hope, to give yox 
 jealousy ; for, for your sake alone, you saw I renounced an old 
 lover, and will do all the world. Burn the letter, but lay up the 
 kindness of it in your heart, with your OLIVIA. 
 Very fine, but pray let's see mine. 
 
 Plaus. I understand it not ; but sure she cannot think so of me. 
 
 Nov. [Reads the other letter^ Hum ! ha ! meetfor your sake 
 hum quitted an old lover world burn in your heart with 
 
 Just the same, the names only altejred. 
 
 Plaits. Surely there must be some mistake, or somebody has 
 abused her and us. 
 
 Nov. Yes, you are abused, no doubt on't, my lord ; but I'll to 
 Whitehall and see. 
 
 Plaus. And I. where I shall find you are abused. 
 
 Nov. Where, if it be so, for our comfort, we cannot fail of meet- 
 ing with fellow-sufferers enough ; for, as Freeman said of another, 
 she stands in the drawing-room, like the glass, ready for all comers, 
 to set their gallantry by her ; and, like the glass too, lets no man 
 go from her unsatisfied with himself. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter OLIVIA and BOY. 
 
 Qliv. Both here, and just gone ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, madan. 
 
 Qliv. But are you sure neither :,.v.v you deliver the other a letter? 
 
 Boy. Yes, yes, madaui, I am very sure. 
 
 Oliv. Go then to the Old Exchange, to Westminster, Holborn, 
 and all the other places I told you off ; I shall not nee<,i you these 
 two hours. Begone, and take the candle with you. and be sure you 
 leave word again below, I am gone out, to all that ask. 
 
 Pay. Yes, madam. \jExU. 
 
 Oliv. And my new lover will not ask, I'm sure. He has his 
 lesson, and cannot miss me here, though in the dark ; which I have- 
 purposely designed, as a remedy against my blushing gallant's 
 modesty, for young lovers, like game cocks, are made bolder by 
 being kept without light. 
 
 Enter VKRNISH, as from a journey. 
 
 Vcr. Where is she ? Darkness everywhere ! \Seftly. 
 
 Oliv. What ! come before your time ! My soul ! my life ! your 
 haste has augmented your kindness : and let me thank you for it 
 thus, and thus. {Embracing and kissing him."} And though, nij 
 soul, the little time since you left me has seemed an age to my inv 
 patience, sure it is yet but seven
 
 156 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT IV. 
 
 Vcr. How ! who's that you expected after seven ? 
 
 Oliv. Ha ! my husband returned ! and have I been throwing 
 away so many kind kisses on my husband, and wronged my lover 
 already ? [Aside. 
 
 Vcr, Speak, I say. Who was't you expected after seven ? 
 
 Oliv. [aside]. What shall I say ? oh. [Aloud.'] Why, 'tis but 
 seven days, is it, dearest, since you went out of town ? and I ex- 
 pected you not so soon. 
 
 Ver. No, sure, 'tis but five days since I left you. 
 
 Oliv. Pardon my impatience, dearest, I thought : em sevca at 
 least. 
 
 Vcr. Nay, then 
 
 Oliv. But, my life, you shall never stay half so long from me 
 again ; you shan't indeed, by this kiss you shan't 
 
 Ver. No, no ; but why alone in the dark ? 
 
 Oliv. Blame not my melancholy in your absence ; but, my 
 soul, since you went, I have strange news to tell you : Manly is 
 returned. 
 
 Ver. Manly returned ! Fortune forbid ! 
 
 Oliv. Met with the Dutch in the Channel, fought, sunk his ship, 
 and all he carried with him. He was here with me yesterday. 
 
 Ver. And did you own our marriage to him ? 
 
 Oliv. I told him I was married to put an end to his love and my 
 trouble ; but to whom, is yet a secret kept from him and all the 
 world. And I have used him so scurvily, his great spirit will ne'er 
 return to reason it farther with me : I have sent him to sea again, 
 I warrant. 
 
 Ver. 'Twas bravely done. And sure he will now hate the shore 
 more than ever, after so great a disappointment. Be you sure only 
 to keep a while our great secret, till he be gone. In the mean- 
 time, I'll lead the easy, honest fool by the nose, as I used to do ; 
 and whilst he stays, rail with him at thce ; and when he's gone, 
 laugh with thee at him. But have you his cabinet of jewels 
 safe ? part not with a seed-pearl to him, to keep him from starving. 
 
 Oliv. Nor from hanging. 
 
 Ver. He cannot recover 'em ; and, I think, will scorn to beg 'em 
 again. 
 
 Oliv. But, my life, have you taken the thousand guineas he left 
 in my name out of the goldsmith's hands ? 
 
 Ver. Ay, ay ; they are removed to another goldsmith's. 
 Oliv. Ay. but, my soul, you h id best have a care he find not 
 where the money is ; for his present wants, as I'm informed, arc 
 such as will make him inquisitive enough. 
 
 Ver. You say true, and he knows the man too ; but 111 remove 
 it to-morrow. 
 
 Oliv. To-morrow ! O do not stay till to-morrow ; go to-night, 
 immediately. 
 
 Ver. Now I think on't, you advise well, and I will go presently. 
 Oliv. Presently ! instantly ! I will not let you stay a jot.
 
 SCEM* IK] THE PLAIN DEALER. 157 
 
 Ver. I will then, though I return not home till twelve. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, though not till morning, with all my heart. Go, 
 dearest; I am impatient till you are gone. [Thrusts him out.] So, 
 I have at once now brought about those two grateful businesses, 
 which all prudent women do together, secured money and pleasure ; 
 and now all interruptions of the last are removed. Go husband, 
 and come up, friend ; just the buckets in the well ; the absence of 
 one brings the other. But I hope, like them too, they will not meet 
 in the way, jostle, and clash together. 
 
 I 
 
 Enter FIDKLIA and MANLY, treading softly and staying behind 
 at some distance. 
 
 So, are you come ? (but not the husband-bucket, I hope, again.) 
 Who's there ? my dearest ? [Softly. 
 
 Fid. My life 
 
 Oliv. Right, right. Where are thy lips ! Here, take the dumb 
 and best welcomes, kisses and embraces ; 'tis not a time for idle 
 words. In a duel of love, as in others, parleying shows basely. 
 Come, we are alone. 
 
 Man. How's this ? Why, she makes love like a devil in a play ; 
 and in this darkness, which conceals her angel's face, if I were apt 
 to be afraid, I should think her a devil. [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. What, you traverse ground, young gentleman ! 
 
 [FIDELIA avoiding her. 
 Fid. I take breath only. 
 
 Man. Good heavens ! how was I deceived ! [Assdc. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, you are a coward ; what, are you afraid of the fierce- 
 ness of my love ? 
 
 Fid. Y'es, madam, lest its violence might presage its change ; and 
 I must needs be afraid you would leave me quickly, who could 
 desert so brave a gentleman as Manly. 
 Oliv. O, name not his name ! 
 Fid. But did you not love him ? 
 Oliv. Never. How could you think it ? 
 
 Fid. Because he thought it ; who is a man of that sense, nice 
 discerning, and diffidency, that I should think it hard to deceive 
 him. 
 
 Oliv. No ; he that distrusts most the world, trusts most to 
 himself, and is but the more easily deceived, because he thinks he 
 can't be deceived. His cunning is like the coward's sword, by which 
 he is oftcncr worsted than defended. 
 
 Fid. Yet, sure, you used no common art to deceive him. 
 
 Oliv. 1 knew he loved his own singular moroseness so well, as to 
 
 dote upon any cony of it ; wherefore I feigned a hatred to the 
 
 world too, that he might love me in earnest ; but, if it had been 
 
 hard to deceive him. I'm sure 'twere much harder to love him. A 
 
 dogged, ill-mannered 
 
 Fid. D'ye hear, sir? pray, hear her. [Aside to MANLY.
 
 158 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 \ ' 
 
 Oliv. Surly, untractable, snarling brute ! He ! a mastiff dog 
 were as fit a thing to make a gallant of. 
 
 Man, Ay, a goat, or monkey, were fitter for thee. [Aside. 
 
 Fid. I must confess, for my part, though my rival, I cannot but 
 say he has a manly handsomeness in's face and mien. 
 
 Oliv. So has a Saracen in the sign. 
 
 Fid. Is proper, and well made. 
 
 Oliv. As a drayman. 
 
 Fid. Has wit. * 
 
 Oliv. He rails at all mankind. 
 
 Fid. And undoubted courage. 
 
 Oliv. Like the hangman's ; can murder a man when his hands 
 are tied. He has cruelty indeed ; which is no more courage than 
 his railing is wit. 
 
 jffdn. Thus women, and men like women, are too hard for us, 
 when they think we do not hear 'em. [Aside. 
 
 Fid. He is 
 
 Oliv. Prithee, no more of him ; I thought I had satisfied you 
 enough before, that he could never be a rival for you to apprehend. 
 And you need not be more assured of my aversion to him, than by 
 the testimony of my love to you. Come, my soul, this way. 
 
 Fid. But, madam, what could make you dissemble love to him, 
 when 'twas so hard a thing for you ; and flatter his love to you ? 
 
 Oliv. That which makes all the world flatter ;:nd dissemble, 
 'twas his money : I had a real passion for that. Yet I loved not 
 that so well, as for it to take him ; for as soon as I had his money 
 I hastened his departure like a wife, who when she has made the 
 most of a dying husband's breath, pulls away his pillow. 
 
 Man. Damned money ! its master's potent rival still ; and cor- 
 rupts itself the mistress it procures for us. [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. But I did not think with you, my life, to pass my time 
 in talking. Come hither, come ; yet stay, till 1 have locked a door 
 in the other room, that may chance to let us in some interruption ; 
 which reciting poets or losing gamesters fear not more than I at 
 this time do. [Exit. 
 
 Fid. Well, I hope you are now satisfied, sin, and will be gone to 
 think of your revenge ? 
 
 Man. No, I am not satisfied, and must stay to be revenged. 
 Fid. How, sir? You'll use no violence to her, I hope, and forfeit 
 your own life, to take away hers ? that were no revenge. 
 
 Man. No, no, you need not fear : my revenge shall only be upon 
 her honour, not her life. 
 
 Fid. How, sir ? her honour ? O heavens ! consider, sir, she has 
 no honour. D'ye call that revenge ? can you think of such a thing? 
 But reflect, sir, how she hates and loathes you. No, sir, no ; to be 
 revenged on her now, were to disappoint her. Pray, sir, let us 
 begone. [Pulls MANLY 
 
 Man. Hold off ! What, you are my rival then ! and therefore 
 you shall stay, and keep the door for me, whilst I go in for you
 
 n. J THE PLAIN DEALER: i S9 
 
 but when I'm gone, if you dare to stir c.ff from this very board, or 
 breathe the least murmuring accent, I'll cut her throat first ; and if 
 you love her, you will not venture her life. Nay, then I'll cutyoui 
 throat too ; and I know you love your own life at least. 
 
 Fill. B'.ut, sir ; good sir. 
 
 Man. Not a word more, lest I begin my revenge on her by 
 killing you. 
 
 Fid. But are you sure 'tis revenge that makes \ou do this: how 
 can it be ? 
 
 Man. Whist ! 
 
 Fid. ; Tis a strange revenge, indeed. 
 
 Man. If you make me stay, I shall keep my word, and begin 
 with you. No more. [Exit at the same door OLIVIA went out by. 
 
 Fid. O heavens ! is there not punishment enough 
 In loving well, if you will have't a crime, 
 But you must add fresh torments daily to't, 
 And punish us like peevish rivals still. 
 Because we fain would find a heaven here ? 
 But did there never any love like me, 
 That untried tortures you must find me out ? 
 Others at worst, you force to kill themselves ; 
 But I must be self-murderess of my love. 
 Yet will not grant me power to end my life, 
 My cruel life \ for when a lover's hopes 
 Are dead and gone, life is unmerciful. 
 
 Jsits aoiun and weeps. 
 
 Re-enter MANLY. 
 
 Man. I have thought better on't : I must not discover myseif now 
 I am without witnesses ; for if I barely should publish it, slje would 
 deny it with impudence. Where are you ? 
 
 Fid. Here oh now I suppose we may be gone. 
 
 Man. I will ; but not you. You must stay and act the second 
 part of a lover, that is, talk kindness to her. 
 
 Fid. Not I, sir. 
 
 Man. No disputing, sir, you must ; 'tis necessary to my design of 
 coming again to-morrow night. 
 
 Fid. What, can you come again then hither? 
 
 Man. Yes ; and you must make the appointment, and an 
 npology for your leaving her so soon ; for I have said not a word 
 to her ; but have kept your counsel, as I expect you should do 
 mine. Do this faithfully, and I promise you here, you shall run my 
 fortune still, and we will never part as long as we live ; but if you 
 do not do it, expect not to live. 
 
 Fid. 'Tis hard, sir ; but such a consideration will make it easier. 
 You won't forget your promise, sir? 
 
 Matt. No. by heavens. But I hear tier coming
 
 160 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT IV. 
 
 Re- fitter OLIVIA. 
 
 Oliv. Where is my life ? Run, from me already ! You do not 
 love me* dearest ; nay, you are angry with me, for you would not 
 so much as speak a kind word to me within : what was the reason ? 
 
 Fid. I was transported too much. 
 
 Oliv, That's kind. But come, my soul, what make you here ? 
 Let us go in again; we may be surprised in this room, 'tis so near 
 the stairs. 
 
 Fid. No, we shall hear the better here, if anybody should come 
 up. 
 
 Olii'. Nay, I assure you, we shall be secure enough within : 
 come, come 
 
 Fid. I am sick, and troubled with a sudden dizziness ; and 
 cannot stir yet. 
 
 Oliv. Come, I have spirits within. 
 
 Fid. O ! don't you hear a noise, madam ? 
 
 Oliv. No, no; there is none : come, come. 
 
 Fid. Indeed there is; and I love you so much, I must have a 
 care of your honour, if you won't, and go ; but to come to you 
 to-morrow night, if you please. 
 
 Oliv. With all my soul. But you must not go yet ; come, 
 prithee. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! I'm now sicker, and am afraid of one of my fits. 
 
 Oliv. What fits ? 
 
 Fid. Of the falling sickness ; and I lie generally an hour in a 
 trance : therefore pray consider your honour for the sake of my 
 love, and let me go, that I may return to you often. 
 
 Oliv. But will you be sure then to come to-morrow night ? 
 
 Fid. Yes. 
 
 Oliv. -Swear. 
 
 Fid. By our past kindness. 
 
 Oliv. Well, go your ways then, if you will, you.naughty creature 
 
 you. \_Exit FIDELIA.] These young lovers, with their fears and 
 
 modesty, make themselves as bad as old ones to us ; and I appre- 
 hend their bashfulness more than their tattling. 
 
 Re-enter FIDELIA. 
 
 Fid, O madam, we're undone ! There was a gentleman upon 
 the stairs, coming up with a candle, which -made me retire. Look 
 you, here he comes ! 
 
 Re-enter VERNISH and his SERVANT, with a light. 
 
 Oliv. How, my husband ! Oh, undone indeed ! This way. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ver. Ha ! you shall not escape me so, sir. [Stops FIDELIA. 
 
 Fid. O heavens ! more fears, pkigues and torments yet in store !
 
 SCENE 1 1.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 161 
 
 Ver. Come, sir, I guess what your business was hero, but this 
 must be your business now. Draw. \Dra-*i*. 
 
 Fid. Sir 
 
 Ver. No expostulations ; I shall not care to hear oft. Draw. 
 
 Fid. Good sir ! 
 
 Ver. How, you rascal ! not courage to draw ; yet durst do me 
 the greatest injury in the world? Thy cowardice shall not save 
 thy life. \OJJers to run at FIDELIA. 
 
 Fid. O hold, sir, and send but your servant down, and I'll satisfy 
 you, sir, I could not injure you as you imagine. 
 
 Ver. Leave the lig-lit and begone. [Exit SERVANT.] Nov.', 
 quickly, sir, what have you to say, or 
 
 Fid. I am a woman, sir, a very unfortunate woman. 
 
 Ver. How ! a very handsome woman, I'm sure then ; here arc- 
 witnesses of it too, I confess. [Aside.] Well, I'm glad to find the 
 tables turned ; my wife is in more danger of cuckolding than 1 
 was. 
 
 Fid. Now, sir, I hope you are so much a man of honour as to let 
 me go, now I have satisfied you, sir. 
 
 Ver. When you have satisfied me, madam, I will. 
 
 Fid. 1 hope, sir, you are too much a gentleman to urge those 
 secrets from a woman which concern her honour. You may guess 
 my misfortune to be love, by my disguise. 
 
 Ver. I may believe love has changed your outside, which could 
 not wrong me ; but why did my wife run away ? 
 
 Fid. I know not, sir ; perhaps because she would not be forced 
 to discover me to you, or to guide me from your suspicions, that 
 you might not discover me yourself ; which ungentlemanlike 
 curiosity I hope you will cease to have, and let me go. 
 
 Ver. Well, madam, if I must not know who you are, 'twill suffice 
 for me only to know certainly what you are ; which you must not 
 deny me. Come. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! what d'ye mean ? Help 1 oh ! 
 
 Ver. I'll show you ; but 'tis in vain to cry out : no one dares help 
 you ; for I am lord here. 
 
 Fid. Tyrant here ! But if you are master of this house, which I 
 have taken for a sanctuary, do not violate it yourself. 
 
 Ver. No ; I'll preserve you here, and nothing shall hurt you, and 
 will be as true to you as your disguise ; but you must trust me then. 
 Come, come. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! oh ! rather than you should drag me to a death so 
 horrid and so shameful, I'll die here a thousand deaths. Oh ! oh 1 
 help ! help ! 
 
 Re -c liter SERVANT. 
 
 Ver. You saucy rascal, how durst you come in ? Wiien you 
 heard a woman squeak, that should have been your cue to shut the 
 door. 
 
 Scn>. I come, sir, to let you know, the alderman coming home 
 
 F
 
 i6a THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 immediately after you were at his house, has sent his cashier with 
 the money, according to your note. 
 
 Ver. Plague on his money ! Money never came to any, sure, un- 
 seasonably till now. Bid him stay. 
 
 Serv. He says, he cannot a moment. 
 
 Ver. Receive it you then. 
 
 Serv. He says he must have your receipt for it ; he is in haste, 
 for I hear him coming up, sir. 
 
 Vtr. Help me in here then with this dishonourer of my family. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Serv. You say she is a woman, sir. 
 
 Ver. No matter, sir ; must you prate ? 
 
 Fid. Oh Heavens ! Is there 
 
 {They thrust her in, and lock the door. 
 
 Ver. Stay there, my prisoner ; you have a short reprieve. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. ELIZA'S Lodgings. 
 Enter OLIVIA and ELIZA. 
 
 Oliv. Ah, cousin ! nothing troubles me but that I have given the 
 malicious world its revenge, and reason now to talk as freely of me 
 as I used to do of it. 
 
 Eliza. Faith, then, let not that trouble you ; for, to be plain, 
 cousin, the world cannot talk worse of you than it did before. 
 
 Oliv. How, cousin ! I'd have you to know, before this faux pas, 
 this trip of mine, the world could not talk of me. 
 
 Eliza. Only that you mind other people's actions so much that 
 you take no care of your own, but to hide 'em ; that, like a thief, 
 because you know yourself most guilty, you impeach your fellow- 
 criminals first, to clear yourself. 
 
 Oliv. O wicked world ! 
 
 Rlisa. That you pretend an aversion to all mankind in public, 
 only that their wives and mistresses may not be jealous, and hinder 
 you of their conversation in private 
 
 Oliv. Base world ! 
 
 Eliza. That abroad you fasten quarrels upon innocent men for 
 tnlking of you, only to bring 'cm to ask your pardon at home, and 
 to become dear friends with them, who wore hardly your accniaint- 
 ance before. 
 
 Oliv. Abominable world ! 
 
 Eliza. That you deface the nudities of pictures, and little statues, 
 only because they arc not real. 
 
 Oliv. O, fie. fie, fie ! hideous, hideous ! Cousin, the obscenity of 
 their censures makes me blush ! 
 
 Elisci. The truth of 'cm, Ihe naughty world would say now.
 
 SCENE I.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 163 
 
 Enter LETTICE, hastily. 
 
 Let. O, madam ! here is that gentleman coming up who now you 
 say is my master. 
 
 Oliv. 0, cousin ! whither shall I run ? Protect me, or 
 
 [OLIVIA runs away, and stands at a distance. 
 
 Enter VERNISH. 
 
 Ver. Nay, nay, come 
 
 Oliv. O, sir, forgive me ' 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes ; I can forgive you being alone in the dark with a 
 woman in man's clothes ; but have a care of a man in woman's 
 clothes. 
 
 OCiv. What does he mean ? He dissembles only to get me into 
 his power ; or has my dear friend made him believe he was a 
 woman ? My husband may be deceived by him, but I'm sure I 
 was not. [Aside. 
 
 Ver. Come, come, you need not have lain out of your house for 
 this. Put perhaps you were afraid, when I was warm with suspi- 
 cions ; you must have discovered who she was. And, prithee, may 
 I not know it ? 
 
 Oliv. She was ! [Aside.] I hope he has been deceived ; and 
 
 since my lover has played the card I must not renounce. 
 
 Ver. Come, what's the matter with thee ? If I must not know 
 who she is, I'm satisfied without. Come hither . 
 
 Oliv. Sure you do know her. She has told you herself, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Ver. No. I might have known her better but that I was inter- 
 rupted by the goldsmith, you know, and was forced to lock her into 
 your chamber, to keep her from his sight ; but, when I returned, I 
 found she was got away by tying the window-curtains to the bal- 
 cony, by which she slid down into the street. For, you must know, 
 I jested with her, and made her believe what she apprehended, it 
 seems, in earnest. 
 
 Oliv. Then she got from you ? 
 
 Ver. Yes. 
 
 Oliv. And is quite gone. 
 
 Ver. Yes. 
 
 OltT. I'm glad on't. What ! there's guilt in your face ; you 
 blush, too. I could tear out those false eyes, barbarous, unworthy 
 w re tcli ! 
 
 J-'.liztJ. So, so ! 
 
 Ver. Prithee hear, my dear. 
 
 Oliv. I will never hear you, my plague, my torment ! 
 
 Ver. I swear prithee, hear me. 
 
 Oliv. I have heard already too many of your fake oaths and 
 vows, especially your last in the church. O wicked man ! and 
 
 F 2
 
 164 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 wretched woman that I was ! I wish I had then sunk down into a 
 grave, rather than to bave given you my hand. Oh oh. 
 
 [Pretends to weep, 
 
 Vtr. So, very fine ! just a marriage-quarrel ! which though it 
 generally begins by the wife's fault, yet, in the conclusion, it be- 
 comes the husband's ; and whosoever offends at first, he only is 
 sure to ask pardon at last. My dear 
 
 Oliv. Wretch! 
 
 Ver. Come, prithee be appeased, and go home ; I have bespoken 
 our supper betimes : for I could not eat till I found you. Go, I'll 
 give you all kind of satisfactions ; and one, which uses to be a 
 reconciling one, two hundred of those guineas I received last night, 
 to do what you will with. 
 
 Oliv. What, would you pay me. 
 
 Vcr, Nay, prithee no more ; go, and I'll thoroughly satisfy you 
 when I come home ; and then, too, we will have a fit of laughter at 
 Manly, whom I am going to nnd at the Cock, in Bow Street, where 
 I hear he dined. Go, dearest, go home. 
 
 Eliza. A very pretty turn, indeed, this ! [Aside. 
 
 Vcr. Now, cousin, since by my wife I have that honour and 
 privilege of calling you so, I have something to beg of you too ; 
 which is not to take notice of our marriage to any whatever yet 
 awhile, for some reasons very important to me. And next, that 
 you will do my wife the honour to go home with her ; and me the 
 favour to use that power you have with her in our reconcilement. 
 
 Elisa. That I dare promise, sir. will be no hard matter. Your 
 servant. [Exit VERNISH.] Well, cousin, this, I confess, was 
 re;isonable hypocrisy ; you were the better fort. 
 
 O.'iv. What, hypocrisy ? 
 
 Eliza. Why, this last, deceit of your husband was lawful, since 
 in your own defence. 
 
 Oliv. What deceit ? I'd have you to know I never deceived my 
 husband. 
 
 Eliza. You Ho not understand me, sure ; I say, this was an 
 honest come-off, and a good one. But 'twas a sign your gallant 
 had had enough of your conversation, since he could so dexterously 
 cheat your husband in passing for a woman. 
 
 Oliv. What d'ye mean, once more : with my gallant, and passing 
 for a woman ? 
 
 Eliza. What do you mean ? you see your husband took him for 
 a woman. 
 
 Oliv. Whom ! 
 
 Eliza. Heyday ! why, the man he found you with, for whom last 
 night you were so much afraid, and who you told me 
 
 Oliv. Lord, you rave sure ! 
 
 Eliza. Why, did not you tell me last night 
 
 Oliv. I know not what I might tell you last night, in a fright. 
 
 Eliza. Ay, what was that fright for? fora woman ? besides, were 
 you not afraid to see your husband just now ? Nay, did you not
 
 SCENE IK] THE PLAIN DEALER. 165 
 
 just now, too, own your false step, or trip, as you called it ? which 
 was with a woman too ! fy, this fooling is so insipid, 'tis offensive ! 
 
 Oliv. And fooling with my honour will be more offensive. Did 
 you not hear my husband say he found me with. a woman in man's 
 clothes ? and d'ye think he does not know a man from a woman ? 
 
 Eliza. Not so well, I'm sure, as you do ; therefore I'd rather take 
 your word. 
 
 Oliv. What, you grow scurrilous, and arc, I find, more censorious 
 than the world ! I must have a care of you, I see. 
 
 Eliza. No, \ou need not fear yet, I'll keep your secret. 
 
 Oliv. My secret ! I'd have you to know, I have no need of con- 
 fidants, though you value yourself .upon being a good one. 
 
 Eliza. O admirable confidence ! you show more in denying your 
 wickedness, than other people in glorying in't. 
 
 Oliv. Confidence, to me ! to me such language ! nay, then I'll 
 never see your face again. \AsidcI\ I'll quarrel with her, that 
 people may never believe I was in her power ; but take for malice 
 all the truth she may speak against inc. [A laud.'] Lcttice, where 
 are you ? Let us be gone from this censorious ill woman. 
 
 Eliza, \aside.~] Nay, thou shalt stay a little, to forswear thyself 
 quite. \_Jlioud.'] One word first, pray, madam ; can you sweat- 
 that whom your husband found you with 
 
 Oliv. Swear! ay, that whosoever 'twas that stole up, unknown, 
 into my room, when 'twas dark, I know not, whether man or woman, 
 by heavens, by all that's sood ; or, may I never more have joys 
 
 here, or in the other world ! Nay, may I eternally 
 
 Eliza. Be lost. So, so, you are lost enough already by your 
 oaths ; and I enough confirmed, and now you may please to be 
 gone. Yet take this advice with you, in this plain-dealing age, to 
 leave off forswearing yourself; for when people hardly think the 
 better of a woman for her real modesty, why should you put that 
 great constraint upon yourself to feign it ? 
 
 Oliv. O hideous, hideous advice ! let us go out of the hearing of 
 it. She will spoil us, Lettice. 
 
 [Exeunt OLIVIA and LE'ITICE at one door, ELIZA at the other. 
 
 SCENE \\.-Thc Cock in Bow Street. A Table and Dottles. 
 Enter MANLY and FIDELIA. 
 
 Man. How ! saved her honour by making her husband believe 
 you were a woman ! "Fwas well, but hard enough to do, sure. 
 
 fid. \Ve were interrupted before he could contradict iv.e. 
 
 Man. But can't you tell me, d'ye say, what kind of man he was ? 
 
 Fid. I was so frightened, I confess. I can give no other account 
 of him, but that he was pretty tail, round-faced, and one, I'm sure, 
 I ne : cr had seen before. 
 
 Man. But she, you say, made you swear to return to-night t
 
 166 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 Fid. But I have since sworn, never to go near her again ; for the 
 husband would murder me, or worse, if he caught me again. 
 
 Man. No, I will go with you, and defend you to-night, and then 
 I'll swear, too, never to go near her again. 
 
 Fid. Nay, indeed, sir, I will not go, to be accessory to your 
 death too. Besides, what should you go again, sir, for ? 
 
 Man. No disputing, or advice, sir ; you have reason to know I am 
 unalterable. Go therefore presently, and write her a note, to inquire 
 if her assignation with you holds ; and if not to be at her own house, 
 where else ; and be importunate to gain admittance to her to-night. 
 Let your messenger, ere he deliver your letter, inquire first if her 
 husband be gone out. Go, 'tis now almost six of the clock ; I 
 expect you back here before seven, with leave to see her then. Go, 
 do this dexterously, and expect the performance of my last night's 
 promise, never to part with you. 
 
 Fid, Ay, sir; but will you be sure to remember that ? 
 
 Man. Did I ever break my word? Go, no more replies, or 
 doubts. \Exit FIDELIA. 
 
 Enter FREEMAN. 
 Where hast thou been ? 
 
 Free. In the next room, with my Lord Plausible and Novel. 
 
 Man. Ay, we came hither, because 'twas a private house; but 
 with thee indeed no house can be private, for thou hast that pretty 
 quality of the familiar fops of the town, who, in an eating-house, 
 always keep company with all people in't but those they came 
 with. 
 
 Free. I went into their room, but to keep them, and my own fool, 
 the squire, out of your room ; but you shall be peevish now, because 
 you have no money. But why won't you write to those we were 
 speaking of? Since your modesty, or your spirit, will not suffer you 
 to speak to 'em, to lend you money, why won't you try 'em at last 
 that way ? 
 
 Man. Because I know 'em already, and can bear want better 
 than denials, nay. than obligations. 
 
 Free. Deny you ! they cannot. All of 'em have been your 
 intimate frivnds. 
 
 Man. No, they have been people only I have obliged 
 particularly. 
 
 Free. Very well ; therefore you ought to go x to 'cm the rather 
 sure. 
 
 Man. No, no. Those you have obliged most, most certainly 
 avoid you, when you can oblige 'cm no longer ; and they take your 
 visits like so many duns. 
 
 Free. Pshaw! but most of 'cm are your relations ; men of great 
 fortune and honour. 
 
 Man. Yes; but relations have so much honour as to think 
 poverty taints the blood, and disown their wanting kindred ; 
 believing, I suppose, that as riches at first make a gentleman, the
 
 SCENE 1 1. J THE PLAIN DEALER. 167 
 
 want of 'em degrades him. But now I am poor, I'll anticipate their 
 contempt, and disown them. 
 
 Free. Well, but noble captain, would you make me believe that 
 you, who know half the town, have so many friends, and have 
 obliged so many, can't borrow fifty or a hundred pounds ? 
 
 Man. Why, noble lieutenant, you who know all the town, and call 
 all you know friends, methinks should not wonder at it, since you 
 find ingratitude too. For how many lords' families (though 
 descended from blacksmiths or tinkers) hast thou called great and 
 illustrious? how many ill tables called good eating? how many 
 noisy coxcombs wits? how many pert coaching cowards stout ? how 
 many tawdry affected rogues well-dressed? how many perukes 
 admired ? and how many ill verses applauded ? and yet canst not 
 borrow a shilling. Dost thou expect I, who always spoke truth, 
 should ? 
 
 Free. Nay, now you think you have paid me ; but hark you, 
 captain, I have heard of a thing called grinning honour, but never 
 of starving honour. 
 
 Man. Well, but it has been the fate of some brave men ; and if 
 they won't give me a ship again, I can go starve anywhere with a 
 musket on my shoulder. 
 
 Free. Give you a ship ! why, you will not solicit it. 
 
 Man. If I have not solicited it by my services, I know no other 
 way. 
 
 Free. Your servant, sir ; nay, then I'm satisfied, I must solicit 
 my widow the closer, and run the desperate fortune of matrimony 
 on shore. \Evit. 
 
 Enter VERNISH. 
 
 Man. How! Nay, here is a friend indeed ; and he that has him 
 in his arms can know no wants. [Embraces VERNISH. 
 
 Vcr. Dear Sir ! and he that is in your arms is secure from all 
 /cars whatever ; nay, our nation is secure by your defeat at sea. and 
 the Dutch that fought against you have proved enemies to them- 
 selves only in bringing you back to us. 
 
 Man. Fie ! lie ! this from a friend ? and yet from any other 'twere 
 insufferable ; I thought I should never have taken anything ill 
 from you. 
 
 Vcr. A friend's privilege is to speak his mind, though it be taken 
 ill. 
 
 Man. But your tongue need not tell me you think too well of me; 
 I have found it from your heart, which spoke in actions, your 
 unalterable heart. Hut Olivia is false, my friend, which I suppose 
 is no news to you. 
 
 Ver. He's in the right on't. \Asidc. 
 
 Man. But couldst thou not keep her true to me ? 
 
 Vcr. Not for my heart, sir. 
 
 Man. But could you not perceive it at all before 1 went ; could 
 she so deceive us both ?
 
 1 68 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 Ver. I must confess, the first time I knew it was three days after 
 your departure, when she received the money you had left in 
 Lombard Street in her name ; auid her tears did not hinder her, it 
 seems, from counting that. You would trust her "with all, like a 
 true generous lover. 
 
 Man. And she like a mean jilting 
 
 Ver. Traitorous 
 
 Man. Base 
 
 Ver. Vile 
 
 Man. Covetous 
 
 Ver. Mercenary. [Aside.] I can hardly hold from laughing. 
 
 Man. Ay, mercenary, indeed ; for she made me pay last nigllt. 
 
 Ver. When? 
 
 Man. Last night, about seven or eight of the clock. 
 
 Ver. Ha ! [Aside.] Now I remember, I thought she spake as if 
 she expected some other rather than me. Traitorous, indeed ! 
 
 Man. But what, thou wonderest at it ? nay, you seem to be angry 
 too. 
 
 Ver. I cannot but be enraged against her, for her usage of you : 
 infamous jade ! 
 
 Mar. But thou dost not, for so great a friend, take pleasure 
 enough in your friend's revenge, methinks. 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes ; I'm glad to know it. 
 
 Man. Thou canst not tell who that poor rascal, her husband is ? 
 
 Ver. No. 
 
 Man. She would keep it from you, I suppose. 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes. 
 
 Man. Thou wouldst laugh, if thou knewest but all the circum- 
 stances. Come, I'll tell thee. 
 
 Ver. Out on her 1 I care not to hear any more of her. 
 
 Man. Faith, thou shalt. You must know 
 
 Re-enter FREEMAN backwards, endeavouring to keep out NOVEL, 
 LOUD PLAUSIBLE, JERRY and OLDFOX, who all press upon 
 
 h. ; ;n. 
 
 free. I tell you he would be private. 
 
 Man. So ! a man can't open a bottle in these eating-houses, but 
 presently you have these impudent, intruding, buzzing flies and 
 insects in your glass. Well, I'll tell thee all anon. In the mean- 
 time, prithee go to her, but not from me, and try if you can get her 
 to lend me but a hundred pounds of my money, to supply my pre- 
 sent wants ; for I suppose there is no recovering any of it by law. 
 
 Ver. Not any ; think not of it. Nor by this way neither. 
 
 Man. Go try, at least. 
 
 Ver. I'll go ; but I can satisfy you beforehand it will be to no 
 purpose. 
 
 Man. However, try her ; put it to her. 
 
 Ver. Ay, ay, I'll try her ; put it to her home with a vengeance. 
 
 {Exit.
 
 SCENE II.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 169 
 
 Nov. Nay, you shall be our judge, Manly. Come, major, I'll 
 speak it to your teeth ; if people provoke me to say bitter things 
 to their faces, they must take what follows ; though, like my Lord 
 Plausible, I'd rather dc/t civilly behind their backs. 
 
 Man. Nay, thou art a dangerous rogue, I've heard, behind a 
 man's back. 
 
 Plaus. You wrong him sure, noble captain ; he would do a man 
 no more harm behind his back than to his face. 
 
 J'rce. I am of my lord's mind. 
 
 Man. Yes, a fool, like a coward, is the more to be feared behind 
 a man's back more than a witty man ; for, as a coward is more 
 .bloody than a brave man, a fool is more malicious than a man of 
 wit. 
 
 Nov. A fool, tar, a fool ! nay, thou art a brave sea-judge of 
 wit ! a fool ! Prithee when did you ever find me want something to 
 say, as you do often ? 
 
 Alan. Nay, I confess thou art always talking, roaring, or making 
 a noise ; that I'll say for thee. 
 
 Nov. Well, and is talking a sign of a fool ? 
 
 Man. Yes, always talking, especially too if it be loud and fast, 
 is the sign of a fool. 
 
 Nov. Pshaw! talking is like fencing, th; quicker the better; 
 run 'em down, run 'em down, no matter for parrying ; push on 
 still, sa, sa, sa ! No matter whether you argue in form, push in 
 guard or no. 
 
 Man. Or hit or no ; I think thou always talkcst without think- 
 ing, Novel. 
 
 Nov. Ay, ay ; studied play's the worst, to follow the allegory, as 
 the old pedant says. 
 
 Old. A young fop f 
 
 Man. I ever thought the man of most wit had been like him of 
 most money, who has no vanity in showing it everywhere, whilst 
 the beggarly pusher of his fortune has all he has about him still 
 only to show. 
 
 Nov. Well, sir, and make a very pretty show in the world, let me 
 tell you ; nay, a better than your close hunks. Give me ready 
 money in play ! what care I for a man's reputation ? what are we 
 the better for your substantial thrifty curmudgeon in wit, sir? 
 
 Old. Thou art a profuse young rogue indeed. 
 
 Nirv. So much for talking, which, I think, I have proved a mark 
 of wit ; and so is railing, roaring, and making a noise ; for rail- 
 ing is satire, you know ; and roaring and making a noise, humour. 
 
 Re-enter FIDELIA ; she takes MANLY aside, and shows him a paper. 
 
 Fid. The hour is betwixt seven and eight exactly : 'tis now half 
 an hour after six. 
 
 Man. Well, go then to the Piazza, and wait for me : as soon as 
 it is quite dark, I'll be with you. I must stay here yet a while for 
 my friend.- [E.rit FIDELIA.]' But is railing satire, Novel ?
 
 i;o THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT v. 
 
 Free. And roaring and making a noise, humour. 
 
 Nov. What, won't you confess there's humour in roaring and 
 making a noise ? 
 Free. No. 
 
 Nov. Nor in cutting napkins and hangings ? 
 
 Man. No. sure. 
 
 Nov. Dull fops ! 
 
 Old- O rogue, rogue, insipid rogue ! Nay, gentlemen, allow him 
 those things for wit ; for his parts lie only that way. 
 
 NOT.'. Peace, old fool ! I wonder not at thee ; but that young 
 fellows should be so dull as to say there's no humour in making a 
 noise, and breaking windows ! I tell you there's wit and humour 
 too in both ; and a wit is as well known by his frolic as by his 
 smile. 
 
 Old. Pure rogue ! there's your modern wit for you ! Wit and 
 humour in breaking of windows ! there's mischief, if you will, but 
 no wit or humour. 
 
 Nov. Prithee, prithee, peace, old fool ! I tell you, where there's 
 mischief, there's wit. Don't we esteem the monkey a wit amongst 
 beasts, only because he's mischievous ? and, let me tell you, as good- 
 nature is a sign of a fool, being mischievous is a sign of a wit. 
 
 Old. O rogue, rogue ! pretend to be a wit, by doing mischief and 
 railing ! 
 
 Nov. Why thou, old fool, hast no other - pretence to the name of 
 a wit. but by railing at new plays ! 
 
 Old. Thou, by railing at that facetious noble w,ay of wit, 
 quibbling ? 
 
 Nov. Thou callest thy dulness gravity ; and thy dozing, thinking. 
 
 Old. You, sir, your dulness, spleen ; and you talk much and say 
 nothing. 
 
 Nov. Thou readest much, and undcrstandcst nothing, sir. 
 
 Old. You laugh loud, and break no jest. 
 
 Nov. You rail, and nabody hangs himself; and thou hast nothing 
 of the satire but in thy face. 
 
 Old. And you have no jest but your face, sir. 
 
 Nov. Thou art an illiterate pedant. 
 
 Old. Thou art a fool with a bad memory. 
 
 Man. Come, a plague on you both ! you have done like wits now: 
 for you wits, when you quarrel, never give over till ye prove one 
 another fools. , 
 
 Nov. And you fools have never any occasion of laughing at us 
 wits but when we quarrel. Therefore let us be friends, Oldfox. 
 
 Man. They arc such wits as thou art, who make the name of a 
 wit as scandalous as that of bully, and signify a loud-laughing, 
 talking, incorrigible coxcomb, as bully, a roaring hardened coward. 
 
 Free. And would have his noise and laughter pass for wit, as 
 t'other his huffing and blustering for courage.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 171 
 
 Re-enter VERNISH. 
 
 Man. Gentlemen, with your leave, here is one I would speak 
 with ; and I have nothing t'o say to you. 
 
 [Puts all out of the room except VnRNISH. 
 
 Ver. I told you 'twas in vain to think of getting money out of 
 her. She says, if a shilling would do't, she would not save you 
 from starving or hanging, or what you would think worse, begging 
 or flattering ; and rails so at you. 
 
 A fan. O, friend, never trust for that matter a woman's railing ; 
 for she is no less a dissembler in her hatred than her love. 
 
 Ver. He's in the right on'c : I know not what to trust to. [Aside, 
 
 Man. But you did not take any notice of it to her, I hope ? 
 
 Ver. So! Sure he is afraid I should have disproved him by an 
 inquiry of her : all may be well yet. [Aside. 
 
 Man. What hast thou in thy head that makes thee seem so 
 unquiet ? 
 
 Ver. Only this base impudent woman's falseness ; I cannot put 
 her out of my head. 
 
 Man. O, my dear friend, be not you too sensible of my wrongs ; 
 for then I shall feel 'em too with more pain, and think 'cm in- 
 sufferable. But if thou wouldst ease a little my present trouble, 
 prithee go borrow me somewhere else some money. I can trouble 
 thce. 
 
 Ver. You trouble me, indeed, most sensibly, when you command 
 me anything I cannot do. I have lately lost a great deal of money 
 at play, more than I can yet pay ; so that not only my money, but 
 my credit too is gone, and know not where to borrow ; but could 
 rob a church for you. [Aside."] Yet would rather end your wants 
 by cutting your throat. 
 
 Man. Nay, then I doubly feel my poverty, since I'm incapable of 
 supplying thce. [Embraces him. 
 
 Ver. But, methinks, she 
 
 , Nov. [looking in.'] Hey, tarpaulin, have you done ? 
 
 [Retires tigiiiit. 
 
 Ver. I understand not that point of kindness, I confess. 
 
 Man. No, thou dost not understand it, and I have not time to 
 let you know ail now ; for these fools, you see, will interrupt us ; 
 but anon, at supper, we'll laugh at leisure together at Olivia's 
 husband, who took a young fellow, that goes between his wife and 
 me, for a woman. , 
 
 Ver. Ah? 
 
 Man. Senseless easy rascal ! 'twas no wonder she chose him for 
 a husband ; but she thought him, I thank her, fitter than me for 
 that office. 
 
 Ver. I could not be deceived. [Aside. 
 
 Man. What, you wonder the fellow could be such a blind 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes.
 
 i; a THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACT v. 
 
 Nov. {looking in again.'] Nay, prithee, come to us, Manly. Gad, 
 all the fine things one says in their company, are lost without thec. 
 
 Man. Away, fop ! I'm busy yet. [Novici. retires.'} You see we 
 cannot talk here at our ease ; besides, I must be gone immediately, 
 in order to meeting with Olivia again to-night. . 
 
 Ver. To-night ! it cannot be, sure 
 
 Man. I had an appointment just now from her. 
 
 Ver. For what time ? 
 
 Man. At half an hour after seven precisely. 
 
 Ver. Don't you apprehend the husband ? 
 
 Man. He ! he a thing to be feared ! a husband ! the tamest of 
 creatures ! 
 
 Ver. Very fine ! \Asidt. 
 
 Man. But, prithee, in the meantime, go try to get me some 
 money. Though thou art too modest to borrow for thyself, thou 
 canst do anything for me, I know. Go ; for I must be gone to 
 Olivia. Go, and meet me here anon. Freeman, where are you ? 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Ver. Ay, 1'il meet with you, I warrant ; but it shall beat Olivia's. 
 Sure, it cannot be : she denies it so calmly, and \\ith that honest 
 modest assurance, it cannot be true and he does not use to lie- 
 but belying a woman when she won't be kind, is the only lie a brave 
 man will least scruple. But then the woman in man's clothes, whom 
 he calls a man well, but I know her to be a woman ; but then again, 
 his appointment from her, to meet with him to-night ! I am dis- 
 tracted more with doubt than jealousy. Well, I have no way to 
 disabuse or revenge myself but by going home immediately, putting 
 on a riding-suit, and pretending to my wife the same business which 
 carried me out of town hist, require* me again to go post to Oxford to- 
 night. Then, if the appointment lie boasts of be true, it's sure to 
 hold, and I shall have an opportunity cither of clearing her, or 
 revenging myself on both. If this be true, he must needs discover 
 by her my treachery to him ; which I'm sure he will revenge with 
 my death, and which I must prevent with his, if it were only but 
 for fear of his too just reproaches ; for I must confess, I never had 
 till now any excuse but that of interest, for doing ill to him. \Exit. 
 
 Re-enter MANLY and FREEMAN. 
 
 Man. Come hither ; only, I say, be sure you mistake not the 
 time. You know the house exactly where Olivia lodges 'tis just 
 hard by. 
 
 Free. Yes, yes. . 
 
 Man. Well then, bring 'cm all, I say. thither, and all you know 
 that may be then in the house ; for the more witnesses I have of 
 her infamy, the greater will be my revenge ; and be sure you come 
 straight up to her chamber without more ado. Here, take the 
 watch ; you see 'tis above a quarter past seven ; be there in half 
 an hour exactly.
 
 SCENE Hi.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 173 
 
 Free. You need not doubt my diligence or dexterity ; I am an 
 old scourer. Shan't we break her windows too ? 
 
 Man. No, no ; be punctual only. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE IJI. A Room in the same. 
 
 Enter WIDOW BLACKACRE, and two KNIGHTS OF THE POST, 
 a WAITER following with wine. 
 
 Wid. Sweetheart, are you sure the door was shut close, that none 
 of those roystcrcrs saw us come ? 
 
 Wait. Yes, mistress ; and you shall have a privater room above, 
 instantly. \Exii. 
 
 Wid. You are safe enough, gentlemen ; for I have been private 
 in this house ere now, upon other occasions, when I was something 
 younger. Come, gentlemen ; in short, I leave my business to your 
 care and fidelity ; and so, here's to you. 
 
 1 Knight. We are ungrateful rogues if we should not be honest 
 to you ; for we have had a great deal of your money. 
 
 Wid. And you have done me many a good job fort ; and so, 
 here's to you again. 
 
 2 Knight. Why, we have been perjured but six times for you. 
 
 1 Knight. Forged but four deeds, with your husband's last deed 
 of gift. 
 
 2 Knight. And but three wills. 
 
 1 Knight. And counterfeited hands and seals to some six bonds ; 
 I think that's all, brother ? 
 
 Wid. Ay, that's all, gentlemen ; and so, here's to you again. 
 
 2 Knight. Nay, 'twould do one's heart good to be forsworn for 
 you. You have a conscience in your ways, and pay us well. 
 
 1 Knight. You are in the right on't, brother ; one would die for 
 her with all one's heart. 
 
 2 Knight. But there are rogues who make us forsworn for 'cm ; 
 and when we come to be paid, they'll be forsworn too, and not pay 
 us our wages, which they promised with oaths sufficient. ' 
 
 1 Knight. Ay, a great lawyer that shall be nameless bilked me 
 too. 
 
 Wid. That was hard, mcthinks, that a lawyer should use gentle- 
 men witnesses no better. 
 
 2 Knight. A lawyer ! d'ye wonder a lawyer should do t ? I was 
 bilked by a reverend divine, that preaches twice on Sundays, ,;nd 
 prays half an hour still before dinner. 
 
 Wid. How ! a conscientious divine, and not pp.y people for 
 damning themselves ! sure then, for all his talking, he docs not 
 believe. But, come, to our business. Pray be sure to imitate 
 exactly the nourish at the end of his name, [f'ulls out a dfidor hi />. 
 
 I Knight. O, he's the best in England at untangling a flourish, 
 madam.
 
 174 THE PLAIN VEALER. [ACT* 
 
 Wid. And let not the seal be a jot bigger. Observe well the dash 
 too, at the end of this name. 
 
 2 Knight. I warrant you. madam. 
 
 Wid. Well, these and many other shifts poor widows are put to 
 sometimes ; for everybody would be breaking into her jointure. 
 They think marrying a widow an easy business, like leaping the 
 hedge where another has gone over before. A widow is a mere gap, 
 a gap with them. 
 
 Enter MAJOR OLDFOX, with two WAITER?. The KNIGHTS OF 
 THE POST huddle up the writings. 
 
 What 1 he here ! Go then, go my hearts, you have your instructions. 
 
 [Exeunt KNIGHTS OF THE POST. 
 
 Old. Come, madam, to be plain with you, I'll be fobbed off no 
 longer. [Aside.] I'll bind her and gag her but she shall hear me. 
 [To the WAITERS.] Look you, friends, there's the money J pro- 
 mised you ; and now do you what you promised me: here my garters, 
 and here's a gag. [To the WIDOW.] You shall be acquainted with 
 my parts, lady, you shall. 
 
 Wid. Help 1 help ! What, will you ravish me ? 
 
 [The WAITERS tie her to the chair, gag her, and cxettnt. 
 
 Old. Yes, lady, I will ravish you ; but it shall be through the ear, 
 lady, the ear only, with my well-penned acrostics. 
 
 Enter FREEMAN, JERRY BLACKACRE, three BAILIFFS,** CONSTABLE, 
 and his ASSISTANTS, with the two KNIGHTS OF THE POST. 
 
 What ! shall I never read my things undisturbed again ? 
 
 Jer. O la ! my mother bound hand and foot, and gaping as if 
 she rose before her time to-day ! 
 
 Free. What means this, Oldfox ? But I'll release you from him ; 
 you shall be no man's prisoner but mine. Bailiffs, execute your 
 writ. [Unties her. 
 
 Old. Nay, then, I'll be gone, for fear of being bail, and paying 
 her debts without being her husband. [fMf, 
 
 i Bail. We arrest you in the king's name, at the suit of Mr. 
 Freeman, guardian to Jeremiah Blackacre, Esquire, in an action of 
 ten thousand pounds. 
 
 Wid. How, how, in a choke-bail action ! What, and the 
 pen-and-ink gentlemen taken too ! Have you confessed, you 
 rogues ? 
 
 I Knight. We needed not to confess ; for the bailiffs have dogged 
 us hither to the very door, and overheard all that you and we said. 
 
 Wid. Undone, undone then ! no man was ever too hard for me 
 till now. O Jerry, child, wilt thou vex again the mother that bore 
 thee? 
 
 Jer. Ay, for bearing me before wedlock, as you say. But I'll 
 teach you to call a Blackacre bastard, though you were never so 
 much my mother.
 
 SCENE IV.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 175 
 
 Wid. [aside.] Well, I'm undone ! not one trick left ? no law- 
 mesh imaginable ? [To FREEMAN.] Cruel sir, a word with youi 
 I pray. 
 
 Free. In vain, madam ; for you have no other way to release 
 yourself, but by the bonds of matrimony. 
 
 Wid. How, sir, how ! that were but to sue out a habeas corpus, 
 for a removal from one prison to another. Matrimony J 
 
 Free. Well, bailiffs, away with her. 
 
 Wid. O stay, sir ! can you be so cruel as to bring me under 
 Covert-Baron again, and put it out of my power to sue in my own 
 name. Matrimony to a woman is worse than excommunication, in 
 depriving her of the benefit of the law ; and I would rather be de- 
 prived of life. But, hark you, sir, I am contented you should have 
 the privileges of a husband, without the dominion ; that is, durante 
 bcneplacito. In consideration of which, I will out of my jointure 
 secure you an annuity of three hundred pounds a year, and pay 
 your debts ; and that's all you younger brothers desire to marry a 
 widow for, I'm sure. 
 
 Free. Well, widow, if 
 
 Jer. What 1 I hope, bully-guardian, you are not making agree- 
 ments without me ? 
 
 Free. No, no. First, widow, you must say no more than he is a 
 bastard ; have a care of that. And, then, he must have a settled 
 exhibition of forty pounds a year, and a nag of assizes, kept by you, 
 but not upon the common ; and have free ingress, egress, and 
 regress. 
 
 Wid. Well, I can grant all that too. 
 
 Jer. Ay, ay, fair words butter no cabbage ; but, guardian, make 
 her sign, sign and seal ; for otherwise, if you knew her as well as I, 
 you would not trust her word for a farthing. 
 
 Free. I warrant thee, squire. Well, widow, since thou art so 
 generous, I will be generous too ; and if you'll secure me four 
 hundred pounds a year, but during your life, and pay my debts, 
 not above a thousand pounds, I'll bate you the husband. 
 
 IV id. Have a care, sir, a settlement without a consideration is 
 void in law ; you must do something for't. 
 
 Free. Prithee, then let the settlement on me bo called alimony ; 
 and the consideration, our separation. Come, my lawyer, with 
 writings ready drawn, is within, and in haste. Come. {Exeunt 
 
 SCENE IV. OLIVIA'S Lodging. 
 Enter OLIVIA with a candle in her hand. 
 
 Oliv. So, I am now prepared once more for my timorous young 
 lover's reception. My husband is gone ; and go thou out too, thou 
 next interrupter of love. [Puts out the candle.} Kind darkness, 
 that frees us lovers from scandal and bashfulness, from the censure 
 of our gallants and the world !--So, are you there?
 
 1 76 THE PLAIN DEALER. [ACf v. 
 
 Enter Ici-DKUb, followed softly by MANLY. 
 
 Come, my dear punctual lover, there is not such another in the 
 world ; thou hast beauty and youth to please a wife ; address amv 
 wit to amuse and fool a husband ; nay, thou hast all things to be 
 wished in a lover, but your fits. I hope, my dear, you won't have 
 one to-night ; and that you may not, I'll lock the door, though 
 there be no need of it, but to lock out your hts ; for my husband is 
 just gone out of town again. Come, where are you ? 
 
 [Goes to the door and locks it. 
 
 Man. Well, thou hast impudence enough to give rne fits too, and 
 make revenge itself impotent ; hinder me from making thee yet 
 more infamous, if it can be. [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. Come, come, my soul, come. 
 
 Fid. Presently, my dear, we have time enough, sure. 
 
 Oliv. How, time enough ! True lovers can no more think they 
 ever have time enough, than love enough. Come. 
 
 Fid. But won't you let me give you and myself the satisfaction of 
 telling you how I abused your husband last night ? 
 
 Oliv. Not when you can give me, and yourself too, the satisfac- 
 tion of abusing him again to-night. Come. 
 
 Fid. Let me but tell you how your husband 
 
 Oliv. O name not his, or Manl/s more loathsome name, if you 
 love me ! I forbid 'em last night ; and you know I mentioned my 
 husband but once, and he came. No talking, pray, 'twas ominous 
 to us. {A noise at the door.] You make me fancy a noise at the 
 door already, but I'm resolved not to be interrupted. Where are 
 you ? Come, for rather than lose my dear expectation now, though 
 my husband were at the door, and the bloody ruffian manly here 
 in the room, with all his awful insolence, I would give myself to 
 this dear hand. [The noise at the door increases.'] But what's this 
 noise at the door? So, I told you what talking would come to. 
 
 I la ! O heavens, my husband's voice ! 
 
 [Listens at the dqor. 
 
 Jlfan. [asitie.] Freeman is come too soon. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, 'tis he ! then here's the happiest minute lost that ever 
 bashful boy or trifling woman fooled away ! I'm undone ! my hus- 
 band's reconcilement too was false, as my joy all delusion. But 
 come this way, here's a back door. [Exit, and returns.] The 
 officious jade has locked us in, instead of locking others out ; but 
 let us then escape your way, by the balcony ; and whilst you pull 
 down the curtains, I'll fetch from my 'closet what next will best 
 secure our escape. I have left my key in the door, and 'twill not 
 suddenly be broken open. f/T.r//, 
 
 [A noise ,is :'/ were fcoplc forcing the door. 
 
 ilfan. Stir not yet, fearing nothing. 
 
 Fid. Nothing but your life, sir. 
 
 Man* We shall kr.on- this happy man she calls husband.
 
 SCENE iv.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 177 
 
 Re enter OLIVIA. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, where arc you? What, idle with fear? Come, I'll 
 tic the curtains, if you will hold. Here, take this cabinet and 
 purse, for it is thine, if we escape ; [MANLY takes them from hfr\ 
 therefore, let us make haste. {Exit. 
 
 Man. 'Tis mine indeed now again, and it shall never escape 
 more from me, to you at least. 
 
 [The door broke open, enter VF.RNISH with a dark lantern 
 and a sivord, running at MANLY, who draws, puts by 
 the thrust, and defends himself, whilst FIDELIA runs at 
 VERNISH behind. 
 
 Vcr. So, there I'm right, sure {In a low voice. 
 
 Man. {softly ~\ Sword and dark lantern, villain, are some odds ; 
 
 but 
 
 Ver. Odds ! I'm sure I find more odds than I expected. What, 
 
 has my insatiable two seconds at once ? But [/// a low ^>oiec. 
 
 {Whilst they fight, OLIVIA re-enters, lying two curtains together. 
 Oliv. Where are you now ? What, is he entered then, and are 
 they fighting ? O do not kill one that can make no defence ! 
 [MANLY \hrows VERNISH down and disarms //////.] How! but I 
 think he has the better on't. Here's his scarf 'tis he. So, keep 
 him down still. I hope thou hast no hurt, my dearest ? 
 
 {Embracing MANLY. 
 
 Enter FREEMAN, LORD PLAUSIBLE, NOVEL. JERRY BLACKACRE 
 and tht WIDOW BLACKACRE, lighted by the two SAILORS inith 
 
 tore/test* 
 
 Ha ! what! Manly ! and have I been thus concerned for him ! 
 embracing him ! and has he his jewels again too ! What means 
 this. O, 'tis too sure, as well as my shame ! which I'll go hide for 
 ever. [Offers to go out. MANLY stops her. 
 
 Man. No, my dearest ; after so much kindness as has passed 
 between us, I cannot part with you yet. Freeman, let nobody stir 
 out of the room; for notwithstanding your lights, we are yet in the 
 dark till this geitleman please to turn his face. {Pulls YTRNISH 
 by the sleeve. \ How, Vernish ! art thou the happy man then? 
 thou ! thou ! Sptak. I say ; but thy guilty silence tells me all. 
 Well, I shall not upbraid thee ; for my wonder is striking me as 
 dumb as thy shamt lias made thee. But what ! my little voluntcei 
 hurt, and fainting ! 
 
 Fid. My wound, jr, is l*Mt a slight oiv in niy :v. v,i , 'tis only my 
 fear of your danger, iir, not yet well over. 
 
 Man. But what's here? more str.mgc thi.igs ! [(Vwrr >;ng 
 FIDELIA'S /<*// unlieAbchind. and without <i /."// >. vh:-:h she /<>}/ 
 in the scuffle.] What means this long woman's hair, and f.ice ! now 
 all of it appears too tcautiful lor a nun ; which I ^till thought
 
 J 
 
 178 THE PLAIN DEALER, [ACT V. 
 
 womanish indeed ! What, you have not deceived me too, my little 
 volunteer ? 
 
 Oliv. Me she has, I'm sure. [Aside. 
 
 Man. Speak I 
 
 Enter ELIZA and LETTICE.. 
 
 Eliza. What, cousin, I am brought hither by your woman, I 
 suppose, to be a witness of the second vindication of your honour ? 
 
 Oliv. Insulting is not generous. You might spare me I have 
 you. 
 
 Eliza. Have a care, cousin, you'll confess anon top much ; and I 
 would not have your secrets. 
 
 Man. Come, your blushes answer me sufficiently, and you have 
 been my volunteer in love. \To FIDELIA. 
 
 Fid. I must confess I needed no compulsion to follow you all the 
 world over ; which 1 attempted in this habit, partly out of shame to 
 own my love to you, and fear of a greater shame, your refusal of it ; 
 for I knew of your engagement to this lady, and the corstancy of 
 your nature ; which nothing could have altered but herself. 
 
 Man. Dear madam, I desired you to bring me out of confusion, 
 and you have given me more. I know not what to speak to you, or 
 how to look upon you ; the sense of my rough, hard, and ill usage 
 of you (though chiefly your own fault), gives me more pain now 'tis 
 over, than you had when you suffered it ; nnd if my heart, the 
 refusal of such a woman [pointing to OLIVIA] were not a sacrifice 
 to profane your love, and a greater wrong to you thar ever yet I 
 did you, I would beg of you to receive it, though yoi used it as 
 she had done ; for though it deserved not from her tlii treatment 
 she gave it, it does from you. 
 
 Fid. Then it has had punishment sufficient from her already, and 
 needs no more from me ; and, I must confess, I would not be the 
 only cause of making you break your last night's Octh to me, of 
 never parting with me, t'f you do not forget or repent it 
 
 Alan. Then take for ever my heart, and this with it {gives for 
 
 the cabinet).; for 'twas given to you before, and my hecrt was before 
 
 your due ; I only beg leave to dispose of these few. Here, madam. 
 
 [Takes some of t/ie jewels, and offers them to OLIVIA; she 
 
 strikes them down; PLAUSIBLE and NOVEL take them up. 
 
 Plans. These pendants appertain to your most faithful humble 
 servant. 
 
 Nov. And this locket is mine ; my earnest for love, which she 
 never paid ; therefore my own again. 
 
 Wid. By what law, sir, pray ? -Cousin Oli'ia, a word. What, 
 do they make a seizure on your goods and chattels, vi et armis ? 
 Make your demand. I say, and bring your tro'er, bring your trover. 
 I'll follow the law for you. 
 
 Oliv. And I my revenge. [Exit. 
 
 Man. [7*0 VEKNISII.] But 'tis, my friend in your consideration 
 most, that I would have returned part of your wife's portion ; for
 
 SCENE iv.] THE PLAIN DEALER. 179 
 
 'twere hard to take all from thee, since thou has paid so dear for'f 
 in being such a rascal. Yet thy wife is a fortune without a portion ; 
 and thou art a man of that extraordinary merit in villany, the world 
 and fortune can never desert thee, though I do ; therefore be not 
 melancholy. Fare you well, sir. \Exit VKRNISH dofgedlyJ] Now, 
 madam, I beg your pardon [turning to FIDELIA] for lessening the 
 present I made you ; but my heart can never be lessened. This, I 
 confess, was too small for you before ; for you deserve the Indian 
 world ; and I would now go thither, out of covetousness for your 
 sake only. 
 
 Fid. Your heart, sir, is a present of that value, I can never make 
 any return to't [pulling MANLY from t/u- company]. But I can 
 give you biick such a present as this, which I got by the loss of my 
 father, a gentleman of the north, of no mean extraction, whose only 
 child I was, therefore left me in the present possession of two 
 thousand pounds a year ; which I left, with multitudes of pre- 
 tenders, to follow you, sir ; having in several public places seen 
 you, and observed your actions thoroughly, with admiration, when 
 you were too much in love to take notice of mine, which yet was 
 but too visible. The name of my family is Grey, my other Fidelia. 
 The rest of my story you shall know when I have fewer auditors. 
 
 Man. Nay, now, madam, you have taken from me all power of 
 making you any compliment on my part ; for I was going to tell 
 you, that for your sake only I would quit the unknown pleasure of a 
 retirement ; and rather stay in this ill world of ours still, though 
 odious to me, than give you more frights again at sea, and make 
 again too great a venture there, in you alone. But if I should tell 
 you now all this, and that your virtue (since greater than I thought 
 any was in the world) had now reconciled me to't, my friend here 
 would say, 'tis your estate that has made me friends with the 
 world. 
 
 Free. I must confess I should ; for I think most of our 
 quarrels to the world are only because we cannot enjoy her as 
 we would do. 
 
 Man. Nay, if thou art a plain dealer too, give me thy hand ; 
 for now I'll say, I am thy friend indeed ; and for your two 
 sakes, though I have been so lately deceived in fiiends of both 
 sexes 
 
 I will believe there are now in the world 
 Good-natural friends, who are not blood-suchers, 
 And handsome women worthy to be friends ; 
 Yet, for my sake, let no one e'er confide 
 In tears, or oa\hs, in love, or friend untried. 
 
 \Excnnt 
 
 \
 
 THE MOCK DOCTOR. 
 
 (MOLfERE'S "L MEDECIN MALGRE LUI.*) 
 BY HENRY FIELDING. 
 
 SIR JASPF.R. 
 
 LEANDER. 
 
 GREGORY. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 TAMES. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 DAVY. 
 
 H ELLEBOR. 
 DORCAS. 
 CHARLOTTE. 
 MAID. 
 
 HARRY. 
 SCENE. PARTLY IN A COUNTRY TOWN AND PARTLY IN A WOOD. 
 
 SCENE I. A Wood. 
 DORCAS, GREGORY. 
 
 Greg. I tell you no, I won't comply, and it is my business to talk 
 and to command. 
 
 Dorc. And I tell you you shall conform to my will, and that I 
 was not married to you to suffer your ill-humours. 
 
 Grfg. O the intolerable fatigue of matrimony ! Aristotle never 
 said a better thing in his life than when he told us "That a wife is 
 worse than a devil." 
 
 Dorc. Hear the learned gentleman with his Vristotlc ! 
 
 Greg. And a learned man I am too ; find me out a maker of 
 fagots dial's able, like myself, to reason upon things, or that can 
 boast such an education as mine. 
 
 Dorc. An education ! 
 
 Greg. Ay, hussy, a regular education ; frst at the charity-school, 
 where I learnt to read ; then I waited on a gentleman at Oxford, 
 where I learnt very near as much as my master ; from whence I 
 attended a travelling physician six years, inder the facetious denomi- 
 nation of a Merry- Andrew, where 1 leant physic. 
 
 Dorc. O that thou hadst followed hhi still ! Cursed be the hour 
 wherein I answered the parson " I will!"
 
 SCENE ii.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 181 
 
 Greg. And cursed be the parson that asked me the questioVi ! 
 
 Dorc. You have reason to complain of him, indeed, who ought 
 to be on your knees every moment returning thanks to Heaven for 
 that great blessing it sent you when it scut you myself. I hope you 
 have not the assurance to think you deserve such a wife as me ? 
 
 Greg: No, really, I don't think I do. 
 
 AIR I. Bessy Bell. 
 
 Dorc. When n lady like me condescends to agree 
 
 To 1ft such a jackanapes taste her, 
 With what zeal and care should he worship the fair, 
 Who gives him what's meat for his master ! 
 
 II is actions should still 
 
 Attend on her will. 
 Hear, sirrah, and take it for warning ; 
 
 To her he should be 
 
 Each night on his knee, 
 And so he should be on each morning. 
 
 Greg. Come, come, madam ; it was a lucky day for you when you 
 found me out. 
 
 Dorc. Lucky, indeed ! a fellow who eats everything I have. 
 
 Greg. That happens to be a mistake, for I drink some part on't. 
 
 Dorc. That has not even left me a bed to lie on. 
 
 Greg. You'll rise the earlier. 
 
 Dorc. And who from morning till night is eternally in an ale- 
 house. 
 
 Greg. It's genteel the squire docs the same. 
 
 Dorc. Pray, sir, what are you willing I shall do with my family. 
 
 Greg. Whatever you plcnsc. 
 
 Dorc. My four little children that arc continually crying for 
 bread. 
 
 Greg. Give 'cm a rod ! best cure in the world for crying 
 children. 
 
 Dort. And do you imagine, sot 
 
 Greg. Hark yc, my dear ; you know my temper is not over and 
 above passive, and that my arm is extremely active. 
 
 Dorc. I laugh at your threats poor, beggarly, insolent fellow ! 
 
 Greg. Soft object of my wishing eyes, I shall play with your pretty 
 ears. 
 
 Dorc. Touch me if you dare, you insolent, impudent, dirty, lazy, 
 rascally 
 
 Greg. Oh, ho, ho! you will have it then, I find. \Bcats her. 
 
 Dorc. O, murder ! murder ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 GREGORY, DORCAS, SQUIRE ROHERT 
 
 Rob. What's the matter here ? Fie upon you, fie upon you, neigh- 
 bour, to beat your wife in this scandalous manner !
 
 1 82 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE HL 
 
 Dorc. Well, sir, and I have a mind to be beat : and what then ? 
 
 Rob. O dear madam ! I give my consent with all my heart and 
 soul. 
 
 Dorc. What's that to you, sauce-box? Is it any business of 
 yours ? 
 
 Rob. No, certainly, madam. 
 
 Dorc. Here's an impertinent fellow for you, won't surfer a husband 
 to beat his own wife ! 
 
 AIR II. Winchester Wedding. 
 
 Go thrash your own rib, sir, at home, 
 
 Nor thus interfere with our strife ; 
 May misery still be his doom 
 
 Who strives to part husband and wife ! 
 Suppose I've a mind he should drub, 
 
 Whose bones are they, sir, he's to lick ? 
 At whose expense is it, you scrub ? 
 
 You are not to find him a stick. 
 
 Rob. Neighbour, I ask your pardon heartily ; here, fake and thrash 
 your wife ; beat her as you ought to do. 
 
 Greg. No, sir, I won't beat her. 
 
 Rob. O ! sir, that's another thing. 
 
 Greg. I'll beat her when I please ; and will not beat her when 
 I do not please. She is my wife, and not yours. 
 
 Rob. Certainly. 
 
 Dorc. Give me the stick, dear husband. 
 
 Rob. Well, if ever I attempt to part husband and wife again, may 
 I be beaten myself! 
 
 SCENE III. 
 GREGORY, DORCAS. 
 
 Greg. Come, my dear, let us be friends. 
 
 Dorc. What, after beating me so ? 
 
 Greg. 'Twas but in jest. 
 
 Dorc. I desire you will crack your jests on your own bones, 
 not on mine. 
 
 Greg. Pshaw ! you know you and I are one ; and I beat one-half 
 of myself when I beat you. 
 
 Dorc. Yes ; but, for the future, I desire you will beat the other 
 half of yourself. 
 
 Greg. Come, my pretty dear, I ask pardon ; I am sorry for't. 
 
 Dorc. For once I pardon you ; but you shall pay for't. 
 
 Greg. Pshaw ! pshaw ! child ; these arc only little affairs, neces- 
 sary in friendship : four or five good blows with a cudgel between 
 your very fond couples only tend to heighten the affections. I'll 
 now to the wood, and I promise thce to make a hundred fagots 
 before I come home again.
 
 SCENE iv.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 183 
 
 Dorc. If I am not revenged on those blows of yours ! Oh, that I 
 could but think of some method to be revenged on him ! Hang the 
 rogue, he is quite insensible. Oh, that I could find out some inven- 
 tion to get him well drubbed ! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 HARRY, JAMES, DORCAS. 
 
 Har. Were ever two fools sent on such a message as we arc in 
 quest of a dumb doctor ? 
 
 James. Blame your own cursed memory that made you forget 
 his name. For my part, I'll travel through the world rather than 
 return without him ; that were as much as a lnb or two were 
 worth. 
 
 liar. Was ever such a cursed misfortune? to lose the letter ! I 
 should not even know his name if I were to hear it. 
 
 Dorc. Can I find no invention to be revenged ? Hey-day ! who 
 are these ? 
 
 James. Harkye, mistress ; do you know where where where 
 Doctor What-d'ye-call-him lives ? 
 
 Dorc. Doctor who? 
 
 James Doctor doctor What's-his-name ? 
 
 Dorc. Hey ! what, has the fellow a mind to banter me ? 
 
 Har. Is there no physician hereabouts famous for curing 
 dumbness ? 
 
 Dorc. I fancy you have no need of such a physician, Mr. 
 Impertinence. 
 
 /far. Don't mistake us, good woman we don't mean to banter 
 you. We are ser.t by our master, whose daughter has lost her 
 speech, for a certain physician who lives hereabouts. We have 
 lost our direction, and 'tis as much as our lives arc worth to return 
 without him. 
 
 Don: There is one Doctor Lazy lives just by ; but he has left off 
 practising. You would not get him a mile to save the lives of a 
 thousand patients. 
 
 James. Direct us but to him. We'll bring him with us one way 
 or other, I warrant you. 
 
 Har. Ay, ay, we'll have him with us, though we carry him on our 
 backs. 
 
 Don: Ha ! Heaven has inspired me with one of the most 
 admirable inventions to be revenged on my hangdog ! [.-/JT/C/C'.] 
 I assure you, ff you can get him with you, he'll do your young lady's 
 business for her ; he's reckoned one of the best physicians in the 
 world, especially for dumbness. 
 
 Har. Pray tell us where he lives. 
 
 Don: You'll never be able to get him out of his own house ; but, 
 if you watch hereabouts, you'll certainly meet with him, for he very 
 often amuses himself with cutting wood.
 
 184 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE iv. 
 
 Har. A physician cut wood ! 
 
 James. I suppose he a.nuscs himself in searching after herbs, 
 you mean. 
 
 Dorc. No ; he's one of the most extraordinary men in the world ; 
 he goes dressed like a common clown ; for there is nothing he so 
 ! much dreads as to be knovvn for a physician. 
 
 James. All your great men have some strange oddities about 
 them. 
 
 Dorc. Why, he will suffer himself to be beat before he will own 
 himself a physician ; and I'll give you my word you'll never make 
 him own himself one unless you both of you take a good <cudgel 
 and thrash him into it ; 'tis what we are all forced to do when we 
 have any need of him. 
 
 James. What a ridiculous whim is here ! 
 
 Dorc. Very true ; and in so great a man ! 
 
 James. And is he so very skilful a man ? 
 
 Dorc. Skilful ! why he does miracles. About hah a year ago a 
 woman was given over by all her physicians nay, she had been 
 dead for some time when this great man came to her. As soon 
 as he saw her he poured a little drop of something down her 
 throat. He had no sooner done it than she got out of her bed, and 
 walked about the room as if there had been nothing the matter with 
 her. 
 
 Both. Oh, prodigious ! 
 
 Dorc. Tis not above three weeks ago that a child of twelve years 
 old fell from the top of a house to the bottom, and broke its skull, 
 its arms, and legs. Our physician w.is no sooner drubbed into 
 making him a visit, than, having rubbed the child all over with 
 a certain ointment, it got upon its legs, and ran away toplay. 
 
 Both. Oh, most wonderful ! 
 
 Har. Hey ! Gad, James, we'll drub him out of a pot of this 
 ointment 
 
 Janus. But can he cure dumbness ? 
 
 Dorc. Dumbness ? why the curate of our parish's wife was born 
 dumb ; and the doctor, with a sort of wash, washed her tongue till 
 he set it a going, so that in less than a month's time she out-talked 
 her husband. 
 
 Har. This must be the very man we were sent after. 
 
 Dorc. Yonder is the very man I speak of. 
 
 James. What, that he, yonder ? 
 
 Dorc. The very same. He has spied us, and taken up his 
 bill. 
 
 James. Come, Harry, don't let us lose one moment. Mistress, 
 your servant ; we give you ten thousand thanks for this favour. 
 
 Dorc. Be sure and make good use of your sticks. 
 
 James. He shan't want that.
 
 SCENE v.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 185 
 
 SCENE V. Another part of Hie Wood. 
 JAMES, HARRY GREGORY. 
 
 Greg. Plague on't ! 'tis most confounded hot weather. Hey! who 
 have we here ? 
 
 James. Sir, your most obedient humble servant. 
 
 Greg. Sir, your servant. 
 
 James. We are mighty happy in finding you here 
 
 Greg, Ay, like enough. 
 
 James. Tis in your power, sir, to do us a very great favour. We 
 come, sir, to implore your assistance in a certain affair. 
 
 Greg. If it be in my power to give you any assistance, masters, 
 I'm very ready to do it. 
 
 James. Sir, you are extremely obliging. But, dear sir, let me 
 beg you'd be covered : the sun will hurt your complexion. 
 
 J-far. For Heaven's sake, sir, be covered 
 
 Greg. These should be footmen by their dress, but should be 
 courtiers by their ceremony. \Asidc. 
 
 James. You must not think it strange, sir, that we come thus to 
 seek after you : men of your capacity will be sought after by the 
 whole world. 
 
 Greg. Truly, gentlemen, though I say it that should not say it, I 
 have a pretty good hand at a fagot. 
 
 James. O dear, sir ! 
 
 Greg. You may, perhaps, buy fagots cheaper otherwhere ; but, if 
 you find such in all this country, you shall have mine for nothing. 
 To make but one word then with you, you shall have mine for ten 
 shillings a hundred. 
 
 James. Don't talk in that matter, I desire you. 
 
 Greg. I could not sell 'em a penny cheaper if 't\vas to my father. 
 
 James. Dear, sir, we know you very well don't jest with us in 
 this manner. 
 
 Greg. Faith, master, I am so much in earnest, that I can't bate 
 one farthing. 
 
 James. O pray, sir, leave this idle discourse. Can a person like 
 you amuse himself in this manner ? Can a learned and famous 
 physician like you try to disguise himself to the world, nnd bury 
 such fine talents in the woods ? 
 
 Greg. The fellow's a fool. 
 
 James. Let me entreat you, sir, not to dissemble with us. 
 
 Har. It is in vain, sir ; we know what you are. 
 
 Greg. Know what you are ? what do you know of me ? 
 
 James. Why, we know you, sir, to be a very great physician. 
 
 Greg. Physician in your teeth ! I a physician ! 
 
 James. The fit is on him. Sir, let me beseech you to conceal 
 yourself no longer, and oblige us to you know what.
 
 1 86 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE v. 
 
 Greg. Plague take me if I'know what, sir! but I know this, that 
 I'm no physician. 
 
 James. '\Vc must proceed to the usual remedy, I find. And so 
 you are no physician ? 
 
 Greg. No. 
 
 Janus. You are no physician ? 
 
 "Greg. No, I tell you. 
 
 James. Well, if we must, we must. [Beat him. 
 
 Greg. Oh ! oh ! gentlemen ! gentlemen ! what are you doing? I 
 am 1 am whatever you please to have me. 
 
 James. Why will you oblige us, sir, to this violence? 
 
 Har. Why will you force us to this troublesome remedy? 
 
 James. I assure you, sir, it gives me a great deal of pain. 
 
 Greg. I assure you, sir, and so it does me. But pray, gentlemen, 
 what is the reason that you have a mind to make a physician of 
 me? 
 
 James. What ! do you deny your being a physician again ? 
 
 Greg. And plague take me if I am. 
 
 Harry. You are no physician ? 
 
 Greg. May I be hanged if I am! \They beat him.'] Oh! oh! 
 dear gentlemen ; oh I for Heaven's sake, I am a physician, and 
 an apothecary too, if you'll have me ; I had rather be anything 
 than be knocked 'o the head. 
 
 James. Dear sir, I am rejoiced to see you come to your senses ; 
 I ask pardon ten thousand times for what you have forced us to. 
 
 Greg. Perhaps I am deceived myself, and am a physician 
 without knowing it. But, dear gentlemen, are you certain I'm a 
 physician ? 
 
 James. Yes, the greatest physician in the world. 
 
 Greg. Indeed ! 
 
 Har. A physician that has cured all sorts of distempers. 
 
 Greg. The deuce I have ! 
 
 James. That has made a woman walk about the room after she 
 was dead six hours. 
 
 Har. That set a child upon its legs immediately after it had 
 broken 'cm. 
 
 James. That made the curate's wife, who was dumb, talk faster 
 than her husband. 
 
 Har. Look ye, sir, you shall have content ; my master will give 
 you whatever you will demand. 
 
 Greg. Shall I have whatever I will demand ? 
 
 James. You may depend upon it. 
 
 Greg. I am physician without doubt : I had forgot it, but I begin 
 to recollect myself. Well, and what is the distemper 1 am to cure ? 
 
 James. My young mistress, sir, has lost her tongue. 
 
 Greg. I haven't found it ! lint come, gentlemen, if I must go 
 with you, I must have a physician's habit, for a physician can no 
 more prescribe without a full wig than without a fee. \Excur.t.
 
 SCENE vn.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 187 
 
 SCENE VI. SIR JASPER'S house. 
 SIR JASPER, JAMES. 
 
 Jasp. Where is he ? where is he ? 
 
 James. Only recruiting himself after his journey. You need not 
 be impatient, sir ; for, were my young lady dead, he'd bring her to 
 life again. He makes no more of bringing a patient to life than 
 other physicians do of killing him. 
 
 Jasp. 'Tis strange so great a man should have those unaccount- 
 able odd humours you mentioned. 
 
 James. 'Tis but a good blow or two, and he conies immediately 
 to himself. Here he is, 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 SIR JASP'ER, JAMES, GREGORY, HARRY. 
 
 Har. Sir, this is the doctor. 
 
 Jasp. Dear sir, you're the welcomest man in the world. 
 
 Greg. Hippocrates says we should both be cover' d. 
 
 Jasp. Ha! does Hippocrates say so? In what chapter, pray? 
 
 Greg. In his chapter of hats. 
 
 Jasp. Since Hippocrates says so, I shall obey him. 
 
 Greg. Doctor, after having exceedingly travell'd in the highway 
 of letters 
 
 Jasp. Doctor, pray whom do you speak to ? 
 
 Greg. To you, doctor. , 
 
 Jasp. Ha, ha ! I am a knight, thank the King's grace for it ; 
 but no doctor. 
 
 Greg. What, you're no doctor ? 
 
 Jasp. No, upon my word. 
 
 Greg. You're no doctor ? 
 
 Jasp. Doctor! no. 
 
 Gr?g. There 'tis done. [Beats him. 
 
 Jasp. Done, plague on you ! what's done ? 
 
 Greg. Why, now you're made a doctor of physic I am sure it's 
 all the degrees I ever took. 
 
 Jasp. What ruffian of a fellow have you brought here ? 
 
 James. I told you, sir, the doctor had strange whims with him. 
 
 Jasp. Whims, quotha ! Egad, I shall bind his physicians!) ip 
 over to his good behaviour, if he has any more of these whims. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I ask pardon for the liberty I have taken. 
 
 Jasp. Oh ! it's very well, it's very well for once. 
 
 Greg. I am sorry for tiiose blows 
 
 Jasp. Nothing at all, nothing at all, sir. 
 
 Greg. Which I was obliged to have the honour of laying on so 
 thick upon you.
 
 1 88 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE vin. 
 
 yasp. Let us talk no more of 'em, sir. My daughter, doctor, has 
 fallen into a very strange distemper. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I am overjoyed to hear it ; and I wish, with all my heart, 
 you and your whole family had the s-ame occasion for me as your 
 daughter, to show the great desire I have to serve you. 
 
 yasp. Sir, I am obliged to you. 
 
 Greg. I assure you, s:r, I speak from the very bottom of my soul. 
 
 yasp. I do believe you, sir, from the very bottom of mine. 
 
 Greg. What is your daughter's name ? 
 
 yasp. My daughter's name is Chariot. 
 
 Greg. Are you sure she was christened Chariot ? 
 
 yasp. No, sir, she was christened Charlotta. 
 
 Greg. Hum ! I had rather she should have been christened 
 Charlotte. Charlotte is a very good name for a patient ; and, let 
 me tell you, the name is often of as much service to the patient as 
 the physician is. 
 
 4 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 SIR JASPER, GREGORY, CHARLOT, MAID. 
 
 \fasp. Sir, my daughter's here. 
 
 Greg. Is that my patient? Upon my word she carries no dis- 
 temper in her countenance and I fancy a healthy young fellow 
 would sit very well beside her. 
 
 yasp. You make her smile, doctor. 
 
 Greg So much the better ; 'tis a very good sign where we can 
 bring a patient to smile ; it is a sign that the distemper begins to 
 clarify, as we say. Well, child, what's the matter with you? 
 What's your distemper? 
 
 Charl. Han, hi, hon, han. 
 
 Greg. What do you say ? 
 
 Charl. Han, hi, han, hon. 
 
 Greg. What, what, what ? 
 
 Charl. Han, hi, hon. 
 
 Greg. Han ! hon ! honin ha ! I don't understand a word she 
 says. Han ! hi ! hon ! What sort of a language is this ? 
 
 'yasp. Why, that's her distemper, sir. She's become dumb, and 
 no one can assign the cause and this distemper, sir, has kept back 
 her marriage. 
 
 Greg. Kept back her marriage ! Why so ? 
 
 yasp. Because her lover refuses to have her till she's cured. 
 
 Greg. O Lud ! was ever such a fool, that would not have his wife 
 dumb ! Would to heaven my wife was dumb ! I'd be far from 
 desiring to cure her. Does this distemper, this Han, hi, hon, oppress 
 her very much ? 
 
 yasp. Yes, sir. 
 
 Greg. So much the better. Has she any great pains? 
 
 yasp. Very great.
 
 SCENE VIM.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 189 
 
 Greg. That's just as I would have it. Give me your hand, child. 
 Hum ha a very dumb pulse indeed. 
 
 Jasp. You have guessed her distemper. 
 
 Greg. Ay, sir, we great physicians know a distemper immediately ; 
 I know some of the college would call this the Borce, or the 
 Coupcc, or the Sinkee, or twenty other distempers ; but I give you 
 my word, sir, your daughter is nothing more than dumb. So I'd 
 have you be very easy ; for there is nothing eise the matter with 
 her. If she were not dumb, she would be as well as I am 
 
 Jasp. But I should be glad to know, doctor, from whence her 
 dumbness proceeds ? 
 
 Greg. Nothing so easily accounted for. Her dumbness proceeds 
 from her having lost her speech. 
 
 Jasp. But whence, if you please, proceeds her having lost her 
 speech ? 
 
 Greg. All our best authors will tell you it is the impediment of 
 the action of the tongue. 
 
 Jasp. But, if you please, denrsir, your sentiments upon that im- 
 pediment. 
 
 Greg. Aristotle ha?, upon that subject, said very fine things very 
 fine things. 
 
 Jasp. I believe it, doctor. 
 
 Greg. Ah ! he was a great man, he was indeed, a very great man 
 a man who upon that subject was a man that But to return to 
 our reasoning : I hold that this impediment of the action of the 
 tongue is caused by certain humours which our great physicians 
 call humours Ah ! you. understand Latin 
 
 Jasp. Not in the least. 
 
 Greg. What, not understand Latin ? 
 
 Jasp. No, indeed, doctor. 
 
 Greg. Cabricius arci thuram cathalimus, singulariter nom. Hacc 
 musa hie, ha>c, hoc, genitivo hujus, hunc, hnnc musa.\ Bonus, 
 bona, bonum. Estne oratio Latinus? Etiam. Otiin substantive 
 et adjcctivum concordat in generi numerum et casus sic dicunt, 
 aiunt, praedicant, clamitant, et similibus. 
 
 Jasp. Ah ! Why did I neglect my studies ? 
 
 Jfar. What a prodigious man is this ! 
 
 Greg. Besides, sir, certain spirits passing from the left side, 
 which is the seat of the liver, to the right, which is the scat of the 
 heart, we find the lungs, which we call in Latin, Whiskenis, having 
 communication with the brain, which we name in Greek, Jackbootos, 
 by means of a hollow vein, which we call in Hebrew, Perriwiggus, 
 meet in the road with the said spirits which fill the ventricles of the 
 Omotaplasmus ; and because the said humours have you compre- 
 hend me well, sir ? And because the said humours have a certain 
 malignity. Listen seriously, I beg you. 
 
 Jasp. I do. 
 
 Greg. Have a certain malignity that is caused Be attentive, if 
 you please.
 
 1 90 THE MQCK DOCTOR. [SCENE vnr. 
 
 Jasp. I am. 
 
 Greg. That is caused, I say, by the acrimony of the humours 
 engendered in the concavity of the diaphragm ; thence it arises that 
 these vapours, Propria qua? maribus tribuuntur, mascula dicas, Ut 
 sunt divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum. This, sir, is the 
 cause of your daughter's being dumb. 
 
 Har. O that I had but his tongue ! 
 
 Jasp. It is impossible to reason better, no doubt. But, dear sir, 
 
 there is one thing 1 always thought till now that the heart was 
 
 on the left side, and the liver on the right. 
 
 Greg. Ay, sir, so they were formerly ; but we have changed all 
 that. The college at present, sir, proceeds upon an entire new 
 method. 
 
 Jasp. I ask your pardon, sir. 
 
 Greg. O, sir ! there's no harm ; you're not obliged to know so 
 much as we do. 
 
 Jasp. Very true. But, doctor, what would you have done with 
 my daughter? 
 
 Greg. What would I have done with her ? Why, my advice is, 
 that you immediately put her into a bed warmed with a brass 
 warming-pan ; cause her to drink one quart of spring-water, mixed 
 with one pint of brandy, six Seville oranges, and three ounces of 
 the best double-refined sugar. 
 
 Jasp. Why, this is punch, doctor. 
 
 Greg. Punch, sir? ay, sir And what's better than punch to 
 
 make people talk ? Never tell me of your juleps, your gruels, your 
 your this and that, and t'other, which are only arts to keep a 
 patient in hand a long time, I love to do business all at once. 
 
 Jasp. Doctor, I ask pardon ; you shall be obeyed. 
 
 [Gives money. 
 
 Greg. I'll return in the evening, and see what effect it has had on 
 her. But hold ; there's another young lady here that I must apply 
 some little remedies to. 
 
 Maid. Who, me ? I was never better in my life, I thank you, sir. 
 
 Greg. So much the worse, madam ; so much the worse. 'Tis 
 very dangerous to be very well ; for when one is very well, one has 
 nothing else to do but to take physic and bleed away. 
 
 Jasp. Oh, strange ! What, bleed when one has no distemper? 
 
 Greg. It may be strange, perhaps, but 'tis very wholesome. 
 Besides, madam, it is not your case, at present, to be very well ; at 
 least, you cannot possibly be well above three days longer ; and it 
 is always best to cure a distemper before you have it ; or, as we 
 say in Greek, Distomprum bcstum est curare ante habestum. 
 What I shall prescribe you at present is, to take every six hours one 
 of these boluses. 
 
 Maid. Ha, ha, ha ! Why, doctor, these look exactly like lumps 
 of loaf-sugar. 
 
 Greg. Take one of these boluses, I say, every six hours, washing 
 it down with six spoonfuls of the best Hollands Geneva.
 
 SCENE X.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 191 
 
 Jasp. Sure you are in jest, doctor ! This wench does not show 
 any symptoms of distemper. 
 
 Greg. Sir Jasper, let me tell you, it were not amiss if you yourself 
 took a little lenitive physic : I shall prepare something for you. 
 
 Jasp. Ha, ha, ha ! No, no, doctor, 1 have escaped both doctors 
 and distempers hitherto ; and I am resolved the distemper shall 
 pay me the first visit. 
 
 Greg. Say you so, sir? Why then, if I can get no more patients 
 here, I must even seek 'em elsewhere ; and so humbly beggo tc 
 domine domitii veniam goundi foras. 
 
 Jasp, Well, this is a physician of vast capacity, but of exceeding 
 odd humours. 
 
 SCENE IX. TJie Street. 
 LEANDER, solus. 
 
 Ah, Chariot ! thou hast no reason to apprehend my ignorance of 
 what thou endurest, since I can so easily guess thy torment by my 
 own. Oh, how much more justifiable are my fears, when you have 
 not only the command of a parent, but the temptation of fortune to 
 allure you ! 
 
 AIR III. 
 
 O cursed power of gold, 
 For which all honour's sold, 
 
 And honesty's no more 1 
 For theo we often find 
 The gr e U in leagues combined 
 
 To trick and rob the poor. 
 
 Ry tlice the fool and knave 
 Transcend the wise and brave, 
 
 So absolute they reign : 
 Without some help of thine, 
 The greatest beauties shine, 
 
 And lovers plead in vain. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 LKANDKR, GREGORY. 
 
 Greg. Upon my word, this is a good beginning ; and since 
 
 Lean. I nave waited for you, doctor, a long time. I'm come to 
 beg your assistance. 
 
 Greg, Ah, you have need of assistance, indeed ! What a pulse is 
 here ! What do you out o' your bed? \_Fecls his pulse. 
 
 Lean. Ha, ha, ha ! Doctor, you're mistaken ! I am not sick, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Greg. How, sir ! not sick 1 Do you think I don't knov,* vbcn a 
 man is sick better than he docs himself?
 
 i9 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE xf. 
 
 Lean. Well, if I have any distemper, it is the love of that young 
 lady, your patient, from whom you just now come ; and to whom 
 if you can convey me, I swear, dear doctor, I shall be effectually 
 cured. 
 
 Greg. Do you take me for a go-between, sir ? a phy.ician for a 
 go-between ? 
 
 Lean. Dear sir, make no noise. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I will make a noise : you are an impertinent fellow. 
 
 Lean. Softly, good sir ! 
 
 Greg. I shall show you, sir, that I'm not such a sort of person, 
 
 and that you are an insolent, saucy [LEANDER gives a purse] 
 
 I'm not speaking to you, sir ; but there are certain impertinent 
 
 fellows in the world that take people for what they are not which 
 
 always puts me, sir, into such a passion, that 
 
 Lean. I ask pardon, sir, for the liberty I have taken. 
 
 Greg. O, dear sir ! no offence in the least. Pray, sir, how am I 
 to serve you ? 
 
 Lean. This distemper, sir, which you are sent for to cure, is 
 feigned. The physicians have reasoned upon it, according to 
 custom, and have derived from the brain, from the bowels, from the 
 liver, lungs, lights, and every part of the body ; but the true cause 
 of it is love, and is an invention of Chariot's to deliver her from a 
 match which she dislikes. 
 
 Greg. Hum! Suppose you were to disguise yourself as an 
 apothecary ? 
 
 Lean. I'm not very well known to her father ; therefore believe I 
 may pass upon him securely. 
 
 Greg. Go, then, disguise yourself immediately ; I'll wait for you 
 here. Ha ! mcthinks I see a patient. (Exit LEANDER. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 GREGORY, JAMES, DAVY. 
 
 Greg. Gad, matters go swimmingly. I'll even continue a physi- 
 cian as long as I live. 
 
 James [speaking to DAVY.] Fear not ; if he relapse into his 
 humours, I 11 quickly thrash him into the physician again. Doctor, 
 I have brought you a patient. 
 
 Davy. My poor wife, doctor, has kept her bed these six months. 
 [GREGORY holds out his hand."} If your worship would find out 
 some means to cure her 
 
 Greg. What's the matter with her ? 
 
 Davy. Why, she has had several physicians : one says 'tis the 
 dropsy; another 'tis the what-d'ye-call-it ? the tumpany ; a third 
 says 'tis a slow fever ; a fourth says the rhetimatiz ; a fifth 
 
 Greg. What are the symptoms ? 
 
 Davy. Symptoms, sir ? 
 
 Greg. Ay, ay, what docs she complain of?
 
 SCENE xii.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 193 
 
 Davy. Why, she is always craving and craving for drink ; eats 
 nothing at all. Then her legs arc swelled up as big as a good hand- 
 some post, and as cold they be as a stone. 
 
 Greg. Come to the purpose, speak to the purpose, my friend. 
 
 [Holding out his hand. 
 
 Davy. The purpose is, sir, that I am come to ask what your 
 worship pleases to have done with her. 
 
 Greg. Pshaw, pshaw, psbaw ! I don't understand one word what 
 you mean. 
 
 James. His wife is sick, doctor; and he has brought you a 
 guinea for your advice. Give it the doctor, friend. 
 
 [DAVY gives the guinea. 
 
 Greg. Ay, now I understand you ; here's a gentleman explains 
 the case. You say your wife is sick of the dropsy ? 
 
 Davy. Yes, an't please your worship. 
 
 Greg. Well, I have made a shift to comprehend your meaning at 
 last ; you have the strangest way of describing a distemper ! You 
 say your wife is always calling for drink : let her have as much as 
 she desires! She can't drink too much ; and, d'ye hear? give her 
 this piece of cheese. 
 
 Davy. Cheese, sir ! 
 
 Greg. Ay, cheese, sir! The cheese of which this is a part has 
 cured more people of a dropsy than ever had it. 
 
 Davy. I give your worship a thousand thanks ; I'll go make her 
 take it immediately. [Exit. 
 
 Greg. Go ; and, if she dies, be sure to bury her after the best 
 manner you can, 
 
 SCENE XII. * 
 GREGORY, DORCAS. 
 
 Don: I am like to pay severely for my frolic, if I have lost my 
 husband by it. 
 
 Greg. O, physic and matrimony ! my wife \ 
 
 Dorc. For, though the rogue used me a little roughly, he was as 
 good a workman as any in five miles of his head. 
 
 AlR IV. Thomas, I cannot. 
 
 A fig for the dainty civil spouse, 
 
 Who's bred ut the court of France ; 
 Ho treats his wife with smiles and lx>ws. 
 And minds not the good main chance. 
 
 He Gregory 
 
 The man for me. 
 Though given o many a maggot ; 
 
 For he would work 
 
 Like any Turk ; 
 
 None like him e'er handled a fagot, a fagot, 
 None like him e'er handled a fagot.
 
 ,94 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE xn. 
 
 Greg. What evil stars have sent her hither ? If I could but per- 
 suade her to take a pill or two that I'd give her, I should be a physi- 
 cian to some purpose. Come hidcr, shild, letta me fccla your 
 pulse. 
 
 Dorc. What have you to do with my pulse ? 
 
 Greg. I am tie French physician, my dear ; and I am to feel a dc 
 pulse of the pation. 
 
 Dorc. Yes, but I am no pation, sir ; nor want no physicion, good 
 Doctor Ragou. 
 
 Greg. Begar, you must be putta to bed, and take a de peel ; me sal 
 give you de litle peel dat sal cure you, as you have more distemprc 
 den evere were hered off. 
 
 Dorc. What's the matter with the fool ? If you feel my pulse any 
 more, I shall feel your ears lor you. 
 
 Greg. Begar, you must taka de peel. 
 
 Dorc. Begar, I shall not taka de peel. 
 
 Greg. I'll take this opportunity to try her. [Aside.] Mayedear, 
 if you will not letta me cura you, you sal cura me ; you sal be my 
 physicion, and I will give you defce. \Holds out a purse. 
 
 Dorc. Ay, my stomach does not go against those pills. And 
 what must I do for your fee ? 
 
 Greg. Oh ! begar, me.vill show you ; me vill teacha you whr.t 
 you sal doe. You must come kissa me now ; you must come kissa 
 me. 
 
 Dorc. [kisses him.] As I live, my very hang- dog ! I've discovered 
 him in good time, or he had discovered me. [Aside.] Well, doctor, 
 and are you cured now ? 
 
 Greg, [aside. ~\ Dis is not a propre place ; dis is too public ; 
 for, sud any one pass by while I take dis physic, it vill prcvcnta de 
 opperation. 
 
 Dorc. What physic, doctor ? 
 
 Greg. In your car dat. \\\'hispcrs. 
 
 Dorc. And in your ear dat, sirrah. [hitting him a box.} Do you 
 dare affront my virtue, you villain ? Do you think the world should 
 bribe me ? There, take your purse again. 
 
 Greg. But where's the gold ? 
 
 Dorc. The gold I'll keep as an eternal monument of my virtue. 
 
 Greg. Oh, what a happy dog am I, to find my wife so virtuous a 
 woman when 1 least expected it ! Oh, my injured dear ! behold 
 your Gregory, your own husband ! 
 
 Dorc. Ha! 
 
 Greg. Oh me ! I'm so full of joy, I cannot tell thee more than 
 that I am as much the happiest of men as thou art the most 
 virtuous of women. 
 
 Dorc. And art thou really my Gregory? And hast thou any 
 more of these purses ? 
 
 Greg. No, my dear, I have no more about me ; but 'tis probable 
 in a few days I may have a hundred : for the strangest accident has 
 happened to me.
 
 SCENE xiv.j THE MOCK DOCTOR. 195 
 
 Dorc. Yes, my dear ; but I can tell you whom you arc obliged to 
 for that accident. Had you not beaten me this morning, 1 had 
 never had you beaten into a physician. 
 
 Greg. Oh, ho ! then 'tis to you I owe all that drubbing? 
 
 Dorc. Yes, my dear, though I little dreamt of the consequence. 
 
 Greg. How infinitely I'm obliged to thcc ! But hush ! 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 GREGORY, HELLEBOR. 
 
 Hel. Are not you the great doctor just come to this town, so 
 famous for curing dumbness. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I am he. 
 
 Hel. Then, sir, I should be glad of your advice. 
 
 Greg. Let me feel your pulse. 
 
 Hel. Not for myself, good doctor : I am myself, sir, a brother of the 
 faculty what the world calls a mad doctor. I have at present under 
 my care a patient whom I tan by no means prevail with to speak. 
 
 Greg. I shall make him speak, sir. 
 
 Hel. It will add, sir, to the great reputation you have already 
 acquired ; and I am happy in finding you. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I am as happy in finding you. You see that woman 
 there : she is possessed with a more strange sort of madness, and 
 imagines every man she sees to be her husband. Now, sir, if you 
 will but admit her into your house 
 
 Hel. Most willingly, sir. 
 
 Greg. The first thing, sir, you are to do, is to let out thirty ounces 
 of her blood ; then, sir, you are to shave off all her hair ; all her 
 hair, sir ; after which you are to make a very severe use of your rod 
 twice a day ; and take particular care that she have not the least 
 allowance beyond bread and water. 
 
 Hjl. Sir, I shall readily agree to the dictates of so great a man ; 
 nor can I help approving of your method, which is exceeding mild 
 and wholesome. 
 
 Greg. [/<> his wife.'} My dear, that gentleman will conduct you 
 to my lodging. Sir, I beg you will take a particular care of the 
 lady. 
 
 Hel. You may depend on't, sir, nothing in my power shall be 
 wanting ; you have only to inquire for Dr. Hcllebor. 
 
 Dorc. 'Twon't be long before I see you, husband ? 
 
 Hel. Husband ! This is as unaccountable a madness as any I 
 have yet met with. [Ex.'! with DdiRCAS. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 GREGORY, LEANT.HR. 
 
 Greg. I think I shall be revenged of you no\v, my dear. So, sir. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE XV. 
 
 Lean. I think I make a pretty good apothecary now. 
 
 Greg. Yes, faith, you're almost as good an apothecary as I am a 
 physician ; and if you please I'll convey you to the patient. 
 
 Lean. If I did but know a few physical hard words. 
 
 Greg. A few physical hard words ! why, in a few physical hard 
 words consists the science. Would you know as much as the 
 whole faculty in an instant, sir ? Come along, come along. Hold, 
 let me go first ; the doctor must always go before the apothecary. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE XV. SIR JASPER'S House. 
 
 SIR JASPER, CHARLOT, MAID, GREGORY, LEANDER. 
 
 s 
 
 Jasp. Has she made no attempt to speak yet ? 
 
 Maid. Not in the least, sir ; so far from^t, that, as she used to 
 make a sort of noise before, she is now quite silent. 
 
 Jasp. [Looking on his ivatchl\ 'Tis almost the time the doc- 
 tor promised to return. Oh ! lie is here. Doctor, your ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Greg. Well, sir, how does my patient ? 
 
 Jasp. Rather worse, sir, since your prescription. 
 
 Greg. So much the better ; 'tis a sign that it operates. 
 
 Jasp. Who is that gentleman, pray, with you ? 
 
 Greg. An apothecary, sir. Mr. Apothecary-, I desire you would 
 immediately apply that song I prescribed. 
 
 Jasp. A song, doctor ? prescribe a song ! 
 
 Greg. Prescribe a song, sir ! Yes, sir, prescribe a song, sir. Is 
 there anything so strange in that ? Did you never hear of pills to 
 purge melancholy ? If you understand these things better than I, 
 why did you send for me. Yes, sir, this song would make a stone 
 speak. But if you please, sir, you and I will confer at some dis- 
 tance during the application ; for this song will do you as much 
 harm as it will do your daughter good. l>e sure, Mr. Apothecary, 
 to pour it down her ears very closely. 
 
 AIR V. 
 
 Lean. Thus, lovely pntient Chariot sees 
 
 Her dying patient kneel : 
 Soon cured will be your feigned disease, 
 But what physician e'er can ease 
 
 The torments which I feel? 
 Think, skilful nymph, while I complain, 
 
 Ah, think what 1 endure ; 
 All other remedies arc vain ; 
 The lovely cause of all my pain 
 
 Can only cause my cure. 
 
 Greg. It is, sir, a great and subtle question among the doctors, 
 whether women are more easy to be cured than men. I be-j you
 
 SCENE XV -I THE MOCK. DOCTOR. 197 
 
 would attend to this, sir, if you please. Some say no ; others say 
 yes ; and for my part I say both yes and no, forasmuch as the in- 
 congruity of the opaque humours that meet in the natural temper of 
 women are the cause that the brutal part will always prevail over 
 the sensible. One sees that the inequality of their opinions depends 
 on the black movement of the circle-of the moon ; and as the sun, 
 that darts his rays upon the concavity of the earth, finds 
 
 Chart. No, I am not at all capable of changing my opinion. 
 
 Jasp. My daughter speaks ! my daughter speaks ! Oh, the 
 great power of physic ! Oh, the admirable physician ! How can I 
 reward thee for such a service ? 
 
 Gre%. This distemper has given me a most insufferable deal of 
 trouble. 
 
 [Traversing the stage in a great heat, the apothecary 
 following. 
 
 Charl. Yes, sir, I have recovered my speech ; but I have 
 recovered it to tell you that I never will have any husband but 
 Lcander. 
 
 [Speaks ivitk great eagerness, and drives SIR JASPER 
 round the stage. 
 
 Jasp. But 
 
 Charl. Nothing is capable to shake the resolution I have taken. 
 
 Jasp. What! 
 
 Charl. Your rhetoric is in vain, all your discourses signify 
 nothing. 
 
 Jasp. I 
 
 Charl. I am determined, and all the fathers in the world shall 
 never oblige me to marry contrary to my inclinations. 
 
 Jasp. I have 
 
 Charl. I never will submit to this tyranny ; and, if I must not 
 have the man I like, I'll die a maid. 
 
 Jasp. You shall have Mr. Dapper - 
 
 Charl. No, not in any manner, not in the leasf, not at all ; you 
 throw away your breath, you lose your time ; you may confine me. 
 beat me, bruise me, destroy me, kill me, do what. you will, use nic 
 as you will, but I never will consent ; nor all your threats, nor all 
 your blows, nor all your ill-usage, never shall force me to consent ; 
 so far from giving him my heart, I never will give him my hand ; 
 for he is my aversion, I hate the very sight of him ; I had rather 
 see the devil, I had rather touch a toad ; you may make mo miser- 
 able any other way, but with him you shan't, that I'm resolved. 
 
 Greg. There, sir there, I think, we have brought her tongue to a 
 pretty tolerable consistency. 
 
 Jasp. Consistency, quotha ! why, there is no stopping her 
 tongue. Dear doctor, I desire you would make her dumb again. 
 
 Greg. That's impossible, sir ; all that I can do to serve you is, I 
 can make you deaf, if you please. 
 
 Jasp. And do you think 
 
 Charl. All your reasoning shall never conquer my resolution.
 
 i 9 S THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE XVi, 
 
 Jasp. You shall marry- Mr. Dapper this evening. 
 
 Chart. I'll be buried fust. 
 
 Greg. Stay, sir, stay ; let me regulate this affair ; it is a dis- 
 temper that possesses her, and I know what remedy to apply 
 to it. 
 
 Jasp. It is impossible, sir, than you can cure the distempers of 
 the mind. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I can cure anything. Hark ye, Mr. Apothecary, you 
 see that the love she has for Leander is entirely contrary to the 
 will of her father, and that there is no time to lose, and that an 
 immediate remedy is necessary : for my part, I know of but one, 
 which is a dose of purgative running-away, mixed with two drachms 
 of pills matrimoniac, and three large handfuls of arbor vitas ; per- 
 haps she will make some difficulty to take them ; but as you are an 
 able apothecary I shall trust you for the success : go, make her 
 walk in the garden : be sure you lose no time : to the remedy, 
 quick, to the remedy specific. 
 
 SCENE XVI.' 
 SIR JASPER, GREGORY. 
 
 Jasp. What drugs, sir, were those I heard you mention, for I 
 don't remember I ever heard them spoke of before ? 
 
 Greg. They are some, sir, lately discovered by the Royal 
 Society. 
 
 J 'asp. Did you ever see anything equal to her insolence '". 
 
 Greg. Daughters are indeed sometimes a little too headstrong. 
 
 Jasp. You cannot imagine, sir, how foolishly fond she is of that 
 Leander. 
 
 Greg. The heat of blood, sir, causes that in young minds. 
 
 Jasp. For my part, the moment I discovered the violence of hci 
 passion I have always kept her locked up. 
 
 Greg. You have done very wisely. 
 
 Jasp. And I have prevented them from having the least com- 
 munication together, for who knows what might have been the con- 
 sequence ? Who knows but she might have taken it into her head 
 to have run away with him. 
 
 Greg. Very true. 
 
 Jasp. Ay, sir, let me alone for governing girls ; I think 1 have 
 some reason to be vain on that head ; I think 1 have shown the 
 world that I understand a little of women I think I have; and let 
 me tell you, sir, there is not a little art required. If this girl had 
 had some fathers, they had not kept her out of the hands of so 
 vigilant a lover as I have done. 
 
 Greg. No, certainly, sir.
 
 SCENE XIX.] THE MOCK DOCTOR. 199 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 SIR JASPER, DORCAS, GREGORV. 
 
 Dorc. Where is this villain, this rogue, this pretended physician ? 
 
 Jtisp. Heyday ! what, what, what's the matter now ? 
 
 Dorc. Oh, sirrah ! sirrah ! would you have destroyed your wife, 
 you villain ! Would you have been guilty of murder, dog ? 
 
 Greg. Hoity, toity ! What mad woman is this ? 
 
 Jasp. Poor wretch ! for pity's sake cure her, doctor. 
 
 Greg. Sir, I shall not cure her unless somebody gives me a fee. 
 If you will give me a fee, Sir Jasper, you shall see me cure her this 
 instant. 
 
 Dorc, I'll fee you, you villain. Cure me ! 
 
 AIR VI. 
 
 If you hope by your skill 
 
 To give Dorcas a pill, 
 You are not a deep politician : 
 
 Could wives but be brought 
 
 To swallow the draught, 
 Each husband would be a physician. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 SIR JASPER, GREGORY, DORCAS, JAMES. 
 
 James. Oh, sir ! undone, undone ! Your daughter is run away 
 with her lover Leander, who was here disguised like an apothecary ; 
 and this is the rogue of a physician who has contrived all the affair. 
 
 Jasp. How ! am I abused in this manner ? Here, who is there ? 
 Bid my clerk bring pen, ink, and paper : I'll send this fellow to jail 
 immediately. 
 
 J attics. Indeed, my good doctor, you stand a very fair chance to 
 be hanged for stealing an heiress. 
 
 Greg, Yes, indeed, I believe I shall take my degrees now. 
 
 Dorc. And arc they going to hang you, my dear husband ? 
 
 Greg. You see, my dear wife. 
 
 Dorc. Had you finished the fagots it had been some consolation. 
 
 Greg. Leave me, or you'll break my heart. 
 
 Dorc. No, I'll stay to encourage you at your death nor will 
 1 budge an inch till I've seen you hanged. 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 To //u-tn, LEANDER. C HARLOT. 
 
 Lean. Behold, sir. that Leander, whom you had forbid your house, 
 restores your daughter to your power, even when he II;K{ her in his. 
 I will receive her, sir, only at your hands. I have received letter*
 
 200 THE MOCK DOCTOR. [SCENE xix. 
 
 by which I have learned the death of an uncle, whose estate far 
 exceeds that ot your intended son-in-law. 
 
 Jasp. Sir, your virtue is beyond all estates, and I give you my 
 daughter with all the pleasure in the world. 
 
 Lean. Now, my fortune makes me happy indeed, my deal Char- 
 lot. And, doctor, I'll make thy fortune too. 
 
 Greg. If you would be so kind to make me a physician in earnest, 
 I should desire no other fortune. 
 
 Lean. Faith, doctor, I wish I could do that in return for youi 
 having made me an apothecary ; but I'll do as well for thee, I 
 warrant. 
 
 Dorc. So, so, our physician, I find, has brought about fine matters. 
 And is it not owing to me, sirrah, that you have been a physician 
 at all ? 
 
 Jasfi. May I beg to know whether you are a physician or not 
 or what the devil you are ? 
 
 Greg. 1 think, sir, after the miraculous cure you have seen me 
 perform, you have no reason to ask whether I am a physician -01 
 no. And for you, wife, I'll henceforth 'ha've you behave with all 
 deference to my greatness. 
 
 Dorc. Why. thou puffed up fool, I could have made as good a 
 physician myself ; the cure was owing to the apothecary, not the 
 doctor. 
 
 'AlR VII. We've cheated the parson, C~*c. 
 
 When tender young virgins look pnle and complain, 
 You may send for a dozen gre.it doctors in vain ; 
 All give their opinion, and pocket their fees ; 
 Each writes her a cure, though all miss her disease : 
 
 Powders, drops, 
 
 Juleps, slops, 
 A cargo of poison from physical shops. 
 
 Though they physic to death the unhappy poor maid, 
 What's that to the doctor since he must be paid ? 
 Would you know how you may manage her right ? 
 Our doctor has brought you a nostrum to-night ; 
 
 Never vary 
 
 Nor miscarry, 
 If the lover be but the apothecary.
 
 THE MISER. 
 
 % 
 (MOLTERE'S "L'AVARE.") 
 
 BY HENRY FIELDING. 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 
 
 LOVECOLD, the miser. 
 
 FREDERICK, his son. 
 
 CLEHMONT. 
 
 RAMILIE. servant to Frederick. 
 
 MR. DECOY, a broker. 
 
 MR. FURNISH, an upholsterer. 
 
 MR. SPARKLE, a jeweller. 
 
 MR. LIST, a tailor. 
 
 CHARLES BUBBLEBOY, a lawyer. 
 
 HARRIET, daughter to Lovegold. 
 
 MRS. WISELY. 
 
 MARIANA. 
 
 LAPPET, maid to Harriet. 
 WHEEDLE, maid to Mariana. 
 
 MR. SATTIN, a mercer. \ SERVANTS, &<x 
 
 SCENE. LONDON. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. LOVEGOLO'S House. 
 LAPPET, RAMILIE. 
 
 Lap. I'll hear no more. Perfidious fellow ! Have I for thee 
 slighted so many good matches ? Have I for thee turned oflf Sir 
 Oliver's steward, and my Lord Landy's butler, and several others, 
 thy betters, and all to be affronted in so public a manner ? 
 
 Ram. Do but hear me, madam. 
 
 Lap. If thou would'st have neglected me, was there nobody else 
 to dance a minuet with but Mrs. Susan Cross-stich,whom you 
 know to be my utter aversion ? 
 
 Ram. Curse on all balls ! henceforth I shall hate the sound of a 
 violin. 
 
 Lap. I have more reason, I am sure, after having been the jest ot 
 the whole company : what must they think of me when they sec 
 you, after I have countenanced your addresses in the eye of the 
 world, take out another lady before me? 
 
 Ram. I'm sure the world must think worse of me, did they 
 imagine, madam, I could prefer any other to you. 
 
 Lap. None of your wheedling, sir ; that won't do. If you ever 
 hope to speak to me more, let me see you affront the little minx in 
 the next assembly you meet her.
 
 202 THE MISER. [ACT I. 
 
 Ram. I'll do it ; and luckily, you know, we arc to have a ball at 
 my Lord Landy's the first night'hc lies out of town, where I'll give 
 your revenge ample satisfaction. 
 
 iMp. On that condition I pardon you this time ; but if ever you 
 do the like again 
 
 Ram. May I be banished for ever from those dear eyes, and be 
 turned out of the family while you live in it ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 LAPPET, WHEEDLE, RAMILIE. 
 
 Whe. Dear Mrs. Lappet ! 
 
 Lap. My dear, this is extremely kind. 
 
 Whe. It is what all your acquaintance must do that expect to see 
 you. It is in vain to hope for the favour of a visit. * 
 
 Lap. Nay, dear creature, now you are barbarous ; my young lady- 
 has staid at home so much, I have not had one moment to myself; 
 the first time I had gone out, I am sure, madam, would have been 
 to wait on Mrs. Wheedle. 
 
 Whe. My lady has staid at home too pretty much lately. Oh, 
 Mr. Ramilie, are you confined too ? your master does not stay at 
 home, I am sure ; he can find the way to our house though you 
 can't. 
 
 Ram. That is the only happiness, madam, I envy him ; but, 
 faith ! I don't know how it is in this parliament time, one's whole days 
 are so taken up in the Court of Request, and one's evenings at quad- 
 rille, the deuce take me if I have seen one opera since I came to town. 
 Oh ! now I mention operas, if you have a mind to see Cato, I 
 believe I can steal my master's silver ticket ; for I know he is 
 engaged to-morrow with some gentlemen who never leave their 
 bottle for music. 
 
 Lap. Ah, the savages 1 
 
 Whe. No one can say that of you, Mr. Ramilie ; you prefer 
 music to everything 
 
 Ram. But the ladies [bell rings.] So, there's my summons. 
 
 Lap. Well, but shall we never have a party of quadrille more I 
 Whe. O, don't name it. I have worked my eyes out since I saw 
 you ; for my lady has taken a whim of flourishing all her old 
 cambric pinners and handkerchiefs ; in short, my dear, no joumey- 
 woman sempstress is half so much a slave as I am. 
 
 Lap. Why do you stay with her ? 
 
 Whe. La, child, where can one better oneself? all the ladies 01 
 our acquaintance are just the same. Besides, there are some little 
 ihings that make amends ; my lady has a whole train of admirers. 
 
 Ram. That, madam, is the only circumstance wherein she has 
 the honour of resembling you [bell rings louder .] You hear, 
 madam, I am obliged to leave you [bell rings ^ So, so, so: 
 would the bell were in your guts !
 
 SCENE in.] THE MISER. 203 
 
 SCENE III. 
 LIWPET, WHEEDLE. 
 
 Lap. Oh ! Wheedle ! I am quite sick of this family ; the old 
 gentleman grows more covetous every day he lives. Everything is 
 under lock and key : I can scarce ask you to cat or drink. 
 
 Whe. Thank you, my dear ; but I have drank half a dozen dishes 
 of chocolate already this morning. 
 
 Lap. Well ; but, my dear, I have a whole budget of news to tell 
 you. I have made some notable discoveries. 
 
 Whe. Pray let us hear them. I have some secrets of our family 
 too, which you shall know by and by. What a pleasure there is in 
 hating a friend to tell these things to ! 
 
 Lap. You know, my dear, last summer my young lady had the 
 misfortune to be overset in a boat between Richmond and Twicken- 
 ham, and that a certain young gentleman, plunging immediately 
 into the water, saved her life at the hazard of his own. Oh ! I shall 
 never forget the figure she made at her return home, so wet, so 
 draggled ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Whe. Yes, mv dear, I know how all your fine ladies look when 
 they are never so little disordered they have no need to be so vain 
 of themselves. 
 
 Lap. You are no stranger to my master's way of rewarding 
 people. When the poor gentleman brought Miss home, my master 
 meets them at the door, and, without asking any question, very 
 civilly shuts it against him. Well, for a whole fortnight afterwards 
 I was continually entertained with the young spark's bravery, and 
 gallantry, and generosity, and beauty. 
 
 Whe. I can easily guess ; I suppose she was rather warmed than 
 cooled by the water. These mistresses of ours, for all their pride, 
 are made of just the same flesh and blood as we arc. 
 
 Lap. About a month ago my young lady goes to the .play in an 
 undress, and takes me with her. We sat in Burton's box, where, 
 as the devil would have it, whom should we meet with but this very 
 gentleman ! her blushes soon discovered to me who he was ; in 
 short, the gentleman entertained her the whole play, and I much 
 mistake if ever she was so agreeably entertained in her life. Well, 
 as we were going out, a rude fellow thrusts his hand into my lady's 
 bosom ; upon which her champion fell upon him, and did so maul 
 him ! My lady fainted away in my arms ; but as soon as she came 
 to herself had you seen how she looked on him ! Ah ! sir, says 
 she, in a mighty pretty tone, sure you were born for my deliverance: 
 he handed her into a hackney coach, and set us down at home 
 From this moment letters began to fly on both sides. 
 
 Whe. And you took care to sec the post paid, I hone ? 
 
 Lap. Never fear that. And no\v, what do you think we have 
 contrived among us ? We have got this very gentleman into the 
 house in the quality of my master's clerk.
 
 [ACT i. 
 
 Whc. So ! here's fine billing and cooing, I warrant : Miss is in a 
 fine condition. 
 
 Lap. Her condition is pretty much as it was yet. How long it 
 will continue so I know not. I am making up my matters as fast 
 as I can ; for this house holds not me after the discovery. 
 
 Whc. I think you have no great reason to lament the loss of a 
 place where the master keeps his own keys. 
 
 Lap. The deuce take the first inventor of locks, say I ! but come, 
 my dear, there is one key which I keep, and that, I believe, will 
 furnish us with some sweetmeats ; so, if you will walk in with me, 
 I'll tell you a secret which concerns your family. It is in your 
 power, perhaps, to be serviceable to me ; I hope, my dear, you will 
 keep these secrets safe ; for one would not have it known that one 
 publishes all the affairs of a family, while one stays in it. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. A Garden. 
 CLERMONT, HARRIET. 
 
 Cler. Why are you melancholy, my dear Harriet? do you repent 
 that promise of yours which has made me the happiest of mankind? 
 
 Hdr. You little know my heart, if you can think it capable of 
 repenting anything I have done towards \our happiness ; if I am 
 melancholy, it is that I have it not in my power to make you as 
 happy as I would. 
 
 Cler. Thou art too bounteous. Every tender word from those 
 dear lips lays obligations on me I never can repay ; but if to love, 
 to dote on you more than life itself, to watch your eyes that I may 
 obey your wishes before you speak them, can discharge me from 
 any part of that vast debt I owe you, I will be punctual in the 
 payment. 
 
 Har. It were ungenerous in me to doubt you ; and when I think 
 what you have done for me, believe me, I must think the balance 
 on your side. 
 
 Cler. Generous creature ! and dost thou not for me hazard the 
 eternal anger of your father, the reproaches of your family, the 
 censures of the world, who always blame the conduct of the person 
 who sacrifices interest to any consideration ? 
 
 Har. As for the censures of the world, I despise them, while I 
 do not deserve them ; folly is forwarder to censure wisdom than 
 wisdom folly. I were weak indeed not to embrace real happiness, 
 because the world does not call it so. 
 
 Clcr. But see, my dearest, your brother is come into the garden. 
 
 Jfar. Is it not safe, think you, to let him into our secret? 
 
 Cler. You know, by outwardly humouring your father, in railing 
 against the extravagance of young men, I have brought him to look 
 on me as his enemy : it will be first proper to set him right in that 
 point. Besides, in managing the eld gentleman, I shall still be 
 obliged to a behaviour which the impatience of his temper may nQt
 
 SCENE v.] THE MISER. 205 
 
 bear ; therefore I think it not advisable to (rust him, at least yet 
 
 he will observe us. Adieu, my heart's only joy ! 
 
 /far. Honest creature ! What happiness may I propose in a life 
 with such a husband ! What is there in grandeur to recompense 
 the loss of him ? Parents choose as often ill for us as we for our- 
 selves. They arc too apt to forget how seldom true happiness lives 
 in a palace, or rides in a coach and six. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 FREDERICK, HARRIET. 
 
 Fred, Dear Harriet, good-morrow ; I am glad to find you alone, 
 for I have an afi'air to impart to you that I am ready to burst 
 with. 
 
 Har. You know, brother, I am a trusty confidant. 
 
 Fred. As ever wore petticoats ; but this is an affair of such con- 
 sequence 
 
 Har. Or it were not worth your telling me. 
 
 Fred. Nor your telling again : in short, you never could discover 
 it ; I could afford you ten years to guess it in. I am you will 
 laugh immoderately when you know it. I am it is impossible to 
 tell you. In a word I am in love. 
 
 Har. In love ! 
 
 Fred. Violently, to distraction ! so much in love, that, without 
 more hopes than I at present see any possibility of obtaining, I can- 
 not live three days. 
 
 Har. And has this violent distemper, pray, come upon you of a 
 sudden ? 
 
 Fred. No, I have bred it a long time. It hath been growing 
 these several weeks. I stifled it as long as I could ; but it is now 
 come to a crisis, and I must cither have the woman, or you will 
 have no brother. 
 
 Har. But who is this woman ? for you have concealed it so well 
 that I can't even guess. 
 
 Fred. In the first place, she is a most intolerable coquette. 
 
 Har. That is a description I shall never find her out by. There 
 are so many of her sisters, you might as well tell me the colour of 
 her complexion. 
 
 Fred. Secondly, she is almost eternally at cards. 
 
 Har. You must come to particulars. I shall never discover your 
 mistress till you tell more than that she is a woman and lives in this 
 town. 
 
 Fred. Her fortune is very small. 
 
 Har. I find you arc enumerating her charms. 
 
 Fred. Oh ! I have only shown you the reverse ; but were you to 
 behold the medal on the right side, you would see beauty, wit, 
 genteelness, politeness in a word, you would see Mariana. 
 
 Har. Mariana ! ha, ha, ha ! you have started a wild-goose chase, 
 indeed ! But, if you could ever prevail on her, you may depend on
 
 ao6 * THE MISER. [ACT I. 
 
 it, it is an arrant impossibility to prevail on my father, and you may 
 easily imagine what success a disinherited son may likely expect 
 with a woman of her temper. 
 
 Fred. I know 'tis difficult, but nothing's impossible to love, at 
 least nothing's impossible to woman ; and therefore, if you and the 
 ingenious Mrs. Lappet will but lay your heads together in my 
 favour, I shall be far from despairing ; and in return, sister, for this 
 kindness 
 
 Har. And in return, brother, for this kindness, you may perhaps 
 have it in your power to do me a favour of pretty much the same 
 nature. 
 
 Love. \_iuithoitt^\ Rogue ! villain ! 
 
 Har. So ! what's the matter now ? what can have thrown my 
 father into this passion ? 
 
 Fred. The loss of an old slipper, I suppose, or something of equal 
 consequence. Let us step aside into the next walk, and talk more 
 of our affairs. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 LOVEGOLD, RAM i LIE. , 
 
 Love. Answer me not, sirrah ; but get you out of my house. 
 
 Ram. Sir, I am your son's servant, and not yours, sir ; and I 
 won't go out of the house, sir, unless I am turned out by my proper 
 master, sir. 
 
 Love. Sirrah, I'll turn your master out after you, like an ex- 
 travagant rascal as he is ; he has no need of a servant while he is 
 in my house ; and here he dresses out a fellow at more expense than 
 a prudent man might clothe a large family at ; it's plain enough 
 what use he keeps you for ; but I will have no spy upon my affairs, 
 no rascal continually prying into all my actions, devouring all I 
 have, and hunting about in every corner to see what he may steal. 
 
 Ram. Steal ! a likely thing, indeed, to steal from a man who 
 locks up everything he has, and stands sentry upon it day and 
 night. 
 
 Love. I'm all over in a sweat lest this fellow should suspect some- 
 thing of my money [asief<\] Harkec, rascal, come hither ; I 
 would advise you not to run about the town and tell everybody you 
 meet that I have money hid. 
 
 Ram. Why, have you any money hid, sir? 
 
 Love. No, sirrah, I don't say I have ; but you may raise such a 
 report, nevertheless. 
 
 Ram. 'Tis equal to me whether you have money hid or no, since 
 I cannot find it. 
 
 Love. D'ye mutter, sirrah ? Get you out of my house, I say, get 
 you out this instant. 
 
 Ram. Well, sir, I am going. 
 
 Love. Come back ; Jet me desire you to carry nothing away with 
 you.
 
 SCENE vii.] THE MISER. 407 
 
 Ram. What should I carry ? 
 
 Love. That's what I would see. These bootslecvCS were certainly 
 intended to be the receivers of stolen goods, and 1 wish the tailor 
 had been hanged who invented them. Turn your pockets inside- 
 out, if you please ; but you arc too practised a rogue to put anything 
 there. These bags have had many a good thing in them, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Ram. Give me my bag, sir ; I am in the most danger of being 
 robbed. 
 
 Love. Come, come, be honest, and return what thou hast taken 
 from me. 
 
 Ram. Ay, sir, that I could do with all my heart, for I have taken 
 nothing from you but some boxes on the ear. 
 
 Love. And hast thou really stolen nothing ? 
 
 Ram. No really, sir. 
 
 Love. Then get out of my house while 'tis all well, and go to the 
 devil. 
 
 Ram. Ay, anywhere from such an old covetous curmudgeon. 
 
 Love. So, there's one plague gone ; now I will go pay a visit to 
 my dear casket. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 LOVIXOLD, FREDERICK, HARRIET. 
 
 Love. In short, I must find some safer place to deposit those three 
 thousand guineas in which I received yesterday ; three thousand 
 guineas are a sum. O heavens ! I have betrayed myself! my pas- 
 sion has transported me to talk aloud, and I have been overheard. 
 How now ! What's the matter ? 
 
 Fred. The matter, sir ? 
 
 Love. Yes, the matter, sir ; I suppose you can repeat more of 
 my words than these ; I suppose you have overheard 
 
 'Fred. What, sir? 
 
 Love. That 
 
 Fred. Sir ! 
 
 Low. What I was just now saying. 
 
 Jfur. Pardon me, sir, we really did not. 
 
 Love. Well, I sec you did overhear something, and so I will tell 
 you the whole : 1 was saying to myself, in this great scarcity of 
 money, what a happiness it would be to have three thousand guineas 
 by one ; I tell you this that you might not misunderstand me, and 
 imagine that I said I had three thousand guineas ! 
 
 Fred. We enter not into your affairs, sir. 
 
 Love. Ah ! would I had those three thousand guineas 1 
 
 Fred. In my opinion 
 
 Love. It would make my affairs extremely easy. 
 
 Fred. Then it is very easily in your power to raise them, sur; 
 that the whole world knows. 
 
 Love. I raise them ! I raise three thousand guineas easily I My
 
 2o8 THE MISER. [ACT I. 
 
 children are my greatest enemies, and will, by their way of talking, 
 and by the extravagant expenses they run into, be the occasion 
 that, one of these days, somebody will cut my throat, imagining me 
 to be made up of nothing but guineas. 
 
 Fred. What expense, sir, do I run into ? 
 
 Love. How ! have you the assurance to ask me that, sir? when, 
 if one was but to pick those fine feathers of yours off, from head to 
 foot, one might purchase a very comfortable annuity out of them ! a 
 fellow here, with a very good fortune upon his back, wonders that 
 he is called extravagant. In short, sir, you must rob me to appear 
 in this manner. 
 
 Fred. How, sir ! rob you ? 
 
 I^nv. Ay, rob me ; or how could you support this extravagance ? 
 
 Fred. Alas, sir ! there are fifty young fellows of my acquaintance 
 that support greater extravagancies, and no one knows how. Ah, 
 sir, there are ten thousand pretty ways of living in this town without 
 robbing one's father. 
 
 Love. What necessity is there for all that lace on your coat ? and 
 all bought at the first hand too, I warrant you. If you will be fine, 
 is there not such a place as Monmouth Street in this town, where a 
 man may buy a suit for the third part of the sum which his tailor 
 demands ? And then, periwigs ! what need has a man of periwigs 
 when he may wear his own hair. I dare swear a good periwig can't 
 cost less than fifteen or twenty shillings. Heyday ! what, are they 
 making signs to one another which shall pick my pocket ? 
 
 Har. My brother and I, sir, are disputing which shall speak to 
 you first, for we have both an affair of consequence to mention to 
 you. 
 
 Love. And I have an affair of consequence to mention to you 
 both. Pray, son, you who are a fine gentleman, and converse much 
 among the ladies, what think you of a certain young lady called 
 Mariana ? 
 
 Fred. Mariana, sir ? 
 
 Love. Ay, what do you think of her? 
 
 Fred. Think of her, sir ? 
 
 Love. Why do you repeat my words ? Ay, what do you think of 
 her? 
 
 Fred. Why, I think her the most charming woman in the world. 
 
 Lwc. Would she not be a desirable match ? 
 
 Pied. So desirable that, in my opinion, her husband will be the 
 happiest of mankind. 
 
 I-ove. Does she not promise to make a good housewife? 
 
 Fred. Oh ! the best housewife upon earth. 
 
 Love. Might not a husband, think ye, live very easy and happy 
 with her? 
 
 Fred. Doubtless, sir. 
 
 Jj?i'e. There is one thing I'm a little afraid of; thnt is, that she 
 has not quite as much fortune as one might fairly ^xpcct. 
 
 Fred. Oh, sir! consider her merit, and you may easily make an
 
 SCENE ix.] THE MISER. 209 
 
 abatement in her fortune ; for Heaven's sake, sir, don't let that 
 prevent your design. Fortune is nothing in comparison with her 
 beauty and merit. 
 
 Love. Pardon me there ; however, there- may be some matters 
 found, perhaps, to make up some little deficiency ; and if you would, 
 to oblige your father, retrench your extravagancies on this occasion, 
 perhaps the difference, in some time, might be made up. 
 
 Fred. My dearest father, I'll bid adieu to all extravagance for 
 ever. 
 
 Love. Thou art a dutiful, good boy ; and, since I find you have 
 the same sentiments with me, provided she can but make out a 
 pretty tolerable fortune, I am even resolved to marry her. 
 
 Fred. Ha ! you resolved to marry Mariana ? 
 
 Love. Ay, to marry ?lariana. 
 
 Har. Who, you, you, you ? 
 
 Love. Yes, I, I, I. 
 
 Fred. I beg you will pardon me, sir ; a sudden dizziness has 
 seized me, and I must beg leave to retire. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 LOVEGOLD, HARRIET. 
 
 Love. This, daughter, is what I have resolved for myself ; as 
 for your brother, I have a certain widow in my eye for him ; and 
 you, my dear, shall marry our good neighbour, Mr. Spindle. 
 
 Har. I marry Mr. Spindle ! 
 
 Love. Yes ; he is a prudent, wise man, not much above fifty, and 
 has a great fortune in the Funds. 
 
 Har. I thank yon, my dear papa, but I had rather not marry, if 
 you please. [Curtseying. 
 
 Love, {mimicking her curtsey.} I thank you, my good daughter, 
 but I had rather you should marry him, if you please. 
 
 Har. Pardon me, dear sir. 
 
 Low. Pardon me, dear madam. 
 
 Har. Not all the fathers on earth shall force me to it. 
 
 Lovf. Did ever mortal hear a girl talk Tn this manner to her 
 father ? 
 
 Har. Did ever father attempt to mam' his daughter after such a 
 manner ? In short, sir, I have ever been obedient to you ; but, as 
 this affair concerns my happiness only, and not yours, I hope you 
 will give me leave to consult my own inclination. 
 
 Love. I would not have you provoke me ; I am resolved upon 
 the match. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Lovrr.oi.n, CLF.RMONT, HARRIET. 
 
 CAr. Sonic people, sir, upon justice business, desire to spcr.k 
 with \ our worship.
 
 2io THE MISER. [ACT I. 
 
 Love. I can attend to no business, this girl has so perplexed me. 
 Hussy, you shall marry as I would have you, or 
 
 Cler. Forgive my interposing ; dear sir, what's the matter ? 
 Madam, let me entreat you not to put your father into a passion. 
 
 Love. Clermont, you are a prudent young fellow. Here's a 
 baggage of a daughter, who refuses the most advantageous match 
 that ever was offered, both to her and to me. A man of a vast estate 
 offers to take her without a portion. 
 
 Cler. Without a portion ! Consider, dear madam ; can you 
 refuse a gentleman who offers to take you without a portion ? 
 
 Love. Ay, consider what that saves your father. 
 
 Har. Yes, but I consider what I am to suffer. 
 
 Cler. That's true, indeed ; you will think on that, sir. Though 
 money be the first thing to be considered in all affairs of life, yet 
 some little regard should be had in this case to inclination. 
 
 Love. Without a portion. 
 
 Cler. You are in the right, sir ; that decides the thing at once ; 
 and yet I know there are people who, on this occasion, object 
 against a disparity of age and temper, which too often make the 
 married state utterly miserable. 
 
 Love. Without a portion. 
 
 Cler. Ah ! there is no answering that. Who can oppose such a 
 reason as that ? And yet there are several parents who study the 
 inclinations of their children more than any other thing, that would 
 by no means sacrifice them to interest, and who esteem, as the very 
 first article of marriage, that happy union of affections which is the 
 foundation of every blessing attending on a married state, and 
 who 
 
 Love. Without a portion. 
 
 Cler. Very true ; that stops your mouth at once. Without a 
 portion ! Where is the person who can find an argument against 
 that? 
 
 Love. Ha ! is not that the barking of a dog? Some villains are 
 in search of my money. Don't stir from hence ; I'll return in an 
 instant. 
 
 Cler. My dearest Harriet, how shall I express the agony I am in 
 on your account ? 
 
 Har. Be not too much alarmed, since you may depend on my 
 resolution. It may be in the power of fortune to delay our Ipppi- 
 ness, but no power shall force me to destroy your hopes by any 
 other match. 
 
 Cler. Thou kindest, lovely creature. 
 
 I^rve. Thank Heaven, it was nothing but my fear. 
 
 Cler. Yes, a daughter must obey her father ; she is not to con- 
 sider the shape, or the air, or the age of a husband ; but when a man 
 offers to take her without a portion, she is to have him, let him be 
 what he will. 
 
 Love. Admirably well said, indeed. 
 
 Cler. Madam, I ask your pardon if my love for yourself and your
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISEJR. 211 
 
 family carries me a little too far. Be under no concern, I dare 
 swear I shall bring her to it. [70 LOVEOOLD. 
 
 Love. Do, do ; I'll go in and see what these people want with me. 
 Give her a little more now, while she's warm ; you will be time 
 enough to draw the warrant. 
 
 Cler. When a lover offers, madam, to take a daughter without a 
 portion, one should inquire no farther ; everything is contained in 
 that one article ; and " without a portion," supplies the want of 
 beauty, youth, family, wisdom, honour, and honesty. 
 
 Love. Gloriously said ! spoke like an oracle. [Exit. 
 
 Cler. So, once more we are alone together. Believe me, this is 
 a most painful hypocrisy ; it tortures me to oppose your opinion, 
 though I am not in earnest, nor suspected by you of being so. Oh, 
 Harriet ! how is the noble passion of love abused by vulgar souls, 
 who are incapable of tasting its delicacies ! When love is great as 
 mine, 
 
 None can its pleasures, or its pains declare ; 
 
 We can but feel how exquisite they are. [Exeimt, 
 
 ACT II. 
 SCENE I. 
 FREDERICK, RAMILIE. 
 
 Fred. What is the reason, sirrah, you have been out of the way 
 when I gave you orders to stay here ? 
 
 Ram. Yes, sir, and here did J stay, according to your orders, tiii 
 your good father turned me out ; and it is, sir, at the extreme hazard 
 of a cudgel that I return back again. 
 
 Fred. Well, sir, and what answer have you brought touching the 
 money ? 
 
 Rain. Ah, sir ! it is a terrible thing to borrow money ; a man must 
 have dealt with the devil to deal with a scrivener. 
 
 Fred. Then it won't do, I suppose. 
 
 Ram. Pardon me, sir. Mr. Decoy, the broker, is a most indus- 
 trious person ; he says he has done everything in his power to serve 
 you, for he has taken a particular fancy to your honour. 
 
 Fred. So then I shall have the five hundred, shall I ? 
 
 Ram. Yes, sir, but there are some trifling conditions which your 
 honour must submit to before the affair can be finished. 
 
 Fred. Did he bring you to the speech of the person that is to lend 
 the money ? 
 
 Ram. Ah, sir ! things arc not managed in that manner ; he takes 
 more care to conceal "himself than you do ; there are greater myste- 
 ries in these matters than you imagine ; why. he would not so much 
 as tell me the lender's name ; and he is to bring him to-day to talk 
 with you in some third person's house, to learn from your own 
 mouth the particulars of your estate and family. I dare swear the 
 very name of your fither will make all things easy.
 
 312 THE MISER. [ACT n. 
 
 Fred. Chiefly the death of my mother, whose jointure no one 
 can hinder me of. 
 
 Ram. Here, sir, I have brought the articles ; Mr. Decoy told me 
 he took them from the mouth of the person himself. Your honour 
 will find them extremely reasonable ; the broker was forced to 
 stickle hard to get such good ones. In the first place, the lender is 
 to see all his securities ; and the borrower must be of age, and heir 
 apparent to a large estate, without flaw in the title, and entirely free 
 from all incumbrance ; and, that the lender may run as little risk 
 as possible, the borrower must insure his life for the sum lent ; if 
 he be an officer in the army, he is to make over his whole pay for 
 the payment of both principal and interest, which, that the lender 
 may not burthen his conscience with any scruples, is to be no more 
 than thirty per cent. 
 
 Fred. Oh, the conscientious rascal ! 
 
 Ram. But, as the said lender has not by him at present the sum 
 demanded, and that to oblige the borrower he is himself forced to 
 borrow of another at the rate of four per cent., he thinks it but 
 reasonable that the first borrower, over and above the thirty per 
 cent, aforesaid, shall also pay this four per cent., since it is for his 
 service only that the sum is borrowed. 
 
 Fred. Plague on him ! what a Jew is here ! 
 
 Ram. You know, sir, what- you have to do he can't oblige you 
 to these terms. 
 
 Fred. Nor can I oblige him to lend me the money without them ; 
 and you know that I must have it, let the conditions be what they 
 will.' 
 
 Ram. Ay, sir, why that was what I told him. 
 
 Fred. Did you so, rascal ? no wonder he insists on such conditions 
 if you laid open my necessities to him. 
 
 Ram. Alas ! sir, I only told it to the broker, who is your friend, 
 and has your interest very much at heart. 
 
 Fred. Well, is this all, or are there any more reasonable 
 articles ? 
 
 Ram. Of the five hundred pounds required, the lender can pay 
 down in cash no more than four hundred ; and for the rest, the 
 borrower must take in goods, of which here follows the cata- 
 logue. 
 
 Fred. What, in the name of nonsense, is the meaning of all 
 this? 
 
 Ram. Imprimis. One large yellow camblct bed, lined with satin, 
 very little eaten by the moths, and wanting only one curtain. Six 
 stuffed chairs of the same, a little torn, and the frames worm-eaten : 
 otherwise not in the least the worse for wearing. One large pier- 
 glass, with only one crack in the middle. One suit of tapestry 
 hangings, in which are curiously wrought the loves of Mars and Venus, 
 Venus and Adonis, Cupid and Psyche, with many other amorous 
 stories, which make the hangings very proper for a bedchamber. 
 
 Fred. What the deuce is here ?
 
 SCENE li.'J THE MISER. 213 
 
 Ram. Item, One suit of drugget, with silver buttons, the buttons 
 only the worse for wearing. Item, Two muskets, one of which only 
 wants the lock. One large silver watch, with Tompion's name to 
 it. One snuff-box, with a picture in it, bought at Mr. Ueard's ; a 
 proper present for a mistress. Five pictures without frames ; it 
 not originals, all copies by good hands ; and one fine frame without 
 a picture. 
 
 Fred. Oons ! what use have I for all this ! 
 
 Ram. Sever.il valuable books, amongst which arc all the journals 
 printed for these five years last past, handsomely bound and lettered. 
 The whole works in divinity of 
 
 Fred. Read no more ; confound the rascally extortioner ! I shall 
 pay ico per cent. 
 
 Ram. Ah, sir ! I wish your honour would consider of it in time. 
 
 Fred. I must have money. To what straits arc we reduced by 
 the hard avarice of fathers ! Well may we wish them dead, when 
 their death is the only introduction to our living. 
 
 Ram. Such a father as yours, sir, is enough to make one do 
 something more than wish him dead. For my part, I have never 
 had any inclination towards hanging ; and, I thank heaven, I have 
 lived to sec whole sets of my companions swing out of the world, 
 while I have had address enough to quit all manner of gallantries 
 the moment I smelt the halter ; I have always had an utter aversion 
 to the smell of hemp ; but this rogue of a father of yours, sir 
 sir, I ask your pardon has so provoked me, that 1 have often 
 wished to rob him, and rob him I shall in the end, that's certain. 
 
 Fred. Give me that paper, that I may consider a little these 
 moderate articles. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 LOVEGOLD, DECOY, RAMILIE, FREDERICK. 
 
 Dec. In short, sir, he is a very extravagant young fellow, and so 
 pressed by his necessities, that you may bring him to what terms 
 you please. 
 
 Love. But do you think, Mr. Decoy, there is no danger ? Do 
 you know the name, the family, and the estate of the borrower ? 
 
 Dec. No, I cannot give you any perfect information yet, for it was 
 by the greatest accident in the world that he was recommended to 
 me ; but you will learn all these from his own lips ; and his man 
 assured me you would make no difficulty the moment you know the 
 name of his father. All that I can tell you is, that his servant says 
 the old gentleman is extremely rich ; he called him a covetous old 
 rascal. 
 
 Love. Ay, that is the name which these spendthrifts, and the 
 rogues their servants, give to all honest prudent men who know the 
 world and the value of their money. 
 
 Dec, This young gentleman is an only son, and is so little afraid
 
 214 THE MISER, [ACTIT. 
 
 of any future competitors, that he offers to be bound, if you insist 
 on it, that his father shall die within these eight months. 
 
 Love. Ay, there's something in that ; 1 believe then I shall let 
 him have the money. Charity, Mr. Decoy, charity obliges us to 
 serve our neighbour, I say, when we are no losers by so doing. 
 
 Dec. Very true indeed. 
 
 Ram. Heyday ! what can be the meaning of this ? our broker 
 talking with the old gentleman ! 
 
 Dec. So, gentlemen ! 1 see you arc in great haste ; but who told 
 you, pray, that this was the lender ? I assure you, sir. I neither 
 discovered your name nor your house. But, however, there is no 
 great harm done ; they are people of discretion, so you may freely 
 transact the affair now. 
 
 Love. How ! 
 
 Dec. This, sir, is the gentleman that wants to borrow the five 
 hundred pounds I mentioned to you. 
 
 Love. How ! rascal, is it you that abandon yourself to these 
 intolerable extravagancies ? 
 
 Fred. I must even stand buff, and outface him. [Aside], And is 
 it you, father, that disgrace yourself by these scandalous extortions ? 
 
 [RAMILIE and DECOY sneak off. 
 
 Love. Is it you that would ruin yourself by taking up money at 
 such interest ? 
 
 Fred. Is it you that would enrich yourself by lending at such 
 interest ? 
 
 Love. How dare you after this appear before my face ? 
 
 Fred. How dare you after tins appear before the face of the 
 world ? 
 
 Love. Get you out of my sight, villain ; get out of my sight. 
 
 Fred. Sir, I go ; but give me leave to say 
 
 Love. I'll not hear a word. I'll prevent your attempting anything 
 of this nature for the future. Get out of my sight, villain. I am 
 not sorry for this accident ; it will make me henceforth keep a strict 
 eye over his actions. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCEN'E III. An Apartment in LOVEGOLD'S House. 
 HARRIET, MARIANA. 
 
 Mar. Nay, Harriet, you must excuse me ; for of nil people upon 
 earth you are my greatest favourite ; bill I have had such an 
 intolerable cold, child, that it is a miracle I have recovered ; for, 
 my dear, would you think it ? I have had no less than three 
 doctors. 
 
 Har. Nay, then it is a miracle you recovered indeed ! 
 
 Mar. O ! child, doctors will never do me any harm ; I never 
 take anything they prescribe : I don't know how it is, when one's ill 
 one can't help sending for them ; and you know, my dear, my 
 mamma loves physic better than she docs anything but cards.
 
 SCENE in.] THE MISER. 215 
 
 Har. Were I to take as mucfx of cards as you do, I dpn't know 
 which I should nauseate most. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! child, you are quite a tramontane ; I must bring you to 
 like dear spadille. I protest, Harriet, if you'd take my advice in 
 some things, you would be the most agreeable creature in the 
 world. 
 
 . Har. Nay, my dear, I am in a fair way of being obliged to obey 
 your commands. 
 
 Mar. That would be the happiest thing in the world for you ; 
 and I dare swear you would like them extremely, for they would be 
 exactly opposite to every command of your father's. 
 
 Har. By that, now, one would think you were married already. 
 Mar. Married, my dear ! 
 
 Har. Oh, I can tell you of such a conquest : you will have 
 such a lover within these four-and-twenty hours. 
 
 Mar. 1 am glad you have given me timely notice of it, that I 
 may turn off somebody to make room for him ; but I believe I 
 have listed him already. Oh, Harriet ! I have been so plagued, so 
 pestered, so fatigued, since I saw you with that dear creature, your 
 brother. In short, child, he has made arrant downright love to 
 me ; if my heart had not been harder than adamant itself, I had 
 been your sister by this time. 
 
 Har. And if your heart be not harder than adamant, you wiH be 
 in a fair way of being my mother shortly, for my good father has 
 
 this very day declared such a passion for you 
 
 Mar. Your father ! 
 
 Har. Ay, my dear. What say you to a comely old gentleman of 
 not much above threescore, that loves you so violently? I dare 
 swear he will be constant to you all his days. 
 
 Mar. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! I shall die. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You extrava- 
 gant creature ! how could you throw away all this jest at once ? It 
 would have furnished a prudent person with an annuity of laughter 
 for life. Oh ! I am charmed with my conquest ; I am quite in 
 love with him already. I never had a lover yet above half his 
 age. 
 
 Har. Lappet and I have laid a delightful plot, if you will but 
 come into it, and counterfeit an affection for him. 
 
 Mar. Why, child. I have a real affection for him : Oh ! mcthinks 
 I see you on your knees already. Pray, mamma, please to give me 
 your blessing. Oh ! 1 see my loving bridegroom, in his threefold 
 night-cap, his tlannel shirt ; methinks I see him approach me with 
 all the lovely gravity of age ; 1 hear him whisper charming sentences 
 of morality in my ear, more instructive than all my grandmother 
 ever taught inc. Oh 1 I smell him sweeter ; oh ! sweeter than 
 even hartshorn itself. Ha, ha, ha ! See, child, how beautiful a 
 fond imagination can paint a lover ! would not any one think now 
 we had been a happy couple together, Heaven knows how long? 
 
 Har. Well, you clear, mad creature ! but do you think you can 
 maintain any of this fondness to his face ? for I know some women
 
 216 THE MISER. [ACT it 
 
 who speak very fondly of a husband to other people, but never say 
 one civil thing to the man himself. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! never fear it ! one can't indeed bring oneself to be 
 civil to a young lover ; but as for those old fellows, I think one may 
 play as harmlessly with them as with one another. Young fellows 
 are perfect bears, and must be kept at a distance ; the old ones are 
 mere lapdogs ; and, when they have agreeable tricks with them, one 
 is equally fond of both. 
 
 Har. Well, but now I hope you will give me leave to speak a 
 word or two seriously in favour of my poor brother. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! I shall hate you if you are serious. Auh ! see what 
 your wicked words have occasioned ; I protest you are a conjurer, 
 and certainly deal with the devil. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 FREDERICK, MARIANA, HARRIET. 
 
 Har. Oh, brother ! I am glad you are come to plead your own 
 cause ; I have been your solicitor in your absence. 
 
 Fred. I am afraid, like other clients, I shall plead much worse 
 for myself than my advocate has done. 
 
 Mar. Persons who have a bad cause should have very artful 
 counsel. 
 
 Fred. When the judge is determined against us all, art will prove 
 of no effect. 
 
 Mar. Why then, truly, sir, in so terrible a situation, I think the 
 sooner you give up the cause the better. 
 
 Fred. No, madam, I am resolved to persevere ; for, when one's 
 whole happiness is already at stake, I see nothing more can be 
 hazarded in the pursuit. It might be, perhaps, a person's interest 
 to give up a cause wherein part of his fortune was concerned*; 
 but when the dispute is about the whole, he can never lose by 
 persevering. 
 
 Mar. Do you hear him, Harriet ! I fancy this brother of yours 
 would have made a most excellent lawyer. I protest, when he is 
 my son-in-law, I'll even send him to the Temple ; though he begins 
 a little late, yet diligence may bring him to be a great man. 
 
 Fred. I hope, madam, diligence may succeed in love as well as 
 law ; sure, Mariana is not a more crabbed study than Coke upon 
 Littleton ? 
 
 Mar. Oh, the wretch ! he has quite suffocated me with his com- 
 parison : I must have a little air : dear Harriet, let us walk in the 
 garden. 
 
 Fred. I hope, madam, I have your leave to attend you ? 
 
 Mar. My leave ! no, indeed, you have no leave of mine ; but if 
 you will follow me, I know no way to hinder you ? 
 
 Har. Ah, brother, I wish you had no greater enemy in this affair 
 than your mistress.
 
 SCENE VL] THE MISER. 217 
 
 SCENE V. 
 RAMILIE, LAPPET. 
 
 Lap. This was, indeed, a most unlucky accident ; however, I 
 dare lay a wager I shall succeed better with him, and get some of 
 those guineas you would have borrowed. 
 
 Ram. I am not, madam, now to learn Mrs. Lappet's dexterity ; 
 but if you get anything out of him I shall think you a match for the 
 devil. Sooner than to extract gold from him, I would engage to 
 extract religion from a hypocrite, ho/iesty from a lawyer, health 
 from a physician, sincerity from a courtier, or modesty from a poet. 
 I think, my dear, you have lived long enough in this house to know 
 that gold is a very dear commodity here. 
 
 Lap. Ah ! but there are some certain services which will squeeze 
 it out of the closest hands ; there is one trade, which, I thank 
 Heaven, I am no stranger to, wherein all men are dabblers ; and he 
 who will scarce afford himself either meat or clothes, will still pay 
 for the commodities I deal in. 
 
 Ram. Your humble servant, madam ; I find you don't know our 
 good master yet ; there is not a woman in the world, who loves to 
 hear her pretty self talk never so much, but you may easier shut 
 her mouth, than open his hands : as for thanks, praises, and 
 promises, no courtier upon earth is more liberal of them ; but for 
 money, the devil a penny : there's nothing so dry as his caresses, 
 and there is no husband who hates the word wife half so much as 
 he does the word give; instead of saying I give you a good-morrow, 
 he always says I lend you a good-morrow. 
 
 Lap. Ah, sir ! let me alone to drain a man ; I have the secret to 
 open his heart, and his purse too. 
 
 Ram. I defy you to drain the man we talk of of his money ; he 
 loves that more than anything you can procure him in exchange ; 
 the very sight of a dun throws him into convulsions; 'tis piercing 
 him in the only sensible part ; 'tis touching his heart, tearing out 
 his vitals, to ask him for a farthing. But here he is, and if you get 
 a shilling out of him I'll marry you without any other fortune. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 LOVF.GOI.I), LAPPET. 
 
 Love. All's well, hitherto ; my dear money is safe. Is it you, 
 Lappet ? 
 
 Lap. I should rather ask if it be you, sir ; why, you loo'c so young 
 and vigorous 
 
 Lore. Do I ? do I ? 
 
 Lap. Why, you grow younger and younger every d.iy. sir ; you 
 never looked half so young in your life, sir, as you do now. Why, 
 sir, I Tcnow fifty young fellows of five-and-twcnty that are older than 
 you are.
 
 ai8 THE MISER. [ACT IL 
 
 Love. That may be, that may be, Lappet, considering the lives 
 they lead ; and yet I am a good ten years above fifty. 
 
 Lap. Well, and what's ten years above fifty ; 'tis the very flower of 
 a man's age. Why, sir, you are now in the very prime of your 
 life. 
 
 Love. Very true, that's very true, as to understanding ; but I am 
 afraid, could I take off twenty years, it would do me no harm with 
 the ladies, Lappet. How goes on our affair with Mariana? Have 
 you mentioned anything about what her mother can give her ? For, 
 now-a-days, nobody marries a woman unless she bring something 
 with her besides a petticoat.' 
 
 Lap. Sir ! why, sir, this young lady will be worth to you as good 
 a thousand pounds a-year as ever was told. 
 
 L(n>e. How! a thousand pounds a-year? 
 
 Lap. Yes, sir: there's in the first place the article of a table; she 
 has a very little stomach, she does not eat above an ounce in a 
 fortnight ; and then, as to the quality of what she eats, you'll have 
 no need of a French cook upon her account : as for sweetmeats, 
 she mortally hates them ; so there is the article of desserts wiped 
 off all at once. You'll have no need of a confectioner, who would 
 be eternally bringing in bills for preserves, conserves, biscuits, 
 comfits, and jellies, of which half a dozen ladies would swallow you 
 ten pounds' worth at a meal : this, I think, we may very moderately 
 reckon at two hundred pounds a-year at least. Item, For clothes, 
 she has been bred up at such a plainness in them, that, should we 
 allow but for three birth-night suits a-year saved, which are the 
 least a town-lady would expect, there go a good two hundred pounds 
 a-year more. For jewels (of which she hates the very sight), the 
 yearly interest of what you must lay out in them would amount to 
 one hundred pounds. Lastly, she has an utter detestation for play, 
 at which I have known several moderate ladies lose a good two 
 thousand pounds a-year : now let us take only the fourth part of 
 that, which amounts to five hundred ; to which, if we add two 
 hundred pounds on the table account, two hundred pounds in 
 clothes, and one hundred pounds in jewels, there is, sir, your 
 thousand pounds a-ycar in hard money. 
 
 Love. Ay, ay, these are pretty things, it inust be confessed, very 
 pretty things ; but there's nothing real in 'cm. 
 
 I^ap. How, sir ! is it not something real to bring you in marriage r. 
 vast store of sobriety, the inheritance of a great love for simplicity 
 of dress, and a vast acquired fund of hatred for play ? 
 
 Lmic. This is downright raillery, Lappet, to make me up a fortune 
 out of the expenses she won't put me to. I assure you, madrun, I 
 shall give no acquittance for what 1 have not received : in short, 
 Lappet, I must touch, touch, touch something real. 
 
 Lap. Never fear, you shall touch something real. I have heard 
 them talk of a certain country where she has a very pretty free- 
 hold, which shall IK- put into your hands. 
 
 Love. Nay, if it were a copyhold I should be glad to '.ouch it ;
 
 SCENE vi.] THE MI SEX. 219 
 
 but there is another thing that disturbs me. You know this girl is 
 young, and young people generally love one another's company : it 
 would ill agree with a person of my temper to keep an assembly 
 for all the young rakes and flaunting girls in town. 
 
 Lap. Ah, sir, how little do you know of her ! This is another 
 particularity that I had to tell you off : she has a most terrible 
 aversion for all young people, and loves none but persons of your 
 years. I would advise you, above all things, to take care not to 
 appear too young ; she insists on sixty at least. She says that 
 fifty-six years are not able to content her. 
 
 Love. This humour is a little strange, methinks. 
 
 Lap. She carries it farther, sir, than can be imagined ; she has 
 in her chamber several pictures ; but what do you think they are ? 
 None of your smug-faced young fellows, your Adonises, your 
 Cephaluses, your Parises, and your Apollos. No, sir, you see 
 nothing there but your handsome figures of Saturn, King Priam, 
 old Nestor, and good father Anchises upon his son's shoulders. 
 
 Love. Admirable ! This is more than I could have hoped. To 
 say the truth, had I been a woman, I should never have loved 
 young fellows. 
 
 Lap. I believe you. Pretty sort of stuff, indeed, to be in love 
 with your young fellows ! Pretty masters, indeed, with their ftne 
 complexions and their fine feathers ? Now, I should be glad to 
 taste the savour that is in any of them. 
 
 Love. And do you really think me pretty tolerable ? 
 
 Lap. Tolerable! you are ravishing ! If your picture was drawn 
 by a good hand, sir, it would be invaluable ! Turn about a little, 
 if you please ; there, what can be more charming ? Let me see you 
 walk ; there's a person for you tall, straight, free, and (Ugagilc ! 
 Why, sir, you have no fault about you. 
 
 Love. Not many ; hem, hem ! not many, I thank Heaven ; only 
 a few rheumatic pains now and then, and a small catarrh that seizes 
 me sometimes. 
 
 Lap. Ah, sir, that's nothing ; your catarrh sits very well upon 
 you, and you cough with a very good grace. 
 
 LOTS. Hut tell me, what does Mariana say of my person ? 
 
 Lap. She has a particular pleasure in talking of it ; and I assure 
 you, sir, I have not been backward, on all such occasions, to 
 blazon forth your merit, and to make her sensible how advantageous 
 a match you will be to her. 
 
 Loi't-. You did very well, and I am obliged to you. 
 
 Lap. Hut, sir, I have a small favour to ask of you. I have a law- 
 suit depending, which I am on the very brink of losing for want of a 
 little money. [He looks gravely ?\ And you could easily procure 
 my success, if you had the least friendship for me. You can't 
 imagine, sir, the pleasure she takes in talking of you. [//<? looks 
 pleased."} Ah ! how you will delight her ! how your venerable mien 
 will charm her ! She will never be able to withstand you. But, 
 indeed, sir, this law-suit will be of a terrible consequence to me,
 
 220 THE MISER. [ACT HI. 
 
 \He looks grave again.] I am ruined if I lose it, which a very 
 small matter might prevent. Ah, sir, had you but seen the raptures 
 with which she has heard me talk of you ! [//<? resumes his gaiety.] 
 How pleasure sparkled in her eyes at the recital of your good 
 qualities. In short, to discover a sccit to you, which I promised 
 to conceal, I have worked up her imagination till she is downright 
 impatient of having the match concluded. 
 
 Love. Lappet, you have acted a very friendly part ; and I own 
 that I have all the obligations in the world to you. 
 
 Lap. I beg you would give me this little assistance, sir. [He 
 looks serious.'] It will set me on my feet, and I shall be eternally 
 obliged to you. 
 
 Love. Farewell ! I'll go and finish my despatches. 
 
 Lap. I assure you, sir/ you could never assist me in a greater 
 necessity. 
 
 Love. I must go give some orders about a particular affair. 
 
 Lap. I would not importune you, sir, if I was not forced by the 
 last extremity. 
 
 Love. I expect the tailor about turning my coat. Don't you think 
 this coat will look well enough turned, and with new buttons, for a 
 wedding suit? 
 
 Lap. For pity's sake, sir, don't refuse me this small favour ; I 
 shall be undone, indeed, sir. If it were but so small a matter as 
 ten pounds, sir. 
 
 Love. I think I hear the tailor's voice. 
 
 iMp. If it were but five pounds, sir ; but three pounds, sir ; nay, 
 sir, a single guinea would be of service for a day or two. 
 
 [As he offer -f to go out on either side, she intercepts him. 
 
 Love. I must go ; I can't stay. Hark there ; somebody calls me. 
 I'm very much obliged to you ; indeed, I am very much obliged to 
 you. 
 
 Lap. Go to the gallows, like a covetous, good-for-nothing villain, 
 ns you are ! Ramilie is in the right ; however, I shall not quit the 
 affair ; for, though I get nothing out of him, I am sure of my reward 
 from the other side. 
 
 Fools only to one party will confide ; 
 
 Good politicians will both parties guide, 
 
 And, if one fails, they're fee'd on t'other side. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 HARRIET, FREDERICK, CLERVIONT. 
 
 Fred. \ think, sir, you have given my sister a very substantial 
 proof of your affection. I am sorry you could have had such a 
 suspicion of me as to imagine I could have been an enemy to one 
 who has approved himself a gentleman and a lover. 
 
 Clcr. If anything, sir, could add to my misfortunes, it would be
 
 SCENE it.] THE MISER. 221 
 
 to be thus obliged, without having any prospect of repaying the 
 obligation. 
 
 Fred. Every word you speak is a farther conviction to me that 
 you are what you have declared yourself; for there is something in 
 a generous education which it is impossible for persons who wan; 
 that happiness to counterfeit ; thereforce, henceforth I beg you to 
 believe me sincerely your friend. 
 
 Har, Come, come, pray, a truce with your compliments ; for I 
 "hear my fathers cough coming this way. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 LOVEGOLD, FREDERICK, CLERMONT, HARRIET. 
 
 Love, So, so, this is just as I would have it. Let me tell you, 
 children, this is a prudent young man, and you cannot converse 
 too much with him. He will teach you, sir, for all you hold your 
 head so high, better sense than to borrow money at fifty per cent. 
 And you, madam, I dare say he will infuse good things into you too, 
 if you will but hearken to him. 
 
 Fred. While you live, sir, we shall want no other instructor. 
 
 Love. Come hither, Harriet. You know to-night I have invited 
 our friend and neighbour, Mr. Spindle. Now, I intend to take this 
 opportunity of saving the expense of another entertainment, by in- 
 viting Mariana and her mother ; for I observe that, take what care 
 one will, there is always more victuals provided on these occasions 
 than is ate ; and an additional guest makes no additional ex- 
 pense. 
 
 Cler. Very true, sir ; besides, though they were to rise hungry, no 
 one ever calls for more at another person's table. 
 
 Love. Right, honest Clermont ; and to rise with an appetite is 
 one of the wholesomcst things in the world. Harriet, I would have 
 you go immediately and carry the invitation : you may walk thither, 
 and they will bring you back in a coach. 
 
 Har. I shall obey you, sir. 
 
 I^ove. Go, that's my good girl. And you. sir, I desire you would 
 behave yourself civilly at supper. 
 
 Fred. Why should you suspect me, sir? 
 
 Love. I know, sir, with what eyes such sparks as you look upon 
 a mother-in-law ; but, if you hope for my forgiveness of your late 
 exploit, I would advise you to behave to her in the most affectionate 
 manner imaginable. 
 
 Fred. I cannot promise, sir, to be overjoyed at her being my 
 mother-in-law ; but this I will promise you, 1 will be as civil to her 
 as you could wish. I will behold her with as much affection as you 
 can desire me ; that is an article upon which you may be sure of a 
 most punctual obedience. 
 
 Love. That, I think, is the least I can expect. 
 
 Fred. Sir, you shall have no reason to complain.
 
 32* THE MISER. [ACT IIL 
 
 SCENE III. 
 L&VEGOLD, CLERMONT, JAMES. 
 
 Jos. Did you send for me, sir ? 
 
 Love. Where have you been ? for I have wanted you above an 
 hour. 
 
 Jos. Whom, sir, did you want ? your coachman or your cook ? 
 for I am both one and t'other. 
 
 Love. I want my cook, sir. 
 
 Jas. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman ; for you have 
 had no great occasion for him since your last pair of geldings 
 were starved. But your cook, sir, shall wait on you in an instant. 
 
 [Puts off his coachman's great coat, 
 and appears as a cook. 
 
 Love. What's the meaning of this folly ? 
 
 Jas. I am ready for your commands, sir. 
 
 Love. I am engaged this evening to- give a supper. 
 
 "Jos. A supper, sir ! I have not heard the word this half-year. 
 I have, indeed, now and then heard of such a thing as a dinner ; 
 but, for a supper, I have not dressed one so long, that I am afraid 
 my hand is out. 
 
 Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, sirrah, and see that you pro- 
 vide me a good supper. 
 
 Jas. That may be done, sir, with a good deal of money. 
 
 Love. What ! is the devil in you ? Always money. Can 
 you say nothing else but money, money, money ? All my 
 servants, my children, my relations, can pronounce no other word 
 than money. 
 
 Cler. I never heard so ridiculous an answer. Here's a miracle 
 for you, indeed, to make a good supper with a good deal of 
 money ! Is there anything so easy ? Is there any one who can't 
 do it ? Would a man show himself to be a good cook, he must 
 make a good supper out of a little money. 
 
 Jas. I wish you would be so good, sir, as to show us that art, 
 and take my office of cook upon yourself. 
 
 Love. Peace, sirrah, and tell me what we can have. 
 
 Jas. There's a gentleman, sir, who can furmsh you out a good 
 supper with a little money. 
 
 Love. Answer me yourself. 
 
 Jas. Why, sir, how many will there be at table ? 
 
 Love. About eight or ten ; but I will have a supper dressed but 
 for eight ; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for 
 ten. 
 
 Jas. Suppose, sir, you have at one end of the table a good hand- 
 some soup ; at the other a fine Westphalia ham and chickens ; 
 on one side a fillet of veal roasted ; and on the other a turkey, or 
 rather a bustard, which, I believe, may be bought for a guinea, or 
 thereabouts
 
 SCENE in.] THE MISER. 223 
 
 Love. What ! is the fellow .providing an entertainment for my 
 lord mayor and the court of aldermen ? 
 
 Jets. Then, sir, for the second course a leash of pheasants, a leash 
 of fat poulards, half a dozen partridges, one dozen of quails, two 
 dozen of ortolans, three dozen 
 
 I^ovc. \putting his hand before JAMES'S mot<(h,] Ah, villain ! you 
 are eating up all I am worth. 
 
 Jas. Then a ragout 
 
 Love, \stoppinghis mouth again.} Hold your extravagant tongue, 
 sirrah. 
 
 Cler. Have you a mind to burst them all ? Has my master in- 
 vited people to cram them to death ? Or do you think his friends 
 have a mind to eat him up at one supper ? Such servants as you, M r. 
 James, should be often reminded of that excellent saying of a very 
 wise man, " We must eat to live, and not live to eat." 
 
 Love. Excellently well said, indeed ! it is the finest sentence I 
 
 ever heard in my life. " We must live to eat, and not eat to " 
 
 No, that is not it ; how did you say ? 
 
 Clcr. That " we must eat to live, and not live to eat." 
 
 Love. Extremely fine ; pray, write them out for me ; for I'm re- 
 solved to have 'em done in letters of gold, or black and white rather, 
 over my hall chimney. 
 
 Jas. You have no need to do any more, sir ; people talk enough 
 of you already. 
 
 Love. Pray, sir, what do people say of me ? 
 
 Jas. Ah, sir, if I could but be assured that you would not be angry 
 wiih me 
 
 Love. Not at all ; so far from it, you will very much oblige me ; 
 for I am always very glad to hear what the world says of me. 
 
 Jas. Well, sir, then since you will have it, I will tell you freely 
 that they make a jest of you everywhere ; nay, of your very ser- 
 vants, upon your account. They make ten thousand stories of you : 
 one says that you have always a quarrel ready with your servants 
 at quarter-day, or when they leave you, in order to find an excuse 
 to give them nothing. Another says that you were taken one night 
 stealing your own oats from your own horses ; for which your 
 coachman very handsomely belaboured your back. In a word, sir, 
 one can go nowhere, where you are not the byeword ; you are the 
 laughing-stock of all the world, and you are never mentioned bm 
 by the names of covetous, scraping, stingy 
 
 Love. Impertinent, impudent rascal ! Beat him for me, Clcr- 
 mont. 
 
 Clcr. Arc not you ashamed, Mr. James, to give your master thh 
 language ? 
 
 Jas. What's that to you, sir ? I fancy this fellow's a coward if 
 he be I will handle him. 
 
 Cler. It docs not become a servant to use such language to his 
 master. 
 
 Jas. Who taught you, sir, what becomes ? If you trouble your
 
 224 THE MISER. [ACT ill. 
 
 head with my business, I shall thresh your jacket for you. If I 
 once take a stick in hand, I shall teach you to hold your tongue for 
 the future, I believe. If you offer to say another worH to me I'll 
 break your head for you. ' [Drives CI.ERMOXT to the Jarther 
 
 end oj the stage. 
 
 Cler. -How, rascal ! break my head ! 
 
 Jas. I did not say I'd break your head. 
 
 [CLER MONT drives him back again. 
 
 Cler. Do you know, sirrah, that I shall break yours for this 
 impudence ? 
 
 Jan. I hope not, sir ! I give you no offence, sir. 
 
 Clcr. That I shall show you the difference between us. 
 
 Jos. Ha, ha. ha ! sir, I was but in jest. 
 
 Cler. Then I shall warn you to forbear these jests for the future. 
 
 \Kicks him off the stage. 
 
 Jas. Nay, sir, can't you take a jest? Why, I was but in jest 
 all the while. 
 
 L(n>e. How happy am I in such a clerk ! 
 
 Cler. You may leave the ordering of the supper to me, sir ; I will 
 take care of that. 
 
 Love. Do so ; see and provide something to cloy their stomachs ; 
 let there be two great dishes of soup-meagre, a good large suet 
 pudding, some dainty fat pork-pie or pasty, a fine small breast of 
 mutton, not too fat ; a salad, and a dish of artichokes ; which will 
 make plenty and variety enough. 
 
 Cler. I shall take a particular care, sir, to provide everything to 
 your satisfaction. 
 
 Love. But be sure there be plenty of soup ; be sure of that. This 
 is a most excellent young fellow ; but now I will go and pay a visit 
 to my money. . 
 
 SCENE IV. The Street. 
 RAMILIE and LAPPET, meeting. 
 
 Ram. Well, madam, what success ? Have I been a false prophet, 
 and have you come at the old hunck's purse ? or have I spoke like 
 an oracle, and is he as closcfisted as usual ? 
 
 Lap. Never was a person of my function so used. All my rhe- 
 toric availed nothing ; while I was talking to him about the lady. 
 he smiled and was pleased, but the moment I mentioned money to 
 him his countenance changed, and he understood not one word 
 that I said. But now, Ramilic, what do you think this affair is that 
 I am transacting ? 
 
 Ram. Nay, Mrs. Lappet, now you are putting too severe a 
 task upon me. How is it possible, in the vast "variety of affairs 
 which you honour with taking into your hands, that I should be 
 able to guess which is so happy to employ ycur immediate 
 thoughts ?
 
 SCENE iv.] THE MISER. 225 
 
 Lap. Let me tell you then, sweet sir, that I am transacting an 
 affair between your master's mistress and his father. 
 
 Ram. What affair, prithee ? 
 
 Lap. What should it be but the old one, matrimony ? In short, 
 your master and his father arc rivals. 
 
 Ram. I'm glad on't, and I wish the old gentleman success with 
 a 11 my heart. 
 
 Lap. How ! are you your master's enemy ? 
 
 Ram. No, madam, I am so much his friend, that I had rather he 
 should lose his mistress than his humble servant ; which must be 
 the case, for I am determined against a married family. I will never 
 be servant to any man who is not his own master. 
 
 Lap. Why, truly, when one considers the case thoroughly, I must 
 be of an opinion that it would be more your master's interest to be 
 this lady's son-in-law than her husband ; for, in the first place she 
 has but little fortune, and, if she was once married to his son, I 
 dare swear the old gentleman would never forgive the disappoint- 
 ment of his love. 
 
 Ram. And is the old gentleman in love ? 
 
 L*p. Oh, profoundly ! delightfully ! Oh that you had but seen 
 him as I have ! with his feet tottering, his eyes watering, his teeth 
 chattering ! His old trunk was shaken with a fit of love, just as if 
 it had been a fit of an ague. 
 
 Ram. He will have more cold fits than hot, I believe. 
 
 Lap. Is it not more advantageous for him to have a mother-in- 
 law that should open his father's heart to him than a wife that 
 should shut it against him ? Besides, it will be the better for us all ; 
 for if the husband were as covetous as the devil, he could not stop 
 the hands of an extravagant wife. She will always have it in her 
 power to reward them who keep her secrets ; and when the hus- 
 band is old enough to be the wife's grandfather, she has always 
 secrets that arc worth concealing, take my word for it. So, faith, 
 I will even set about that in earnest which I have hitherto intended 
 only as a jest. 
 
 Ram. But do you think you can prevail with her ? Will she not 
 be apt to think she loses that by the exchange which he cannot 
 make her amends for ? 
 
 Lap. Ah ! Ramilie ! the difficulty is not so great to persuade a 
 woman to follow her interest. We generally have that more at 
 heart than you men imagine ; besides, we are extremely apt to 
 listen to one another ; and whether you would lead a woman to 
 ruin, or preserve her from it, the surest way of doing either is by 
 one of her own sex. We are generally decoyed into the net. by 
 birds of our own feathers. 
 
 Ram. Well, if you do succeed in your undertaking, you will 
 allow this, I hope, that I first put it into your hea i. 
 
 Lap. Yes, it is true, you did mention it first ; but I thought of it 
 first ; I .nm svire I must have thought of it ; but 1 will not lose a 
 moment's time ; for, notwithstanding all I have said, young fellows 
 
 H
 
 ii6 THE MISER. [ACT in. 
 
 arc perils. Besides, this has a most plausible tongue, and, should 
 he get access to Mariana, may do in a few minutes what I shall 
 be never able t ) undo as long as I live. 
 
 SCENE V, LOVEGOLD'S House. 
 LOVEGOLD. FREDERICK, HARRIET, MRS. WISELY, MARIANA. 
 
 Love. You sec. madam, what it is to marry extremely young. 
 Here are a couple of tall branches for you, alrriost the age of man 
 and woman ; but ill weeds grow apace. 
 
 Mrs. H~. When children come to their age, Mr. Lovegold. they 
 arc no longer any trouble to their parents ; what I have always 
 dreaded was to have married into a family where there were small 
 children. 
 
 Love. Pray give me leave, young lady ; I have been told you have 
 no great aversion to spectacles : it is not that your charms do not 
 sufficiently strike the naked eye, or that they want addition ; but it 
 is with glasses we look at the stars, and I'll maintain you are a star 
 of beauty that is the finest, brightest, and most glorious of all stars. 
 
 Mar. Harriet, I shall certainly burst. Oh ! nauseous, filthy 
 fellow ! 
 
 Love. What does she say to you, Harriet ? 
 
 Har. She says, sir, if she were a star, you would be sure of her 
 kindest influence. 
 
 Love. How can I return this great honour you do me ? 
 
 Mar. Auh ! what an animal ! what a wretch ! 
 
 Love. How vastly am I obliged to you fbrthesc kind sentiments. 
 
 Mar. I shall never be able to hold it out unless you keep him at 
 .1 greater distance. 
 
 Love, [/listening."} I shall make them both keep their distance, 
 madam. Harkee, you Mr. Spendall, why don't ytni come and make 
 this lady some acknowledgment for the great honour she does your 
 father ? 
 
 Fred. My father has indeed, madam, much reason to be vain of 
 his choice. You will be doubtless a very great honour to our 
 family. Notwithstanding which, I cannot dissemble my real senti- 
 ments so far as to counterfeit any joy I shall have in the name of 
 "on-in-law ; nor can I help saying that, if it were in my power, I 
 relieve I should make no scruple of preventing the match. 
 
 Mar. I betk've it ; indeed, were they to ask the leave of their 
 children, few parents would marry twice. 
 
 Love. Why, you ill-bred blockhead, is that the compliment you 
 make your mother-in-law ? 
 
 Fred. Well, sir, since you will have me talk in another style 
 suffer me, madam, to put myself in the place of my father ; and 
 b:lieve me when I swear to you I never saw any 6nc half so 
 charming ; that I can imagine no happiness equal to that of 
 pleasing you ; that to bo railed yir ViusKmd would be, to mv ears, 
 .1 title more blessed, mop.- glorious, than that of the greatest of
 
 SCENE v.] THE MISER. 227 
 
 princes. The possession of you is the most valuable gift in the 
 power of fortune. That is the lovely mark to which all my 
 ambition tends ; there is nothing which I am not capable of under- 
 taking to attain so great a blessing ; all difficulties, when you are 
 the prize in pursuit 
 
 Love. Hold, hold, sir ; softly, if you please. 
 
 Fred. I am only saying a few civil things, sir, for you to this 
 lady. 
 
 Love. Your humble servant, sir ; I have a tongue to say civil 
 things with myself. I have no need of such an interpreter as you 
 are, sweet sir. 
 
 Afar. If your father could not speak better for himself than his 
 Son can for him, I am afraid he would meet with little success. 
 
 Love. I don't ask you, ladies, to drink any wine before supper, 
 lest it should spoil your stomachs. 
 
 Fred. I have taken the liberty to order some sweetmeats, sir, 
 and tokay, in the next room ; I hope the ladies will excuse what is 
 wanting. 
 
 Mrs. W. There was no necessity for such a collation. 
 
 Fred. \to MARIANA.] Did you ever see, madam, so fine a 
 brilliant as that on my father's ringer ? 
 
 Mar. It seems, indeed, to be a very fine one. 
 
 Fred. You cannot judge of it, madam, unless you were to see it 
 nearer. If you will give me leave, sir. {takes it off" from his 
 fathers finger and gives it to MARIANA.] There is no seeing a 
 jewel while it is on the finger. 
 
 Mrs. W. and Mar. It is really a prodigious fine one. 
 
 Fred, [preventing MARIANA, who is going to return itJ] No, 
 madam, it is already in the best hands. My father, madam, intends 
 it as a present to you ; therefore I hope you will accept it. 
 
 Love. Present ! I ! 
 
 Fred. Is it not, sir, your request to this lady that she would wear 
 this bauble for your sake ? 
 
 Love. \to his son.'] Is the devil in you ? 
 
 Fred. He makes signs to me that I would entreat you to accept it. 
 
 Mar. I shall not, upon my word. 
 
 Fred. He will not receive it again. 
 
 Lovt: I shall run stark staring mad. 
 
 Mar. \ must insist on returning : t. 
 
 Fred. It would be cruel in you to refuse him ; let me entreat you, 
 madam, not to shock my poor father to such a degree. 
 
 Mrs. M'. It is ill-breeding, child, to refuse so often. 
 
 Love. Oh ! that the devil would but fly away with this follow ! 
 
 Fred. See, madam, what agonies he is in. lest you should return 
 
 it. It is not my fault, dear sir; I do all I can to prevail with 
 
 but she is obstinate. For pity's sake, madam, keep it. 
 
 Lo7'f. [/<> his son.] Infernal villain ! 
 
 Fred. My father will never forgive me, madam, unless I succeed ; 
 on my knees I ervtret you. 
 
 H 2
 
 228 THE MISER. [ACT HI. 
 
 Love. The cut-throat ! 
 
 Mrs. W. Daughter, I protest you make me ashamed of you ; 
 come, come, put up the ring, since Mr. Lovegold is so uneasy 
 about it. 
 
 Mar. Your commands, madam, always determine me, and 
 I shall refuse no longer. 
 
 Love. I shall be undone ; I wish I was buried while I have 
 one farthing left. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 To them, JAMES. 
 
 Jas. Sir, there is a man at the door who desires to speac .vith 
 you. 
 
 Love. Tell him I am busy ; bid him come another time ; bid him 
 leave his business with you. 
 
 Jos. Must he leave the money he has brought with him, sir? 
 
 Love. No, no, stay ; tell him I come this instant. I ask pardon, 
 ladies, I'll wait on you again immediately. 
 
 Fred. Will you please, ladies, to walk into the next room, and 
 taste the collation I was mentioning ? 
 
 Mar. I have eat too much fruit already this afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. W. Really, sir, this is an unnecessary trouble ; but, since 
 the tokay is provided, I will taste one glass. 
 
 Har. I'll wait on you, madam. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 FREDERICK, MARIANA. 
 
 Mar. That is a mighty pretty picture over the door, Harriet. Is 
 it a family-piece, my dear ? I think it has a great deal of you in it. 
 Are not you generally thought very like it ? Heyday ! where is my 
 mamma and your sister gone ? 
 
 Fred. They thought, madam, we might have some business 
 together, and so were willing to leave us alone. 
 
 Mar. Did they so ?but as we happen to have no business together 
 we may as well follow them. 
 
 Fred. When a lover has no other obstacles to surmount but those 
 his mistress throws in his way, she is in the right not to become too 
 easy a conquest ; but, were you as kind as I could wish, my father 
 would still prove a sufficient bar to our happiness ; therefore it is a 
 double cruelty in you. 
 
 Mar. Our happiness! how came your happiness and mine to 
 depend so on one another, pray, when that of the mother and son- 
 in-law are usually so very opposite ? 
 
 Fred. This is keeping up the play behind the curtain. Your 
 kindness to him comes from the same spring as your cruelty to me. 
 
 Mar. Modest enough ! then, I suppose, you think both fictitious. 
 
 Fred. Faith, to be sincere, I do without arrogance, I think ; I
 
 SCENE viii.] THE MISER. 229 
 
 have nothing in me so detestable as should make you deaf to all I 
 say, or blind to all I suffer. This I am certain, there is nothing 
 in him so charming as to captivate a woman of your sense in a 
 moment. 
 
 Mar. You are mistaken, sir ; money, money, the most charming 
 of all things ; money, which will say more in one moment than the 
 most elegant lover can in years. Perhaps you will say a man is not 
 young; I answer he is rich. He is not genteel, handsome, witty, 
 brave, good-humoured ; but he is rich, rich, rich, rich, rich ; that one 
 word contradicts everything you can say against him ; and if you 
 were to praise a person for a whole hour, and end with, " But he is 
 poor," you overthrow all you have said ; for it has long been an 
 established maxim that he who is rich can have no vice, and he 
 that is poor can have no virtue. 
 
 Fred. These principles are foreign to the real sentiments of 
 Mariana's heart. I vow, did you but know how ill a counterfeit 
 you are, how awkwardly ill-nature sits upon you, you'd never wear 
 it. There is not one so abandoned but that she can affect what is 
 amiable better than you can what is odious. Nature has painted 
 in you the complexion of virtue in such lively colours, that nothing 
 but what is lovely can suit you, or appear your own. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 MARIANA, FREDERICK, HARRIET. 
 
 Har. I left your mamma, Mariana, with Mr. Clermont. who is 
 showing her some pictures in the gallery. Well, have you told 
 him ? 
 
 Mar. Told him what ? 
 
 Har. Why, what you told me this afternoon ; that you loved 
 him. 
 
 Mar. I tell you I loved him ! Oh ! barbarous falsehood ! 
 
 Fred. Did you ? could you say so ? Oh ! repeat it to my face, 
 and make me blessed to that degree. 
 
 Har. Repeat it to him, can't you ? How can you be so ill- 
 natured to conceal anything from another which would make him 
 happy to know ? 
 
 Mar. The lie would choke me, were I to say so. 
 
 Har. Indeed, my dear, you have said you hated him so often 
 that you need not fear that. But, if she will not discover it to you 
 herself, take my word for it, brother, she is your own without any 
 possibility of losing. She is full as fond of you as you are of her. 
 I hate this peevish, foolish coyness in women, who will suffer a 
 worthy lover to languish and despair, when they need only put 
 themselves to the pain of telling truth to make them easy. 
 
 Mar. Give me leave to tell you, Miss Harriet, this is a treatment 
 I did not expect from you, especially in your own house, madam. 
 I did not imagine I was invited hither to be betrayed, and that
 
 230 THE MISER. [ACT in. 
 
 you had entered into a plot with your brother against my 
 reputation. 
 
 Har. We form a plot against your reputation ! I wjsh you could 
 see, my dear, how prettily these airs become you. Take my word, 
 for it, you would have no reason to be in love with your fancy. ; 
 
 Mar. I should indeed have no reason to be in love with my fancy 
 if it were fixed where you have insinuated it to be placed. 
 
 Har. If you have any reason, madam, to be ashamed of your 
 choice, it is from denying it. My brother is every way worthy of 
 you, madam; and give me leave to tell you, if I can prevent it, you 
 shall not render him as ridiculous to the town as you have some 
 other of your admirers. 
 
 Fred. Dear Harriet, carry it no further ; you. will ruin me for 
 ever with her. 
 
 Har. Away ! you do not know the sex. Her vanity will make 
 you play the fool till she despises you, and then contempt will 
 destroy her affection for you It is a part she has often played. 
 
 Mar. 1 am obliged to you, however, madam, for the lesson you 
 have given me, how far I may depend on a woman's friendship. It 
 will be my own fault if ever I am deceived hereafter. 
 
 Har. My friendship, madam, naturally cools when I discover it? 
 object less worthy than I imagined her. I can never have any 
 violent esteem for one who would make herself unhappy to make the 
 person who dotes on her more so ; the ridiculous custom of the 
 world is a poor excuse for such a behaviour. And, in my opinion, 
 the coquette, who sacrifices the ease and reputation of as many as 
 she is able to an ill-natured vanity, is a more odious I am sure she 
 is a more pernicious creature than the wretch whom fondness 
 betrays to make her lover happy at the expense of her own 
 reputation. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 To them, MRS. WISELY, CLERMONT. 
 
 Mrs. W. Upon my word, sir, you have a most excellent taste for 
 pictures. 
 
 Mar. I can bear this no longer ; if you have been base enough to 
 have given up all friendship and honour, good breed ing should have 
 restrained you from using me after this inhuman, cruel, barbarous 
 manner. 
 
 Mrs. W. Bless me, child, what's the matter. 
 
 Har. Let me entreat you, Mariana, not to expose yourself ; you 
 have nothing to complain of on his side ; and therefore pray let the 
 whole be a secret. 
 
 Mar. A secret I no, madam. The whole world shall know how 
 I have' been treated. I thank Heaven I have it in my power to be 
 revenged on you ; and if I am not revenged on you 
 
 Fred. See, sister, was I not in the right ? Did I not tell you you 
 would ruin me ? and now you have done it
 
 xi.] THE MISER. 231 
 
 Har. Courage ! all will go well yet. You must not be frightened 
 at a few storms. T!^se arc only blasts that carry a lover to his 
 harbour. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 To them, LOVEGOLD. 
 
 Love. I ask you pardon ; I have despatched my business with all 
 possible haste. 
 
 Mrs. W. I ciid not expect, Mr. Lovegold, when we were invited 
 hither, that your children intended to affront us. 
 
 Love. Hns any one affronted you, madam ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Your children, sir, have used my poor girl so ill, that 
 they nave brought tears into her eyes\ I can assure you we arc 
 not used to be treated in this manner. My daughter is of as good 
 a family 
 
 Love. Out of my sight, audacious, vile wretches ! and let me never 
 see you again. 
 
 Fred. Sir, I 
 
 Love. I won't hear a word, and I wish I may never hear you 
 more. Was ever such impudence, to dare, after what \ have told 
 you- - 
 
 Har. Come, brother ; perhaps I may give you some com- 
 fort. 
 
 FrciL \ fear you have destroyed it for ever. 
 
 SCENE XJ. 
 
 LOVEOOLD, MRS. WISELY, MARIANA, CLKKMONT. 
 
 Love. How shall I make you amends for the rudeness you have 
 suffered ? Poor, pretty creature ! had they stolen my purse, 1 
 would almost as soon have pardoned them. 
 
 Mrs. H'. The age is come to a fine pass, indeed, if children are 
 to control the wills of their parents. It I would have consented to 
 a second match, I would have been glad to have seen a child of 
 mine oppose it. 
 
 Love. Let us be married immediately, my dear ; and if after that 
 they ever dare to offend you, they shall stay no longer under my 
 roof. 
 
 Mrs. W. Lookec, Mariana ; I know your consent will appear a 
 little sudden, and not altogether conform to those nice rules of 
 decorum of which I have been all mv life so strict an observer ; 
 but this is so prudent a match, that the world will be apt to give 
 you a dispensation. When women seem, too forward to run away 
 with idle young fellows, the world is, as it ought to be. very severe 
 on them ; but when they only consult their interest in their con- 
 suit, though it K - never so quickly given, \ve s.,}. LA! who sus- 
 pected it ? it was mighty privately carried on.
 
 232 THE MISER. [ACT HI. 
 
 Mar. I resign myself entirely over to your will, madam, and am 
 at your disposal. 
 
 Mrs, W. Mr. Lovegold, my daughter is a little shy pn this occa- 
 sion ; you know your courtship has not been of any long date ; 
 but she has considered your great merit, and I believe I may 
 venture to give you her consent. 
 
 Love. And shall I ? hey ? I begin to find myself the happiest man 
 upon earth. Od, madam, you shall be a grandmother within these 
 ten months. I am a very young fellow. 
 
 Mar. If you were five years younger I should utterly detest 
 you. 
 
 Love. The very creature she was described to be. No one, 
 sure, ever so luckily found a mass of treasure as I have. My 
 pretty sweet, if you will walk a few minutes in the garden I will 
 wait on you. I must give some necessary orders to my clerk. 
 
 Mrs. IV. We shall expect you with impatience. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 LOVEGOLD, CLERMONT. 
 
 Love. Clermont, come hither. You see the disorder my house is 
 likely to be in this evening. I must trust everything to your care. 
 See that matters be managed with as small expense as possible. 
 My extravagant son has sent for fruit, sweetmeats, and tokay. 
 Take care what is not eat or drank be returned to the tradespeople. 
 If you can save a bottle of the wine, let that be sent back too, and 
 put up what is left ; if part of a bottle, in a pint : that I will keep 
 for my own drinking when I am sick. Be sure that the servants of 
 my guests be not asked to come further than the hall, for fear some 
 of mine should ask them to eat. I trust everything to you. 
 
 Cler. I shall take all the care possible, sir. But there is one 
 thing in this entertainment of yours which gives me inexpressible 
 pain. 
 
 Love. What is that, prithee ? 
 
 Cler. That is the cause of it. Give me leave, sir, to be free on 
 this occasion. I am sorry a man of your years and prudence should 
 be prevailed on to so indiscreet an action as I fear this marriage 
 will be called. 
 
 Love. I know she has not quite so great a fortune as I might 
 expect. 
 
 Cler. Has she any fortune, sir ? 
 
 Love. Oh ! yes, yes, I have been very well assured that her 
 mother is in very good circumstances ; and you know she is her 
 only daughter. Besides, she has several qualities which will save a 
 fortune ; and a penny saved is a penny got. Since I find I have 
 great occasion for a wife, I might have searched all over this town 
 and not have got one cheaper. 
 
 Cler. Sure, you are in a dream, sir ; she save a fortune !
 
 SCENE XIII.] THE MISER. 233 
 
 Love. In the article of a table at least two hundred pounds a 
 year. 
 
 Cler. Sure, sir, you do not know 
 
 Love. In clothes two hundred more. 
 
 Cler. There is not, sir, in the whole town 
 
 Love. In jewels, one hundred ; play, five hundred ; these have 
 been all proved to me ; besides all that her mother is worth. In 
 short, I have made a very prudent choice. 
 
 Cler. Do but hear me, sir. 
 
 Love. Take a particular care of the family, my good boy. Pray, 
 let there be nothing wasted. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 CLERMONT, alone. 
 
 How vainly do we spend our breath while passion shuts the ears 
 of those we talk to ! I thought it impossible for anything to have 
 surmounted his avarice, but I find there is one little passion which 
 reigns triumphant in every mind it creeps into ; and whether a man 
 be covetous, proud, or cowardly, it is in the po"\ver of woman to 
 make him liberal, humble, and brave. Sure this young lady will 
 not let her fury carry her into the arms of a wretch she despises ; 
 but, as she is a coquette, there is no answering for any of her 
 actions. I will hasten to acquaint Frederick with what I have 
 heard. Poor man ! how little satisfaction he finds in his mistress 
 compared to what I meet in Harriet ! Love to him is misery ; to 
 me perfect happiness. Women are always one or the other ; they 
 are never indifferent. 
 
 Whoever takes for better and for worse 
 
 Meets with the greatest blessing or the greatest curse. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE \.A Hallin LOVEGOLD'S House. 
 FREDERICK, RAMILIE. 
 
 Fred. How ! Lappet my enemy ! and can she attempt to forward 
 Mariana's marriage with my father ? 
 
 Ram. Sir, upon my honour it is true. She told it me in the 
 highest confidence a trust, sir, which nothing but the inviolable 
 friendship I have for you could have prevailed with me to have 
 broken. 
 
 Fred. Sir, I am your most humble servant ; I am infinitely- 
 obliged to your friendship. 
 
 Ram. Oh ! sir ; but really I did withstand pretty considerable 
 offers ; for, would you think it, sir ? the jade had the impudence to 
 attempt to engage me too in the affair. I believe, sir, you would 
 have been pleased to have heard the answer I gave her. Madam, 
 gays I, do you think, if I had no more honour, I should have no
 
 234 THE MISER. [ACT iv. 
 
 greater regard to my interest ? It is my interest, madam, says I. 
 to be honest ; for my master is a man of that generosity, that 
 liberality, that bounty, that I am sure he will never suffer any ser- 
 vant of his to be a loser by being true to him. No, no, says I, let 
 him alone for rewarding a servant when he is but once assured of 
 his fidelity. 
 
 Fred. No demands now, Ramilie ; I shall find a time to reward 
 you. 
 
 Ram. That was what I told her, sir. Do you think, says I, this 
 old rascal (I ask your pardon, sir), that this hunks, my master's 
 father, will live for ever ?- -and then, says I, do you think ray mas- 
 ter will not remember his old friends ? 
 
 Fred. Well, but, dear sir, let us have no more of your rhetoric 
 go and fetch Lappet hither. I'll try if I can't bring her over. 
 
 Ram. Bring her over ! a fig for her, sir ! I have a. plot worth 
 fifty of yours. I'll blow her up with your father. I'll make 
 him believe just the contrary of every word she has told Him. 
 
 Fred, Can you do that ? 
 
 Ram. Never fear it, sir ; I'll warrant my lies keep even pace with 
 hers. But, sir, I have another plot ; I don't question but before you 
 s,teep I shall put you in possession of some thousands of yovir 
 father's money. 
 
 Fred. He has done all in his power to provoke me to it ; but I 
 am afraid that will be carrying the jest too far. 
 
 Ram. Sir, I will undertake to make it out that robbing him is a 
 downright meritorious act. Besides, sir, if you have any qualms 
 of conscience, you may return it him again. Your having posses- 
 sion of it will bring him to any terms. 
 
 Fred. Well, well. I believe there is little danger of thy stealing 
 anything from him. So about the first affair. It is that only which 
 causes my present pain. 
 
 Ram. Fear nothing, sir, whilst Ramilie is your friend. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 FREDERICK, CLERMONT. 
 
 Fr?d. If impudence can give a title to success, I am sure thou 
 hast a good one. 
 
 Cltr. Oh ! Frederick, I have been looking for you all over tin* 
 house. I have news for you, which will give me pain to discover, 
 though it is necessary you should know it. In short, Mariana has 
 determined to marry your father this evening. 
 
 Pred: How ! Oh, Clermont \ is it possible ? woe be to the politics 
 of my sister ; she is the innocent occasion of this. And can Marian. i 
 from a pique to her throw 'herself away? Dear CIcnnont, give me 
 some advice; think on some method by which I ipay prevent, at least 
 defer, this match ; for that moment which gives her to my father 
 will strike a thousand daggers in my heart.
 
 SCENE in.] THE M1SKR. 235 
 
 Cler. Would I could advise you ; but here comes one who is 
 more likely to invent some means for your deliverance. 
 Fred. Ha ! Lappet ! 
 
 SCENE III. 
 LAPPET, FREDERICK, CLERMONT. 
 
 Lap. Heyday ! Mr. Frederick, you stand with your arms across, 
 and look as melancholy as if there was a funeral going on in the 
 house, instead of a wedding. 
 
 Fred. This wedding, madam, will prove the occasion of my 
 funeral ; I am obliged to you for being instrumental to it. 
 
 Lap. Why, truly, if you consider the case rightly, I think you 
 
 are. It will be much more to your interest to 
 
 . Fred. Mistress, undo immediately what you have done ; prevent 
 this match which you have forwarded, or by all the devils which 
 inhabit that heart of yours 
 
 Lap. For Heaven's sake, sir, you do not intend to kill me? 
 
 Fred. What could drive your villainy to attempt to rob me of the 
 woman I dote on more than life ? What could urge thee, when I 
 trusted thce with my passion, when I have paid the most extra- 
 vagant usury for money to bribe thee to be my friend, what could 
 sv/ay thee to betray me ? 
 
 Lap. As I hope to be saved, sir, whatever I have done was 
 intended for your service. 
 
 Fred. It is in vain to deny it ; I know thou hast used thy utmost 
 art to persuade my father into this match. 
 
 Lap. If I did, sir, it was all with a view towards your interest ; 
 if I have done anything to prevent your having her, it was because 
 I thought you would do better without her. 
 
 Fred. Would'st thou, to save ray life, tear out my heart ? And . 
 dost thou, like an impudent inciuisitor, while thou art destroying 
 me, assert it is for my own sake r 
 
 Lap. Be but appeased, sir, and let m'e recover out of this terrible 
 fright you have put me into, and I will engage to make you easy 
 yet. 
 
 Clcr. Dear Frederick, adjourn your anger for a while at least ; 
 I am sure Mrs. Lappet is not your enemy in her heart ; and what- 
 ever she has done, if it has not been for your sake, this I dare 
 confidently affirm, it hns been for her own. And I have so good 
 an opinion of her, that, the moment you show her it will be more 
 her interest to serve you than to oppose you, you may be secure ol 
 her friendship. 
 
 Fred. Hut has she not already carried it beyond retrieval ? 
 
 Lap. Alas ! sir, I never did anything yet so effectually, but that 
 I have been capable of undoing it ; nor have I ever said anything 
 so positively, but that I have been able as positively to unsay it 
 again. As for truth, I have neglected it so long, that I often forget 
 which side of the question it is of. Besides, I look on it to be so
 
 23$ THE AflSER. [ACT iv. 
 
 very insignificant towards success, that I am indifferent whether it 
 is for me or against me. 
 
 Fred. Let me entreat you, dear madam, to lose no time in in- 
 forming us of your many excellent qualities, but consider how very 
 precious our time is, since the marriage is intended this very 
 evening. 
 
 Lap. That cannot be. 
 
 Cler. My own ears were witnesses to her consent. 
 
 Lap. That indeed may be but for the marriage it cannot be, nor 
 it shall not be. 
 
 Fred. How ! how will you prevent it ! 
 
 Lap. By an infallible rule I have. But, sir, Mr. Clermont was 
 mentioning a certain little word called interest, just now. I should 
 not repeat it to you, sir, but that really one goes about a thing with 
 so much a better will, and one has so much better luck in it too, 
 when one has got some little matter by it. 
 
 Fred. Here, take all the money I have in my pocket, and on my 
 marriage with Mariana thou shalt have fifty more. 
 
 Lap. That is enough, sir ; if they were half married already I 
 would unmarry them again. I am impatient till I am about it. 
 Oh ! there is nothing like gold to quicken a woman's capacity. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 FREDERICK, CI.ERMONT. 
 
 Fred. Dost thou think I may place any confidence in what this 
 woman says ? 
 
 Cler. Faith .' I think so. I have told you how dexterously she 
 managed my affairs. I have seen such proofs of her capacity, that 
 I am much easier on your account than I was. 
 
 Fred. My own heart is something lighter too. Oh, Clermont ! 
 how dearly do we buy all the joys which we receive from women ! 
 
 Cler. A coquette's lover generally pays very severely indeed. His 
 game is sure to lead him a long chase, and it he catches her at last 
 she is hardly worth carrying home. You will excuse me. 
 
 Fred. It does not affect me ; for what appears a coquette in 
 Mariana, is rather the effects of sprightliness and youth than any 
 fixed habit of mind ; she has good sense and good nature at the 
 bottom. 
 
 Cler. If she has good nature, it is at the bottom indeed ; for I 
 think she has never discovered any to you. 
 
 Fred. Women of her beauty and merit have such a variety of 
 admirers, that they are shocked to think of giving up all the rest 
 by fixing on one. Besides, so many pretty gentlemen are con- 
 tinually attending them, and whispering soft things in their ears, 
 who think all their services well repaid by a curtsey or a smile, that 
 they are startled, and think a lover a most unreasonable creature 
 who can imagine he merits their whole person. 
 
 Cler. They arc of all people my aversion. They are a sort of
 
 SCENE vi.] THE MISER. 237 
 
 spaniels, who, though they have no chance of running down the 
 hare themselves, often spoil the chase : it is pleasant enough to sec 
 them watching the eyes of a woman of quality half an hour to get 
 an opportunity of making a bow to her. 
 
 Fred. Which she often returns with a smile, or some other extra- 
 ordinary mark of affection, from a charitable design of giving pain 
 to her real admirer, who, though he can't be jealous of the animal, is 
 concerned to see her condescend to take notice of him. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 HARRIET, FREDERICK, CLERMONT. 
 
 Har. I suppose, brother, you have heard of my good father's 
 economy, that he has resolved to join two entertainments in one, 
 and prevent giving an extraordinary wedding-supper. 
 
 Fred. Yes, I have heard it and 1 hope have taken measures 
 
 to prevent it 
 
 Har. Why, did you believe it then ? 
 
 Fred. I think I had no longer room to doubt. 
 
 Har. Heaven forbid I should have such a mother-in-law ! But 
 I think, if she were wedded into any other family, you would have 
 no reason to lament the loss of so constant a mistress. 
 
 Fred. Dear Harriet, indulge my weakness. 
 
 Har. I will indulge your weakness with all my heart, but the 
 men ought not ; for they are such lovers as you, who spoil the 
 women. Come, if you will bring Mr. Clermont into my apartment, 
 I'll give you a dish of tea, and you shall have some sal volatile in it, 
 though you have no real cause for any depression of your spirit ; 
 for I dare swear your mistress is very safe. And I am sure, if she 
 were to be lost in the manner you apprehend, she would be the best 
 loss you ever had in your life. 
 
 Cler. Oh, Frederick ! if your mistress were but equal to your 
 sister, you might be well called the happiest of mankind. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 MARIANA, LAPPET. 
 
 Lap. Ha, ha, ha ! and so you- have persuaded the old lady that 
 you really intend to have him. 
 
 Mar. I tell you I do really intend to have him. 
 
 Lap. Have him 1 ha, ha, ha ! For what do you intend to have 
 him ? 
 
 Afar. Have I not told you already that I will marry him ? 
 
 Lap. Indeed, you will not. 
 
 Mar. How, Mrs. Impertinence ! has your mistress told you 
 so? and did she send you hither to persuade me against the 
 match ? 
 
 Lap. What should you marry him for ? As for his riches, you
 
 238 THE MISER. [ACT iv 
 
 might as well think of going hungry to a fine entertainment, where 
 you are sure of not being suffered to eat. The very income of your 
 own fortune will be more than he will allow you. Adieu fine 
 clothes, operas, plays, assemblies ; adieu dear quadrille ! And to 
 what have you sacrificed all these ? Not to a husband for what- 
 ever you make of him, you will never make a husband of him, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 Mar. This is a liberty, madam. I shall not allow you ; if you 
 intend to stay in this house you must leave off these pretty airs you 
 have lately given yourself. Remember you are a servant here, and 
 not the mistress, as you have been suffered to affect. 
 
 Lap. You may lay aside your airs too, good madam, it you come 
 to that ; for I shall not desire to stay in this house when you are the 
 mistress of it. 
 
 Mar. It will be prudent in you not to put on your usual insolence 
 to me ; for, if you do, your master shall punish you for it. 
 
 Lap. I have one comfort, he will not be able to punish me half 
 so much as he will you. The worst he can do to me is to turrt mo 
 out of the house but you he can keep in it. Wife to an old fellow ! 
 faugh ! 
 
 Mar. If Miss Harriet sent you on this errand you may return, 
 and tell her her wit is shallower than I imagined it ; and since she 
 has no more experience, I believe I shall send my daughter-in-law 
 to school again. [Exit. 
 
 Lap. Hum \ you will have a schoolmaster at home. I begin to 
 doubt whether this sweet-tempered creature will not marry in spite 
 at last. I have one project more to prevent her, and that I will 
 about instantly. 
 
 SCENE VII. The Garden. 
 LOVEGOLD, MRS. WISF.LY. 
 
 Love. I cannot be easy. I must settle something upon her. 
 
 Airs. W. Believe me, Mr. Loyegold, it is unnecessary ; when you 
 die you will leave your wife very well provided for. 
 
 Love. Indeed, I have known several lawsuits, happen on these 
 accounts ; and sometimes the whole has been thrown away in 
 disputing to which party it belonged. 1 shall not sleep in my grave 
 while a set of villainous lawyers are dividing the little money I have 
 among them. 
 
 Mrs. W. I know this old fool is fond enough now to come to 
 any terms ; but it is ill trusting him : violent passions can never 
 last long at his years. [Aside. 
 
 Love. What are you considering ? 
 
 Mrs. IV. Mr. Lovegold, I am sure, knows the world too well to 
 have the worse opinion of any woman from her prudence : there- 
 fore, I must tell you, this delay of the match docs not at all please 
 me. It seems to argue your inclinations abated, and so it is better 
 to let the treaty end here. My daughter has a very good offer now,
 
 SCENE VIIT.] THE MTSF.R. 239 
 
 which were she to refuse on your account, she would make a very 
 ridiculous figure in the world after you h;ul left her. 
 
 Love. Alas ! madam, I love her better than anything almost 
 upon the face of the earth ; this delay is to secure her a good join- 
 ture : I am not worth the money the world says ; I am not, indeed. 
 
 Mrs. W. Well, sir, then Acre can be no harm, for the satisfac- 
 tion of both her mind and mine, in your signing a small contract, 
 which can be prepared immediately. 
 
 Love. What signifies signing, madam ? 
 
 Mrs. W. I sec, sir, you don't care for it. So there is no harm 
 done ; and really this other is so very advantageous an offer, that i 
 don't know whether I shall not be blamed for refusing him on any 
 account. 
 
 Love. Nay, but be not in haste ; what would you have me 
 sign ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Only to perform your promise of marriage. 
 
 Love. Well, well, let your lawyer draw it up then, and mine 
 shall look over it. 
 
 Mrs. W. I belit-ve my lawyer is in the house ; I'll go to him, and 
 get it done instantly ; and then we will give this gentleman a final 
 answer. I assure you he is a very advantageous offer. \_Kxit. 
 
 Love. As I intend to marry this girl, there can be no harm in 
 signing the contract ; her lawyer draws it up, so I shall be at no 
 expense ; for I can get mine to look it over for nothing. I should 
 have done very wisely indeed to have entitled her to a third of my 
 fortune whereas I will not make her jomture above a tenth. I 
 protest it is with some difficulty that I have prevailed with myself 
 to put off the match. I am more in love, I find, than I suspected. 
 
 SCEXE VIII. 
 LAPPET, LOVEGOLQ. 
 
 Lap. Oh ! unhappy, miserable creature that I am ! What shall 
 I do ? whither shall I go ? 
 
 Love. What's the matter. Lappet ? 
 
 Lap. To have been innocently assisting in betraying so good a 
 man ! so good a master ! so good a friend ! 
 
 Love. Lappet, I say ! 
 
 Lap. I shall never forgive myself; I shall never outlive it : I shall 
 never eat, drink, sleep r [Runs agdtHst Him, 
 
 Love. One would think you were walking in your s)eop row. 
 What can be the meaning of this ? 
 
 Lap. Oh, sir ! you are undone, sir : and I am undone. 
 
 Love. How! what! lias any one robbed me? Have I lost 
 anything ? 
 
 Lap. No, sir ; but you have pot something. 
 
 Love. What? what? 
 
 I^tp. A wife. sir. 
 
 Love. No, I have not vet. But \vhv
 
 240 THE MISER. [ACT IV. 
 
 Lap. How, sir ! arc you not married ? 
 
 Love. No. 
 
 Lap. That is the happiest word I ever heard come out of your 
 mouth. 
 
 Love. I have, for some particular reasons, put off the match for 
 a few days. 
 
 Lap. Yes, sir ; and, for some particular reasons, you shall put oft" 
 the match for a few years. 
 
 Love. What do you say ? 
 
 Lap. Oh, sir ! this affair has almost determined me never to 
 engage in matrimonial matters again. I have been finely deceived 
 in this lady. I told you, sir, she had an estate in a certain country ; 
 but I find it is all a cheat, sir. 
 
 Love. How ! not any estate at all ! How can she live, then ? 
 
 Lap. Nay, sir, Heaven knows how half the people in this town 
 live. 
 
 Love. However, it is an excellent good quality in a woman to be 
 able to live without an estate. She that can make something out of 
 nothing will make a little go a great way. I am sorry she has no 
 fortune ; but, considering all her saving qualities. Lappet 
 
 Lap. All an imposition, sir. She is the most extravagant wretch 
 upon earth. 
 
 Love. How! how! Extravagant? 
 
 Lap. I tell you, sir, she is downright extravagance itself. 
 
 Love. Can it be possible, after what you told me ? 
 
 Lap. Alas, sir ! that was only a cloak thrown over her real 
 inclinations. 
 
 Love. How was it possible for you to be so deceived in her ? 
 
 Lap. Alas, sir ! she would have deceived any one upon earth, 
 even you yourself ; for, sir. during a whole fortnight since you have 
 been in love with her, she has made it her whole business to conceal 
 her extravagance, and appear thrifty. 
 
 Love. That is a good sign, though Lappet, let me tell you, that 
 is a good sign. Right habits, as well as wrong, are got by affecting 
 them. And she who could be thrifty a whole fortnight gives lively 
 hopes that she may be brought to be so as long as she lives. 
 
 Lap. She loves play to distraction. It is the only visible way in 
 the world she has of living. 
 
 Love. She must win, then. Lappet ; and play, when people play 
 the best of the game, is no such very bad thing. Besides, as she 
 plays only to support herself, when she can be supported without it 
 she may leave it off. 
 
 Lap. To support her extravagance, in dress particularly. Why, 
 don't you see, sir, she's dressed out to-day like a princess. 
 
 Love. It may be an effect of prudence in a young woman to dress, 
 in order to get a husband. And, as that is apparently her motive, 
 when she is married that motive ceases ; and, to say the truth, she 
 is in discourse a very prudent young woman. 
 
 Lap. Think of her extravagance.
 
 SCENE Vlil.] THE MISER. 941 
 
 Love. A woman of the greatest modesty ? 
 
 Lap. And extravagance. 
 
 Love. She has really a very fine set of teeth. 
 
 Lap. She will have all the teeth out of your bead. 
 
 Love. \ never saw finer eyes. 
 
 Lap. She will eat you out of house and home. 
 
 Love. Charming liair. 
 
 Lap. She will ruin you. 
 
 Love. Sweet kissing lips, and the finest shape that ever wac 
 embraced. [Catching LAPPET in his arms. 
 
 Lap. Oh, sir, I am not the lady. Was ever such an old goat ! 
 Well, sir, I see you are determined on the match ; and so 1 desire 
 you would pay me my wages. I cannot bear to see the ruin of a 
 family in which I have lired so long that I have contracted as 
 great a friendship for it as if it was my own. I can't bear to 
 see waste, riot, and extravagance ; to see all the wealth a poor, 
 honest, industrious gentleman has been raising all his lifetime 
 squandered away in a year or two in feasts, balls, music, cards, 
 clothes, jewels. It would break my heart to see my poor 
 old master eat out by a set of singers, fiddlers, milliners, 
 mantua-makers, mercers, toymen, jewellers, fops, cheats, rakes. 
 To see his guinc as fly about like dust ; all his ready money paid in 
 one morning to one tradesman ; his whole stock in the Funds spent 
 in one half-year ; all his land swallowed down in another; all his 
 old gold nay, the very plate which he has had in his family time 
 out of mind which has descended from father to son ever since the 
 Flood to see even that disposed of. What will they have next, I 
 wonder, when they have had all that he is worth in the world, and 
 left the poor old man without anything to furnish his old age with 
 the necessaries of life will they be contented then, or will they tear 
 out his bowels, and eat them too ? [Both burst into tears.}. The 
 laws are cruel to put it in the power of a wife to ruin her husband 
 in this manner. And will any one tell me that such a woman as 
 this is handsome? What are a pair of shining eyes, when they 
 must be bought with the loss of all one's shining gold ? 
 
 Love. Oh ! my poor old gold. 
 
 Lap. Perhaps she has a fine set of teeth. 
 
 Love. My poor plate, that I have hoarded with so much care ! 
 
 Lap. Or I'll grant she may have a most beautiful shape. 
 
 Love. My dear land and tenements. 
 
 Lap. What are the roses on her cheeks, or lilies in her neck ? 
 
 Love. My poor Indian bonds, bearing at least three and half per 
 cent. 
 
 Lap. A fine excuse, indeed, when a man is ruined by his wife, to 
 tell us he has married a beauty !
 
 242 THE MISER. [ACT IV. 
 
 LAWYER, LOVEGOLD, LAPPET. 
 
 Law. Sir, the contract is ready ; my client has sent for the 
 counsel on the other side, and he is now below examining it. 
 
 Lcn>e. Get you out of my doors, you villain, you and your client 
 too; Til contract you, with a vengeance. 
 
 Law. Hey-day ! sure you are non compos mentis .' 
 
 Love. No, sirrah, 1 had like to have been 11011 compos mentis ; 
 but I have had the good luck to escape it. Go and tell your client 
 I have discovered her : bid her take her advantageous offer ; for 
 I shall sign no contracts. 
 
 'Law. This is the strangest thing I have met with in my whole 
 course of practice. 
 
 Love. I am very much obliged to you, Lappet ; indeed, I am 
 very much obliged to you. 
 
 La.p. I am sure, sir, I have a very great satisfaction in serving 
 you, and I hope you will consider of that little affair that I 
 mentioned to you to-day about my lawsuit. 
 
 Love. I am very much obliged to you. 
 
 Lap. I hope, sir, you won't suffer me to be ruined when I have 
 preserved you from it. 
 
 Love. Hey! [Appearing deaf. 
 
 Lap. You know, sir, that in Westminster Hall money and right 
 are always on the same side. 
 
 Love. Ay, so they are ; very true ; so they are ; and therefore, no 
 one can take too much care of his n\oney. 
 
 Lap. The smallest matter of money, sir, would da me an infinity 
 service. 
 
 Love. Hey ! what ? 
 
 Lap. A small matter of money, sir, would do me a great 
 kindness. 
 
 Love. Oho ! I have a very great kindness for you ; indeed, I have 
 a very great kindness for you. ,\ 
 
 Lap. Deuce take your kindness ! I'm only losing time : there's 
 nothing to be got out of him. So I'll even to Frederick, and sec 
 what the report of my =qccess will do there. Ah ! would I were 
 married to thee myself ! 
 
 Love. What a prodigious escape have* I had ! I cannot look at 
 the ccec'pice without being giddy. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 RAMILIE, LOVEGOLD. 
 
 f.ove. Who is that? Oh, is it you, sirrah? Howuare you enter 
 within theso wall* ? 
 
 Ram. Truly, sir, I can scarcely reconcile it to myself; I thim% 
 after what has happened, you have no great title to my friendship.
 
 SCENE xr.J THE MISER. 
 
 But I don't know how it is, sir, tlicrc is something or other about 
 . you which strangely engages my . affections, and which, together 
 with the friendship I have for your son, won't let rrtc suffer you to 
 te hriposed upon ; and to prevent that, sir, is the whole and sole 
 occasion of my coming within yoqr doors. Did not a certain lady, 
 sir, called Mrs. Lappet, depart from you just now? 
 Love. What if she did, sirrah ? ' 
 
 Ram. Has she not, sir, been talking to you about a y.0tirig lady 
 whose name is Mariana ? 
 Love. Well, and what then ? 
 
 Ram. Why, then, sir. every single syllable she has told you has 
 been neither more nor less than a most confounded lie ; as is, 
 indeed, every word she says ; for I don't believe, upon a modest 
 calculation, she has told six truths since she has been in the house. 
 She is made up of lies ; her father was an attorney, and her mother 
 was chambermaid to, a raaid of honour. The first word she spoke 
 was a lie, and so will be the last. I know she has pretended a great 
 affection for you, that's one lie ; and everything she has said of 
 Marfona is another. 
 
 Love. How ! how ! are you sure of this ? 
 
 RctTii. Why, sir, she and I laid the plot together ; that one time, 
 indeed, I myself was forced to deviate a little from the truth ; but 
 it vyas with a good design ; the jade pretended to me that it was 
 out bf 'friendship to my master ; that it Was because she thought 
 sitc'h a match would not be at all to his interest ; but, alas ! sir, I 
 know her friendship begins and ends at home, and that she has 
 friendship for nb person living but herself. Why, sir, do but look 
 .a"t Mariana, sir, and sec whether you can think hc.r such a sort of 
 Woman as she has described her to you. 
 
 Love. Indeed, she has appeared to me always in a different light. 
 I do b'elieve what you say. This jade has been bribed by my 
 children to impose upon me. I forgive thcc all that thou hast done 
 for this one service. I will go deny all that I said to the lawyer, 
 and put an end to everything this moment. I knew it was 
 impossible she could be such a sort of a woman. \_Kxil. 
 
 Ram. Arid I will go find out my master, make him the happiest 
 of mankind, squeeze his purse, and then get drunk for th,e hunour 
 of all party-coloured politicians. 
 
 SCF.NF, XI. 
 The Hall FRED*. RICK, LAPPET. 
 
 Fred. E.\cclkini; Lappet ! I shall never think I have stifticiciuiy 
 rewarded you for what you have done. 
 
 Lap. I have only dune half the business yet. I have, I believe, 
 effectually broke off the match with your father. Now, sir, I shall 
 make up the matter between you and her. 
 
 Fred. Do but that, dear girl, and I'll coin myself into guineas. 
 
 Lnp. Keep yourself for your lady, sir ; she will take all that sort
 
 244 THE MISER. [ACT iv. 
 
 of coin, I warrant her : as for me, I shall be much more easily 
 contented. 
 
 Fred. But what hopes canst thou have ; for I, alas ! see none. 
 
 Lap. Oh, sir ! it is more easy to make half a dozen matches than 
 to break one, and, to say the truth, it is an office I myself like 
 better. There is something, methinks, so pretty in bringing young 
 people together that are fond of one another. I protest, sir, you 
 will be a mighty handsome couple. How fond will you be of a 
 little girl the exact picture of her mother ! and how fond will she be 
 of a boy to put her in mind of his father ! 
 
 Fred. Death ! you jade, you have fired my imagination. 
 
 Lap. But, methinks, I want to have the hurricane begin, hugely ; 
 I am surprised they are not altogether by the ears already ! 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 RAMILIE, FREDERICK, LAPPET. 
 
 Ram. Oh ! madam, I little expected to have found you and my 
 master together, after what has happened ; I did not think you had 
 the assurance 
 
 Fred. Peace, Ramilie, all is well, and Lappet is the best friend I 
 have in the world. 
 
 Ram. Yes, sir, all is well, indeed no thanks to her ; happy is 
 the master that has a good servant a good servant is certainly the 
 greatest treasure in this world. I have done your business for you, 
 sir ; I have frustrated all she has been doing, denied all she has 
 been telling him in short, sir, I observed her ladyship in a long 
 conference with the old gentleman, mightily to your interest, as you 
 may imagine. No sooner was she gone, than I steps in and made 
 the old gentleman believe every single syllable she had told him, to 
 be a most confounded lie ; and away he is gone, fully determined 
 to put an end to the affair. 
 
 Lap. And sign the contract ; so now, sir, you are ruined without 
 reprieve. 
 
 Fred. Out -on you, ass ! fool ! villain ! 
 
 Ram. Heyday ! what is the meaning of this ? have I done any 
 more than you commanded me ? 
 
 Fred. Nothing- but my ill stars could have contrived so cruel an 
 accident. 
 
 Ram. You cannot blame me, sir, whatever has happened. 
 
 Fred. I don't blame you, sir, nor myself, nor any one ; fortune 
 has marked me out for misery. But 1 will be no longer idle : since 
 I am to be ruined. I will meet my destruction. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 LAPPET, RAMILIE. 
 
 \They stand some time silent, looking at each other. 
 I give you joy, sir, of the success of your negotiation ; you
 
 SCENE xiv.] THE MISER. 245 
 
 have approved yourself a most able person, truly ; and I dare swear, 
 when your skill is once known, will not want employment. 
 
 Jtam. Do not triumph, good Mrs. Lappet ; a politician may make 
 a blunder ; I am sure no one can avoid it that is employed with 
 you, for you change sides so often that 'tis impossible to tell at any 
 time which side you are on. 
 
 Lap. And pray, sirrah, what was the occasion of your betraying 
 me to your master, for he has told me all ? 
 
 Ratn. Conscience, conscience, Mrs. Lappet, the great guide of all 
 my actions ; I could not find in my heart to let him lose his 
 mistress. 
 
 Lap. Your master is very much obliged to you, indeed, to lose 
 your own in order to preserve his ; for henceforth I forbid all your 
 addresses, I disown all obligations, I revoke aJl promises : hence- 
 forth I would advise you never to open your lips to me, for if you 
 do, it will be in vain ; I shall be deaf to all your little, false, mean, 
 treacherous, base insinuations. I would have you know, sir, a 
 woman injured as I am never can nor ought to forgive. Never sec 
 my face again. [Exit. 
 
 Ram. Huh ! now would some lovers think themselves very un- 
 happy ; but I, who have had experience in the sex, am never 
 frightened at the frowns of a mistress, nor ravished with her smiles ; 
 they both naturally succeed one another, and a woman, generally, 
 is as sure to perform what she threatens as she is what she promises. 
 But now I'll to my lurking-place. I'm sure this old rogue has money 
 hid in the garden ; if I can but discover it, I shall handsomely quit 
 all scores with the old gentleman, and make iny master a sufficient 
 return for the loss of his mistress. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Another Apartment. FREDERICK, MRS. WISELY, MARIANA. 
 
 Fred. No, madam, I have no words to upbraid you with, nor 
 shall I attempt it 
 
 Mrs. W. I think, sir, a respect to your father should keep you 
 now within the rules of decency ; as for my daughter, after what 
 has happened, I think she cannot expect it on any other account. 
 
 Mar. Dear mamma, don't be serious, when I dare say Mr. 
 Frederick is in jest. 
 
 Fred. This exceeds all you have done ; to insult the person you 
 have made miserable is more cruel than having made him so. 
 
 Mar. Come, come, you may not be so miserable as you expect. 
 I know the word mother-in-law has a terrible sound, but perhaps I 
 may make a better than you imagine. Believe me, you will see a 
 change in this house which will not be disagreeable to a man of 
 Mr. Frederick's gay temper. 
 
 Fred. All changes to me are henceforth equal. When Fortune 
 robbed me of you, she made her utmost effort ; I now despise all in 
 her power.
 
 246 THE MISER. [ACT iV. 
 
 Mrs. IV. I must insist, sir, on your behaving in a different 
 manner to my daughter. The world is apt to he censorious. Oh, 
 heavens ! I shudder at the apprehensions of haying a reflection cast 
 on my family, which has hitherto past unblemished. 
 
 Fred. I shall take care, madam, to shun any possibility of giving 
 you such a fear ; for from this night I never will behold those dear, 
 those fatal eyes again. 
 
 Mar. Nay, that I am sure will cast a reflection on me. What a 
 person will the world think me to be, when ypu could not live with 
 me ! 
 
 Fred. Live with you ! Oh, Mariana ! those words bring back a 
 thousand tender ideas to my mind. Oh ! had that been my blest 
 fortune ! 
 
 Mrs. IV. Let me beg, sir, you would ki_cp a greater distance. 
 The young fellows of this age are so rampam, that even degrees ol 
 kindred can't restrain them. 
 
 Fred. There are yet no such degrees between us. Oh, Mariana ! 
 while it is in your 'power, while the irrevocable wax remains un- 
 stamped, consider, and do not seal my ruin. 
 
 Mrs. \V. Come with me, daughter ; you shall not stay a moment 
 longer with him a rude fellow. 
 
 SCENK XV. 
 RAMILIF., FREDERICK. 
 
 Ram. Follow me, sir ; follow me this instant. 
 
 Fred. What's the matter ? 
 
 Ram. Follow me, sir ; we are in the right box ; the business is 
 done. 
 
 Fred. What done ? 
 
 Ram. I have it under my arm, sir, here it is ! 
 
 Fred. What? what? 
 
 Ram. Your father's soul, sir ; his money. Follow me, sir, 
 this moment, before we are overtaken. 
 
 Fred. Ha ! this may preserve me yet. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 
 Love, {in the utmost distraction] Thieves ! thieves ! assassination ! 
 murder ! I am undone ! all my money is gone ! Who is the 
 thief? where is the villain? where shall I find him? Give me my 
 money again, villain. \Catching himself by the arm.] I am dis- 
 tracted 1 I know not where I am, nor what I am, nor what I do. 
 Oh ! my money, my money ! I la ! what say you ? Alack-a-day ! 
 here is no one. The villain must have watched his time carefully ; 
 he must have done it while I was signing that vile Contract. I will go 
 to a justice, and have all my house put to their oaths, my servants, 
 my children, my mistress, and myself too; all the people in the 
 house, and in the street, and in the town : I will have them all
 
 SCENE I.] THE MISER. 247 
 
 executed ; I will hang all the world ; and if J don't find my money 
 I will hang myself afterwards. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The f fall. Several SERVANTS. 
 
 Jas. There will be rare doings now ; madam's an excellent 
 woman, faith ! Things won't go as they have done ; she -has 
 ordered something like a supper ; here will be victuals enough for 
 the whole town. 
 
 Tko. She's a sweet-humoured lady. I can tell you that. I have 
 had a very good place on't with her. You will have no more use for 
 locks and keys in tliis house now. 
 
 Jtis. This is the luckiest day 1 ever saw ; as soon as supper is 
 over I will get drunk to her good health, 1 am resolved ; and that's 
 more than ever I could have done before. 
 
 Tho. You shan't want liquor, for here are ten hogsheads of strong 
 beer coming in. 
 
 Jas. Bless her heart I good lady ! I wish she had a better bride- 
 groom. 
 
 Tha, Ah ! never mind that, he has a good purse ; and for other 
 things let her alone, master James. 
 
 Wkt> Thomas, you must goto Mr. Mixture's, the wine-merchant, 
 and order him to send in twelve dozen of his best champagne, 
 twelve dozen of burgundy, and twelve dozen of hermitage ; and you 
 must call at the wax-chandler's and bid him send in a chest of 
 candles ; and at Mr. Lambert's, the confectioner in Pall Mall, and 
 order the finest dessert he can furnish ; and you. Will, must go to 
 Mr. Grey's, the horse-jockey, and order him to buy my lady three of 
 the finest geldings for her coach to-morrow morning ; and, here, 
 you must take this roll, and invite all the people in it to supper ; 
 then you must go to the playhouse in Drury Lane, and engage all 
 the music, for my lady intends to have a ball. 
 
 Jas. Oh brave. Mrs. Wheedle ! here arc line times ! 
 
 Wfie, My lady desires that supper may be kept back as much as 
 possible ; and if you can think of anything to add to it, she desires 
 you would. 
 
 "Jas. She is the best of ladies. 
 
 IV lie. So you will say when you know her better ; she lias thought 
 of nothing ever since matters have been made up between her and 
 your master but how to lay out as much money as she could ; we 
 shall have all rare places. 
 
 jas.'l thought to have given warning to-morrow morning, but I 
 believe I shall not be in haste now. 
 
 IVltc. See what it is to' have a woman at the head of a house.
 
 248 THE MISER. [ACT v. 
 
 But here she comes. Go you into the kitchen, and sec that all 
 things be in the nicest order. 
 Jos. I am ready to leao out of my skin for joy. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 MARIANA, WHEEDLE, UPHOLSTERER, MRS. WISELY. 
 
 Afar. Wheedle, have you despatched the servants according to 
 my orders ? 
 
 Whe. Yes, madam. 
 
 Mar. You will take care, Mr. Furnish, and let me have these two 
 beds with the utmost expedition ? 
 
 Uphol. I shall take a particular care, madam. I shall put them 
 both in hand to-morrow morning ; I shall put off some work, 
 madam, on that account. 
 
 Mar. That tapestry in the dining-room does not at all please me. 
 
 Uphol. Your ladyship is very much in the right, madam ; it is 
 quite out of fashion ; no one hangs a room now with tapestry. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! I have the greatest fondness for tapestry in the world ! 
 you must positively get me some of a newer pattern. 
 
 Uphol. Truly, madam, as you say, tapestry is one of the prettiest 
 sorts of furniture for a room that 1 know of. I believe I can show 
 you some that will please you. 
 
 Airs. IV. I protest, child, I can't see any reason for this al- 
 teration. 
 
 Mar. Dear mamma, let me have my will. There is not one 
 thing in the whole house that I shall be able to leave in it, every- 
 thing has so much of antiquity about it ; and I cannot endure the 
 sight of anything that is not perfectly modern. 
 
 Uphol. Your ladyship is in the right, madam ; there is no possi- 
 bility of being in the fashion without new furnishing a house at 
 least once in twenty years ; and, indeed, to be at the very top of the 
 fashion, you will have need of almost continual alterations. 
 
 Mrs. IV. That is an extravagance I would never submit to. I 
 have no notion of destroying one's goods before they arc half worn 
 out, by following the ridiculous whims of two or three people of 
 quality. 
 
 Uphol. Ha ! ha I madam, I believe her ladyship is of a different 
 opinion. I have many a set of goods entirely whole, that I would 
 be very loath to put into your hands. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 \ 
 
 To them, MERCER, JEWELLER. 
 
 Mar. Oh, Mr. Sattin ! have you brought those gold stuffs I 
 ordered you ? 
 
 Mer. Yes, madam, I have brought your ladyship some of the 
 finest patterns that were ever made.
 
 SCENE iv.] THE MISER. 249 
 
 Alar. Well, Mr. Sparkle, have you the necklace and earrings 
 with you ? 
 
 Jew. Yes, madam ; and I defy any jeweller in town to show you 
 their equals : they are, I think, the finest water I ever saw ; they 
 arc finer than the Duchess of Glittci'b, vvliich li.ue Seen so much 
 admired. I have brought you a solitaire toj, madam ; my Lady 
 Raffle bought the fellow of it yesterday. 
 
 Mar. Sure, it has a flaw in it, sir. 
 
 "Jew. Has it, madam ? then there never was a brilliant without 
 one ; I am sure, madam, I bought it for a good ctonc, and if it be 
 not a good stone you shall have it for nothing. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 LOVEGOLD, MARIANA, MRS. WISELY, JEWELLER, MERCER, 
 UPHOLSTERER. 
 
 Love. It's lost, it's gone, it's irrecoverable ; I shall never see it 
 more ! 
 
 Mar. And what will be the lowest price of the necklace and 
 earrings ? 
 
 Jew. If you were my sister, madam, I could not 'bate you one 
 farthing of three thousand guineas. 
 
 Love. What do you say of three thousand guineas, villain ? Have 
 you my three thousand guineas ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Bless me, Mr. Lovcgold ! what's the matter? 
 
 Love: I am undone ! I am ruined ! my money is stolen ! my dear 
 three thousand guineas, that I received but yesterday, are taken 
 away from the place I had put them in, and I never shall sec them 
 again ! 
 
 Mar. Don't let them make you uneasy, you may possibly recover 
 them ; or, if you should not, the loss is but a trifle ! 
 
 Love. How ! a trifle ! Do you call three thousand guineas a 
 trifle ? 
 
 Mrs. IV. She sees you so disturbed that she is willing to make 
 as light of your loss as possible, in order to comfort you. 
 
 Love. To comfort me ! Can she comfort me by calling three 
 thousand guineas a trifle ! But, tell me, what were you saying 
 of them ? Have you seen them ? 
 
 Jew. Really, sir, I do not understand you ; I was telling the lady 
 the price of a necklace and a pair of earrings, which were as cheap 
 at three thousand guineas as- - 
 
 Lcrve. How! What? what? 
 
 A fur. I can't think them very cheap. However, I am resolved 
 to have them ; so let him have the money, sir, if you please. 
 
 Love. I am in a dream. 
 
 Mar. You will be paid immediately, sir. Well, Mr. Sattin, and 
 pray what is the highest priced gold stuff you have brought ? 
 
 Mere. Madam, 1 ha\v one of twelve pounds a yard.
 
 250 THE MISER. [ACT V. 
 
 Mar. It must be pretty at that price. Let me have a gown and 
 petticoat cut off. 
 
 Love. You shall cut off my head first. What are you doing ? 
 Are you mad ? 
 
 Mar. 1 am only preparing a proper dress to appear. in &$ your 
 wife. 
 
 Love. Sirrah, offer to open any of your pickpocket trinkets hcr'c 
 and I'll make an. example of you. 
 
 Mar'. Mr. LdVcgold, give me leave to tell you this is a behaviour 
 I don't understand. You give me a fine pattern before marriage of 
 the usage I am to expect after it. 
 
 Love. Here are fine patterns of what I am to expect after it. 
 
 Mar. I assure you, sir, I. shall insist on all the privileges of an 
 English wife. I shall not be taught to dress by my husband. I 
 am myself the best judge of what you can afford ; and if I do 
 stretch your purse a little it is for yoiir own honour, sir. The 
 world will know it is your wife that makes such a figure. 
 
 Love. Can you bear to hear this, madam ? 
 
 Airs. W. \ should not countenance my daughter in any extrava- 
 gance, sir ; but the honour of my family, as well as yours, is con- 
 ce.rncd in her appearing handsomely. Let me tell you, Mr. Love- 
 gold, the whole world is very sensible of your fondness for money. 
 1 think it a very great blessing to you that you have met with a 
 woman of a different temper one who will preserve your reputa- 
 tion in the world whether you will or no. Not that I would insinuate 
 to you that my daughter will ever run you into unnecessary expenses; 
 so far from it, that if you will but generously make her a present of 
 live thousand pounds, to fit herself out at first in clothes and 
 jewels, I dare swear you will not have any other demand on those 
 accounts I don't know when. 
 
 Mar. No, unless a birthnight suit or two, I shall scan, e want 
 anything more this twelvemonth. 
 
 Love. I am undone, plundered, murdered ! However, there is 
 one comfort ; I am not married yet. 
 
 Mar. And free to choose whether you will marry at all 
 or no. 
 
 Mrs. W. The consequence, you know, will be no more than a 
 poor ten thousand pounds, which is all the forfeiture of the breach 
 of contract. 
 
 Lavs. But, madam, I have one way yet. T have trot bound my 
 heir's and executors ; and so if I hang myself I am off the bargain. 
 In the meanwhile I'll try if I cannot rid my house of this nest of 
 thieves. Get out of my doors, you cutpurses. 
 
 Jew. i*ay me for my jewels, sir, or return them mo. 
 
 Love. Give him his baubles ; give them him. 
 
 Mar. I shall not, I assure you. You need be under no appre- 
 hension, sir; you see Mr. Lovegold is a little disordered at present; 
 but if you will come to-morrow you shall have your money. 
 
 'Jew. I'll depend on your ladyship, madam.
 
 ' \' ' 
 
 SCENE VI.] THE MISER. 251 
 
 Love. Who the devil arc you ? What have you to do here. 
 
 Uphol. I am an upholsterer, sir, and am come to new furnish 
 your house. 
 
 J^ove. Out of my doors this instant, or I will disfurnish your head 
 for you ; I'll beat out your brains. 
 
 Mrs, W. Sure, sir, you are mad, 
 
 Love. I was when I signed the contract. Oh ! thnt I had ncv(*r 
 learnt to write my name ! 
 
 SCENE V. 
 CHARLES BUBBLEBOY, LOVEGOLD, MARIANA, MRS. WISELY. 
 
 Cha. Your most obedient servant, madam. 
 
 Love. Who are you, sir ? What do you want here? 
 
 Cha. Sir, my name is Charles Bubbleboy. 
 
 Love. What's your business ? 
 
 Cha. Sir, I was ordered to bring some snuff-boxes and rings. 
 Will you please, sir, to look at that snuff-box ? there is bin one 
 person in England, sir, can work in this manner. If he wa's but as 
 diligent as he is able, he would get an immense estate, sir ; if he 
 had an hundred thousand hands, I could keep them all employed. 
 J have brought you a pair of the new-invented snuffers too, madam. 
 Be pleased to look at them : they are my own invention ; the nicest 
 lady in the world may make use of them. 
 
 Love. Who sent for you, sir ? 
 
 Mar. I sent for him, sir. 
 
 Cha. Yes, sir, I was told it was a lady sent for me : will you 
 please, madam, to look at the snuff-boxes or rings first ? 
 
 Love. Will you please to go to the devil, sir, first, or shall I send 
 you ? 
 
 Cha. Sir? 
 
 Love. Get you out of my house this instant, or I'll break your 
 snuff-boxes, and your bones too. 
 
 Cha. Sir, I was sent for, or I should not have come. Charles 
 Bubbleboy does not \yant custom. Madam, your most obedient 
 servant. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 MARIANA, MRS. WISELY, LOVKGOLD, WHEEDLE. 
 
 Mar.\ I suppose, sir. you expect to be finely spoken of abroad for 
 this : you will get an excellent character in the world by this beha- 
 viour. 
 
 Mrs. \Y- Is this your gratitude to a woman who has refused so 
 much better offers on your account ? 
 
 Love. Oh ! would she had taken them ! Give me up my con- 
 tract, and I \vijl gladly resign all right and title whatsoever. 
 
 Mrs. W. It is too late now, the gentlemen, hryvc had, tlu'ir answers : 
 a good after, once refused, is not to be had again.
 
 252 THE MISER. [ACT v. 
 
 Whc. Madam, the tailor whom your ladyship sent for is come. 
 
 Mar. Bid him come in. This is an instance of the regard I have 
 for you. I have sent for one of the best tailors in town to make you 
 a new suit of clothes, that you may appear like a gentleman ; for as 
 it is for your honour that I should be well dressed, so it is for mine 
 that you should. Come, madam, we will go in and give farther 
 orders concerning the entertainment. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 LOVEGOLD, LIST. 
 
 Love. Oh, Lappet, Lappet ! the time thou hast prophesied of is 
 come to pass. 
 
 Lisf. I am your honour's most humble servant. My name is 
 List. I presume I am the person you sent for the laceman will 
 be here immediately. Will your honour be pleased to be taken mea- 
 sure of first, or look over the patterns ? if you please, we will take 
 measure first. I do not know, sir, who was so kind as to recom- 
 mend me to you, but I believe I shall give you entire satisfaction. I 
 may defy any tailor in England to understand the fashion better 
 than myself ; the thing is impossible, sir. I always visit France 
 twice a year ; and though I say it, that should not say it. Stand 
 upright, if you please, sir 
 
 Love. I'll take measure of your back, sirrah ; I'll teach such 
 pickpockets as you are to come here ! Out of my doors, you 
 villain ! 
 
 List. Heyday ! sir ; did you send for me for this, sir ? I shall 
 bring you in a bill without any clothes. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 LOVEGOLD, JAMES, PORTER. 
 
 Love. Where are you going ? What have you there ? 
 
 Jos. Some fine wine, sir, that my lady sent for to Mr. Mixture's. 
 But, sir, it will be impossible for me to get supper ready by 
 twelve, as it* is ordered, unless I have more assistance. I want 
 half-a-dozen kitchens, too. The very wildfowl that my lady has 
 sent for will take up a dozen spits. 
 
 Love. Oh ! oh ! it is in vain to oppose it ; her 'extravagance is 
 like a violent fire, that is no sooner stopped in one place than it 
 breaks out in another. [Drums beat -without.} Ha ! what is the 
 meaning of this ? Is my house besieged? Would they would set 
 it on fire, and burn all in it ! 
 
 Drum, [without."] Heavens bless your honour, Squire Lovrgold, 
 
 Madam Lovegold ; long life and happiness and many children 
 
 attend you ! and so God save the king ? [Drums beat. 
 
 [LOVE goes out, and soon after the drums cease. 
 
 Jas. So, he has quieted the drums, I find. This is the roguery 
 of some well-wishing neighbours of his. Well, we shall soon see
 
 SCENE x.] THE MISER. 253 
 
 which will get the bettor, my master or my mistress. If my master 
 does, away go I ; if my mistress, I'll stay while thetc is any house- 
 keeping, which can't be long ; -for the riches of my lord mayor will 
 never hold it out-at this rate. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 LOVEGOLD, JAMES. 
 
 Love. James ! I shall be destroyed ; in one week I shall not be 
 worth a groat upon earth. Go, send all the provisions back to the 
 tradesmen ; put out all the fires ; leave not so much as a candle 
 burning. 
 
 Jus. Sir, I don't know how to do it ; madam commanded me, 
 and I dare not disobey her. 
 
 Love. How ! not when I command thee ? 
 
 *Jas. I have lost several places, sir, by obeying the master against 
 the mistress, but never lost one by obeying the mistress against the 
 master. Besides, sir, she is so good and generous a lady, that it 
 would go against my very heart to offend her. 
 
 Love. Plague take -her generosity ! 
 
 Jas. And I doa't believe she has provided one morsel more than 
 will be eat. Why, sir, slie has invited above five hundred people 
 to supper ; within this hour your house will be as full as Westminster 
 Hall the last day of term ; but I have no time to lose. 
 
 Love. Oh ! oh ! What shall I do ? 
 
 SCENE X. 
 LAPPET, LOVEGOLD. 
 
 Lap. Where is my poor master ? Oh, sir ! I cannot express the 
 affliction I am in to see you devoured in this manner. How could 
 you, sir, when I told you what a woman she was how could you 
 undo yourself with your eyes open ? 
 
 Love. Poor Lappet ! had I taken thy advice I had been happy. 
 
 Lap. And I too, sir ; for, a-lack-day, I am as miserable as you 
 are ; I feel everything for you, sir ; indeed, I shall break my heart 
 upon your account. 
 
 Love. I shall be much obliged to you if you do, Lappet. 
 
 Lap. How could a man of your sense, sir, marry in so precipitate 
 a manner ? 
 
 Love. I am not married ; I am not married. 
 
 Lap. Not married ! 
 
 Love. No, no, no. 
 
 Lap. All's safe yet. No man is quite undone till he is married. 
 
 Lo^>e. I am, I am undone. Oh, Lappet ! I cannot tell it thce. I 
 have given her a bond, a bond, a bond of ten thousand pounds to 
 marry her. 
 
 Lap. You shall forfeit it 
 
 Love. Forfeit what ? my iffe and soul, and blood, and heart ?
 
 254 THE MISER. [ACT v. 
 
 Lap. You shall forfeit it 
 
 Love. I'll be buried alive sooner ; no, I am determined I'll marry 
 her first, and hang myself afterwards to save my money. 
 
 Lap. I see, sir, you are undone ; and it you should haugr yourself, 
 I could not blame you. 
 
 Love. Could I but save one thousand by it, I would hang myself 
 with all my soul. Shall I live to die not worth a groat ! 
 
 Lap. Oh ! my poor master ! my poor master ! \Crying. 
 
 Love. Why did I not die a year ago ? what a deal had I saved by 
 dying a year ago ! [A noise without.} Oh ! oh ! dear Lappet, see 
 what it is ; I shall be undone in an hour oh 1 
 
 SCENE XL 
 LOVEGOLD, CLERMONT, richly dressed. 
 
 Love. What is here? Some of the people who are to eat me 
 up? 
 
 Cler. Don't you know me, sir ? 
 
 Love. Know you ! Ha ! What is the meaning of this ? Oh, it is 
 plain, it is too plain ; my money has paid for all this finery. Ah ' 
 base wretch ! could I have suspected you of such an action, of 
 lurking in my house to use me in such a manner ? 
 
 Cler. Sir, I come to confess the fact to you ; and if you will but 
 give me leave to reason with you, you will not find yourself so much 
 injured as you imagine. 
 
 Love. Not injured ! when you have stolen away my blood ! 
 
 Cler. Your blood has not fallen into bad hands. I am a gentle- 
 man, sir. 
 
 Love. Here's impudence ! A fellow robs me, and tells me he's a 
 gentleman. Tell me who tempted you to it ? 
 
 Cler. Ah, sir ! need I say Love ! 
 
 Love. Love ! 
 
 Cler. Yes, love, sir. 
 
 Love. Very pretty love indeed ! the love of my guineas. 
 
 Cler. Ah, su: ! think not so. Do but grant me the free 
 possession of what I have, and, by Heaven, I'll never ask you 
 more ! 
 
 Love. Oh, most unequalled impudence ! w"as ever so modest .1 
 request ? 
 
 Cler. All your efforts to separate us will be vain ; we have 
 sworn never to forsake each other, and nothing but death can 
 part us. 
 
 Love. I don't question, sir, the very great affection on your side ; 
 but I beliqve \ shall find methods to recover 
 
 Ckr. By {leavens ! I'll die in defending my right ; and, if that 
 were the Case, think not, when I am gone, you ever could possess 
 what you have robbed me of. 
 
 Ha ! that's true. He may find ways to prevent the re\
 
 NE XIL] THE MISER. 255 
 
 storing it. Well, well, let me delight my eyes at least ; let me see 
 my treasure, and perhaps 1 may give it you ; perhaps I may. 
 
 Clcr. Then I :un blessed ! Well may you say treasure, for to 
 possess that treasure is to be rich indeed. 
 
 Love, Yes, truly, I think three thousand pounds may be well 
 called a treasure. Go, go, fetch it hither ; perhaps I may give it 
 you ; fetch it hither. 
 
 Cler. To show you, sir, the confidence I place in you, I will fetch 
 hither all that I love and adore. {Exit. 
 
 L<rjc. Save, never was so impudent a fellow ; to confess his 
 robbery before my face, and to desire to keep what he has stolen. 
 as if he had a right to it. 
 
 SCENE XIL 
 LOVEGOLD, LAPPET. 
 
 I^nie. Oh, Lappet ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Lap. Oh, sir ! I am scarce able to tell you. It is spread about 
 the town that you are married, and your wife's creditors are coming 
 in whole flocks. There is one single debt for rive thousand pounds, 
 which an attorney is without to demand. 
 
 Love. Oh ! oh ! oh ! let them cut my throat. 
 
 Lap. Think what an escape you have had ; think if you had 
 married her 
 
 Love. I am as bad as married to her. 
 
 Lap. It is impossible, sir; nothing can be so bad ; what, you are 
 to pay her ten thousand pounds ! Well, and ten thousand pounds 
 are a sum they are a sum, I own it they are a sum ; but what is 
 such a sum compared with such a wife ? Had you married her, in 
 cne week you would have been in a prison, sir. 
 
 Love. If I am, 1 can keep my money ; they can't take that from 
 me. 
 
 Lap. Why, sir, you will lose twice the value of your contract 
 before you know how to turn yourself ; and, if you have no value 
 for liberty, yet consider, sir, such is the great goodness of our 
 laws that a prison is one of the dearest places you can live in. 
 
 Love. Ten thousand pounds ! No ; I'll be hanged, 111 be 
 hanged. 
 
 Lap. Suppose, sir, it were possible (not that I believe it is) out 
 suppose it were possible to make her bate a little ; suppose cue 
 could bring her to eight thousand 
 
 LOT.IC. Eight thousand devils take her ! 
 
 Lap. But, deai sir, consider ; nay. consider immediately ; fi-r 
 every minute you lose, you lose a sum. Let me beg \ mi, entreat 
 you, my dear good master, let me prevail on you not to be ruintd. 
 Be resolute, sir; consider every guinea \ou give saves .1 score. 
 
 Love. Well.it" she will consent to to to eight hundred. But 
 try, do try, if you can make her 'bate anything r.f *'i. : : if yon 
 can, you shall ha\ca twentieth" part 01 \vhat she 'bates for yourself
 
 256 THE MISER. [ACT v. 
 
 Lap. Why, sir, if I could get you off at eight thousand you ought 
 to leap out of your skin for joy. 
 
 Love. Would I were out of my skin ! 
 
 Lap. You will have more reason to wish so when you are in the 
 hands of bailiffs for your wife's debts. 
 
 Love. Why was I begotten ? Why was I born ? Why was I 
 brought up ? Why was I not knocked o' the head before I knew 
 the value of money ? \JKnocking luithoi't. 
 
 Lap. So, so, more duns, I suppose. Go but into the kitchin, 
 sir, or the hall, and it will have a better effect on you than all I 
 can say. 
 
 Love. What have I brought mysell to ? What shall I do ? Part 
 with eight thousand pounds ! Misery, destruction, beggar)-, prisons! 
 But then, on the other side, are wife, ruin, chains, slavery, torment ! 
 I shall run distracted either \vny ! 
 
 Lap. Ah ! would we could once prove you so, you old covetous 
 good for nothing ! 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 MARIANA, LAPPET. 
 
 Mar. Well, what success ? 
 
 Lap. It is impossible to telL He is just gone into the kitchen, 
 where, if he is not frightened into our design, I shall begin to 
 despair. They say fear will make a coward brave, but nothing 
 can make him generous ; the very fear of losing all he is worth will 
 scarce bring him to part with a penny. 
 
 Mar. And have you acquainted neither Frederick nor Harriet 
 with my intentions? 
 
 Lap. Neither, I assure you. Ah, madam, had I not been able to 
 have kept a secret, I had never brought about those affairs that I 
 have. Were I not secret, lud have mercy upon many a virtuous 
 woman's reputation in this town. 
 
 Mar. And don't you think I have kept my real intentions very 
 secret ? 
 
 Lap. From every one but me, I believe you have. I assure you 
 I knew them long before you sent for me this afternoon to discover 
 them to me. 
 
 Mar. But could you bring him to no terms, no proposals ? Did 
 he make no offer ? 
 
 Lap. It must be done all at once, and while you arc by. 
 
 Mar. So you think he must see me to give anything to be rid o/ 
 me. 
 
 Lap. Hush, hush, I hear him coming again. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 LOVEGOLD, LAPPET, MARIANA. 
 
 Love. I am undone ! I am undone ! I am cat up! I am de- 
 voured 1 I have an army of cooks in my house. 
 Lap. Dear, madam, consider ; I know ci;;ht thousand pounds
 
 SCENE xv.] THE MISER. 2 j; 
 
 are a trifle ; I know they are nothing ; my master can very well 
 afford them ; they will make no hole in his purse ; and, if you 
 should stand out, you will get more. 
 
 Ijrve. [putting his hand before LAPPET'S mouth.] You lie, you 
 lie, you lie, you lie, you lie ! She never could get more, never 
 should get more ; it is more than I am worth ; it is an immense 
 sum ; and I will be starved, drowned, shot, hanged, burnt, before I 
 part with A penny of it. 
 
 . Lap. For Heaven's sake, sir, you will ruin all. Madam, let me 
 beg you, entreat you, to 'bate these two thousand pounds. Suppose 
 a lawsuit should be the consequence, I know my master would be 
 cast, I know it would cost him an immense sum of money, and that 
 he would pay the charges of both in the end ; but you might be kept 
 out of it a long time. Eight thousand pounds now are better than 
 ten five years hence. 
 
 Mar. No ; the satisfaction of my revenge on a man who basely 
 departs from his word will make me amends for the delay ; 'and, 
 whatever I suffer, as long as I know his ruin will be the consequence, 
 I shall be easy. 
 
 Love. Oh, bloody-minded wretch ! 
 
 Lap. Why, sir, since she insists on it, what does it signify ? You 
 know you are in her power, and it will be only throwing away more 
 money to be compelled to it at last ; get rid of her at once ; what 
 are two thousand pounds ? Why, sir, the Court of Chancery will 
 eat it up for a breakfast. It has been given for a mistress, and will 
 you not give it to be rid of a wife ? 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 THOMAS, JAMES, MARIANA, LOVEGOLD, LAPPET. 
 
 [LoVEGOLD and LAPPET talk apart. 
 
 TJio. Madam, the music' is come which your ladyship ordered; 
 and most of the company will be here immediately. 
 
 Jos. Where will your ladyship be pleased the servants shall eat ? 
 for there is no room in the house that will be large enough to enter- 
 tain them. 
 
 Mar. Then beat down the partition, and turn two rooms into one. 
 
 Jas. There is no service in the house proper for the dessert, 
 madam. 
 
 Mar. Send immediately to the great china-shop in the Strand for 
 the finest that is there. 
 
 Low. How! and will you swear a robbery against her? that she 
 has robbed me of what I shall give her ? 
 
 Lap. Depend on it, sir. 
 
 Love. I'll break open a bureau, to make it look the more likely. 
 
 Lap. Do so, sir ; but lose no time ? give it her this moment. 
 Madam, my master has consented, and, if you have the contract, 
 he is ready to pay the money. Be sure to break open the bureau, sir. 
 
 Mar. Here is the contract. 
 
 Low. I'll fetch the money. It is all I am worth in the world.
 
 358 THE MISER. [ACT v. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 MARIANA, LAPPET. 
 
 Mar. Sure, he will never be brought to it yet. 
 
 Lap. I -warrant him. But you are to pay dearer for it than you 
 imagine ; for I am to swear a robbery against you. What wilj you 
 give me, madam, to buy off my evidence ? 
 
 Mar. And is it possible that the old rogue would consent to such 
 a villainy ! 
 
 Lap. Ay, madam ; for half that sum he would hang half the* 
 town. But truly, I can never be made amends for all the pains I have 
 taken on your account. Were I to receive a single guinea a lie for 
 every one I have told this day, it would make me a pretty tolerablp 
 fortune. Ah ! madam, what a pity it is that a woman of my 
 excellent talents should be confined to so low a sphere of life as I 
 am ! Had I been born a great lady, what a deal of good should I 
 have done in the world ! 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 
 M.*RIANA, LAPPET, LOVEGOLD. 
 
 Love. Here, here they are all in bank-notes all the money I 
 am worth in the world. (I have sent for a constable ; she must not 
 go put of sight before we have her taken into custody.) 
 
 {Aside to LAP. 
 
 iMp. \to LOVE ] You have done very wisely. 
 Mar. There, sir, is your contract. And now, sir, I have nothing 
 to do but to make myself as easy as I can in my loss. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 
 LOVXGOLD, FREDERICK, CLERMONT, MARIANA, LAPPET, 
 HARRIET. 
 
 I^nte. Where is that you promised me? where is my treasure? 
 
 Cler. Here, sir, is all the treasure I am worth a treasure which 
 the whole world's worth should not purchase. 
 
 Love. Give me the money, sir, give me the money ; I say give 
 me the money you stole from me. 
 
 Cler. I understand you not. 
 
 Love. Did you not confess you robbed me of my treasure ? 
 
 Cler. This, sir, is the inestimable treasure I meant ! Your 
 daughter, sir, has this day blessed me by making me her 
 husband. 
 
 Love. How ! Oh, wicked, vile wretch ! to run away thus with a 
 pitiful mean fellow, thy father's clerk ! 
 
 Cler. Think not your family disgraced, sir. I am at least your 
 rqual born ; and though my fortune be not so large as for my dearest 
 Harriet's sake I wish, still it is such as will put it out of your power 
 to make us miserable. 
 
 Jjrur. Oh ! my money, my money, my money I 
 
 Fred. If this lady does not make vou amends for the loss of
 
 SCENE xvni.] THE MISER. 259 
 
 your money, resign over all pretensions in her to me, and I will 
 engage to get it restored to you. 
 
 Love. How, sirrah ! are you a confederate? Have you helped to 
 rob me ? 
 
 Fred. Softly, sir, or you shall never see your guineas again. 
 
 Love. I resign her over to you entirely, ana may you both starve 
 together. So, go fetch my gold. 
 
 Mar. You are easily prevailed upon, I see, to resign a right 
 which you have not. But were I to resign over myself, it would 
 hardly be the man's fortune to starve whose wife brought him ten 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 Love. Bear witness, she has confessed she has the money ; and 
 I shall prove she stole it from me. She has broke open my bureau ; 
 Lappet is my evidence. 
 
 Lap. I hope I shall have all your pardons, and particularly 
 yours, madam, whom I have most injured. 
 
 Love. A fig for her pardon ; you are doing a right action. 
 
 Lap. Then, if there was any robbery, you must have robbed 
 yourself. This lady can be only a receiver of stolen goods ; for I 
 saw you give her the money with your own hands. 
 
 Love. How! I ! you! What! what! 
 
 Lap. And I must own it, with shame I must own it that the 
 money you gave her in exchange for the contract, I promised to 
 swear she had stole from you. 
 
 Cler. Is it possible Mr. Lovegold could be capable of such an 
 action as this ? 
 
 Jj)ve. 1 am undone, undone, undone ! 
 
 Fred. No, sir, your three thousand guineas are safe yet ! depend 
 upon it, within an hour you shall rind them in the same place they 
 were first deposited. I thought to have purchased a reprieve with 
 them ; but I find my fortune has of itself bestowed that ou me. 
 
 Love. Give 'em me ! give 'em me ! this instant but then the ten 
 thousand, where are they ? 
 
 Alar. Where they ought to be, in the hands of one who I think 
 deserves them. \^Glves them to FREDERICK.] You sec, sir, I had 
 no design to the prejudice of your family. Nay, I have proved the 
 best friend you ever had ; for 1 presume you arc now thoroughly 
 cured of your longing for a young wife. 
 
 Love. Sirrah, give me my notes, give me my notes. 
 
 Fred. You must excuse me, sir ; I can part with nothing I receive 
 from this lady. 
 
 Love. Then I will go to law with that lady, and you, and all of 
 you ; for I will have them again, if law, or justice, or injustice, will 
 give them me. 
 
 Cler. Be pacified, sir ; I think the lady has acted nobly in giving 
 that back again into your family which she might have carried out 
 of it. 
 
 Love. My family be hanged ! if I am robbed, I don't care who 
 robs me. 1 would as soon hang my son as another : and I will 
 
 I 2
 
 26o THE MISER. [ACT V. 
 
 hang him if he does not restore me all . have lost ; for I would not 
 give half the sum to save the whole world. I will go and employ 
 all the lawyers in town ; for I will have my money again, or never 
 sleep more. \Exit. 
 
 Fred. I am resolved we will get the better of him now. But oh, 
 Mariana ! your generosity is much greater in bestowing this sum 
 than my happiness in receiving it. I am an unconscionable 
 beggar, and shall never be satisfied while you have anything to 
 bestow. 
 
 Mar. Do you hear him ? 
 
 Har. Yes, and begin to approve him ; for your late behaviour 
 has convinced me 
 
 ^far. Dear girl, no more ; you have frightened me already so 
 much to-day, that rather than venture a second lecture I would do 
 whatever you wished ; so, sir, if I do bestow all on you, here is the 
 iady you are to thank for it. 
 
 Har. Well, this I will say, when you do a good-natured thing, 
 you have the prettiest way of doing it. And now, Mariana, I am 
 ready to ask your pardon for all I said to-day. 
 
 Mar. Dear Harriet, no apologies : all you said I deserved. 
 
 SCENE the last. 
 
 LAPPET, RAMILIE. FREDERICK, MARIANA, CLERMONT, 
 HARRIET. 
 
 Lap. Treaties are going on on both sides, while you and I seem 
 forgotten. 
 
 Ram. Why, have we not done them all the service we can ? 
 What farther have they to do with us ? Sir, there arc some people 
 in masquerading habits without. 
 
 Mar. Some I sent for to assist in my design on your father : I 
 think we will give them admittance, though we have done with- 
 out 'em. 
 
 All. Oh ! by all means. 
 
 Fred. Mrs. Lappet, be assured I have a just sense of your 
 favours ; and both you and Ramilie shall find my gratitude. 
 
 \Dance here. 
 
 Fred. Dear Clermont, be satisfied I shall make no peace with 
 the old gentleman in which you shall not be included. I hope my 
 sister will prove a fortune equal to your great deserts. 
 
 Cler. While I am enabled to support her in an affluence equal to 
 her desires I shall desire no more. From what I have seen 
 lately, I think riches are rather to be feared than wished ; at 
 least, I am sure, avarice, which too often attends wealth, is a 
 greater evil than any that is found in poverty. Misery is generally 
 the end of all vice ; but it is the very mark at which avarice seems 
 to aim : the miser endeavours to be wretched. 
 
 He hoards eternal cares within his purse ; 
 
 And what he wishes most proves most his curse.
 
 THE N ON- JUROR. 
 
 {MO LI& RE'S "LE TA R TUt ."/ 
 BY COLLEY GIBBER. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 SIR JOHN WOODVIL. CHARLES. 
 
 COLONEL WOODYIL. 
 
 MH. HKARTLY. 
 DOCTUK WOLF. 
 
 LADY WOODVIL. 
 MARIA. 
 
 SCENE. AN ANTE-CHAMBER oi' SIH JOHN'S HOUSE IN LONDON. 
 
 ACT I. 
 SIR JOHN WOODVIL and the COLONEL. 
 
 Col. Pray consider, sir. 
 
 Sir John. So I do, sir, that I am her father, and will dispose of 
 her as I please. 
 
 Col. I don't dispute your authority, sir ; but as I am your son 
 too, I think it my duty to be concerned for your honour ; have not 
 you countenanced his addresses to my sister ? Has not she received 
 them ? How then is it possible, that either you or she with honour 
 can recede ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, sir ; suppose T was about buying a pad-nag for 
 your sister, and upon enquiry should find him not sound ; pray, sir, 
 would there be any great dishonour in being off of the bargain ? 
 
 Col. With submission, sir, I don't take that to be the case. Mr. 
 Heartly's birth and fortune are too well-known to you ; and I dare 
 swear he may defy the world to lay a blemish upon his principles. 
 
 Sir John. Why then, sir, since I must be catechized, I must tell 
 you, I don't like his principles ; for I am informed he is a time- 
 server, one that basely flatters the Government, and has no more 
 religion than you have. 
 
 Col. Sir, we don't either of us think it proper to make boast of 
 our religion ; but if you please to enquire, you will find we go to 
 church as orderly as the rest of our neighbours. 
 
 Sir John. Ay ! to what church ? 
 
 Col. St. James's Church. The Established Church. 
 
 Sir John. Established Church ! 
 
 Col. Sir 
 
 Strjfhn. Nay, you need not stare, sir; and before he values
 
 262 THE XON-JUROtt. [Act i. 
 
 himself upon going to church, I would first have him be sure he is 
 a Christian 
 
 CoL A Christian, sir ! 
 
 Sir John. Ay, that's my question, whether he is yet christened ? 
 I mean by a pastor that had a Divine, uninterrupted, successive 
 right to mark him as a sheep of the true fold ? 
 
 Col. Is it possible ! Are you an Englishman, and offer, sir, a 
 question so uncharitable, not only to him, but the whole nation? 
 
 Sir John. Nay, sir, you may give yourself what airs of amaze- 
 ment you please I won't argue with you ; you are both of you too 
 hardened to be converted now ; but since you think it your duty, as 
 a son, to be concerned for my errors, I think it as much mine, as a 
 father, to be concerned for yours. I'll only tell you of them, if you 
 think fit to mend them so if not take the consequence. 
 
 Col. [tfj/V/f.] O J give me temper, Heaven ! this vile nonjuring 
 zealot ! what poisonous principles has he swelled him with ! Well, 
 sir, since you don't think it proper to argue upon this subject, I'll 
 waive it too ; but if I may ask it without offence, are these your only 
 reasons for discountenancing Mr. Heartly's addresses to my sister ? 
 
 Sir John. These ! are they not flagrant ? would you have me 
 marry my daughter to a pagan ? for so he is, and all of you, till you 
 are regularly Christians. In short, son, expect to inherit no estate 
 of mine, unless you resolve to come into the pale of the Church of 
 which I profess myself a member. 
 
 Col. I thought I always was, sir, and hope I am so still, unless 
 you have lately been converted to the Roman. 
 
 Sir John. No sir, I abhor the thoughts on't ; and protest against 
 their errors as much as you do. 
 
 Col. If so, sir, where's our difference? 
 
 Sir John. Difference! it .would make you tremble, sir, to know 
 it ! but since it is fit yon should know it, look there {Gives him a 
 book.] Read that, and be reformed. 
 
 Col. What's here ? [reads.'] The Case of Schism, &c. Thank 
 you, sir ; I have seen enough of this in the Daily Courant, to be 
 sorry it is in any hands but those of the common hangman. 
 
 Sir John. Profanation ! 
 
 Col. And though I always honoured your concern for the Church's 
 welfare, I little thought it was for a Church that is established no- 
 where ? 
 
 Sir John. Oh, pervcrseness ! but there is no better to be expected 
 from your course of life : this is all the effects of your modern 
 loyalty, your conversation at Button's. Will you never leave that 
 foul nest of heresy and schism ? 
 
 Col. Yes, sir, when I see anything like it there ; and should think 
 myself obliged to retire, where such principles were started. I own 
 I use the place, because i generally meet there instructive or divert- 
 ing company. 
 
 Sir John. Yes, fine company indeed, Arians, party-poets, players 
 and Presbyterians.
 
 SCENE L] THE NON-JUROR. 263 
 
 Col, That's a very unusual mixture, sir ; but if a man entertains 
 me innocently, am I obliged to inquire into his profession or prin- 
 ciples ? Would it not be ridiculous for a Protestant Tli.it loves 
 music, to refuse going to the opera, because most of the performers 
 are Papists ? But, sir, this seems foreign to my business. Mr. 
 Heartly intends this morning to pay his respects to you, in hopes to 
 obtain your final consent ; and desired me to be present, as a medi- 
 ator of articles between you. 
 
 Sir John. I am glad to hear it 
 
 Col, That's kind, indeed, sir. 
 
 Sir John. May be not, sir ; for I will not be at home when he 
 comes. 
 
 Col. Nay, pray, sir, it will be but civility, at least, to hear him. 
 
 Sir John. And because 1 won't tell a lie for the matter, I'll go 
 out this moment. 
 
 CoL Good sir. 
 
 Sir John. But because I won't deceive him, neither, tell him, I 
 would not have him lose his time in fooling after your sister in 
 short, I have another man in my head for her. [Exit SIR JOHN. 
 
 Col, Another man ! it would be worth one's while to know him- 
 Pray Heaven this nonjuring hypocrite has not got s.ome beggarly 
 traitor in his eye for her. I must rid the house of him at any rate, 
 or all the settlement I can hope from my father is a castle in the 
 air ; nor can indeed his life be safe, while such a villain makes it an 
 act of conscfence to endanger it ; if his eyes are not soon opened 
 against him, the Crown is more likely to inherit his estate than I 
 am ; and though the Government has been very favourable upon 
 those occasions, it is but a melancholy business to petition for what 
 might have been one's birthright. My sister may be ruined too 
 here she comes ; if there be another man in the case, she no 
 doubt can let me into the secret. 
 
 Enter MARIA. 
 
 Sister, good-morrow ; I want to speak with you. 
 
 Mar, Nay, but prithee, brother, don't put on that wise politic face 
 then ; why, you look as if the minority had like to have carried a 
 question. 
 
 Col. Come, come, a truce with your raillery ; what I have to ask 
 of you is serious, and I beg you would be so in your answer. 
 
 Mar. Well then, provided it is not upon the subject of love I will 
 be so but make haste too for I have not had my tea yet. 
 
 Col. Why it is, and is not upon that subject. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! I love a riddle dearly come let's hear it. 
 
 Col. Nay, pish, if you will be serious, say so. 
 
 Mar. O lord ! sir, I beg your pardon -there there is my whole 
 form and features totally disengaged, and lifeless at your service ; 
 now put them in what posture of attention you think tit. 
 
 [She leans againtf him, with her amis awkwardly falling to 
 her knees.
 
 264 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT I. 
 
 Col. Was there ever such a giddy devil ! Prithee stand up. I 
 have been.talking with my father, and he Declares positively you 
 shall not receive any further addresses from Mr. Heartly. 
 
 Mar. Are you serious ? 
 
 Col. He said it this minute, and with some warmth too. 
 
 Mar. I am glad on't with all my heart. 
 
 Col. How ! glad ! 
 
 Mar. To a degree : do you think a man has any more charms for 
 me for my father's liking him ? No, sir, if Mr. Heartly can make 
 his way to me now, he is obliged to me only : besides, now it may 
 have the face of an amour indeed : now one has something to 
 struggle for ; there's difficulty, therms danger, there's the dear spirit 
 of contradiction in it too. O, I like it mightily. 
 
 Col. I am glad this does not malce you think the worse of 
 Heartly but however, a father's consent might have clapt a pair of 
 horses more to your coach perhaps, and the want of thai may 
 pinch your fortune. 
 
 Mar. Burn fortune ; am not I a fine woman ? and have not I 
 above ; 5,000 in my own hands. 
 
 Col. Yes, sister, but with all your charms you have had it in your 
 hands almost these four years ; pray consider that too. 
 
 Mar. Pshaw ! and have not I had the full swing of my own airs 
 and humours fliese four years ? But if 111 humour my father, ITJ 
 warrant he'll make it three or four thousand more, with some 
 unlicked lout of a fellow to snub me into the bargain : a comfortable 
 equivalent truly. No, no, let him light his pipe with his consent 
 if he pleases. Wilful against wife for a wager. 
 
 Col. Well said ; nothing goes to your heart I find. 
 
 Mar. No, no, brother ; the suits of my lovers shall not be ended, 
 like those at law, by dull counsel on both sides ; I'll hear nothing 
 but what the plaintiff himself can say to me ; 'twould be a pretty 
 thing indeed to confine my airs to the directions of a solicitor, to 
 look kind, or cruel, only as the jointure proposed, is, or is not, equal 
 to the fortune my father designs me : what, do you think 111 *have 
 my features put into the Gasette to be disposed of, like a parcel of 
 dirty acres, by an old master in Chancery to the fairest bidder ? 
 No, if I must have an ill match, I'll have the pleasure of playing 
 my own game at least. 
 
 Col. There spoke the spirit of a free-born Englishwoman. 
 Well, I am glad you are not startled at the first part of my news 
 however ; but farther pray, sister, has my father ever proposed 
 any other man to you? 
 
 Mar. Another man ! let me know why you ask, and I'll tell you. 
 
 Col. Why the last words he said to me, were, that he had another 
 man in his head for you. 
 
 Mar. And who is it ? Who is it ? tell me, dear brother, quickly. 
 
 Col. Why you don't so much as seem surprised at it ! 
 
 Mar. No, but impatient, and that's as well you know. 
 
 Co!. Why, how now, sister? \Gravely*
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 265 
 
 Mar. Why sure, brother, you know very little of female happiness, 
 if you suppose the surprise of a new lover ought to shock a woman 
 of my temper don't you know that I am a coquette? 
 
 Col. If you are, you are the first that ever was sincere enough to 
 own her being so. 
 
 Afar. To a lover I grant you ; but I make no more of you than a 
 sister ; I can say anything to you. 
 
 Col. I should have been better pleased if you had not owned it 
 to me it's a hateful character. 
 
 Mar. Ay ; it's no matter for that ; it's violently pleasant, and 
 there's no law against it that I know of. You had best advise your 
 friend Hcartly to bring in a bill to prevent it ? All the discarded 
 toasts, prudes, and superannuated virgins would give him their 
 interest, I dare swear : take my word, coquetry has governed the 
 world from the beginning, and will do so to the end on't. 
 
 Col. Hcartly's like to have a hopeful time on't with you. 
 
 Mar. Well, but don't you really know who it is my father intends 
 me? 
 
 Col. Not I, really, but I imagined you might, and therefore 
 thought to advise with you about it. 
 
 Mar. Nay, he has not opened his lips to me yet are you sure 
 he's gone out ? 
 
 Col. You are very impatient to know, methinks ? What have you 
 to do to concern yourself about any man but Hcartly ? 
 
 Mar. O lud ! O lud ! O lud ! doh't be so wise, prithee brother : 
 why, if you had an empty house to let, would you be displeased to 
 hear there were two people about it ? can any woman think herself 
 happy that's obliged to marry only with a Hobson's choice ? no, don't 
 think to rob me of so innocent a vanity ; for believe me, brother, 
 there is no fellow upon earth,, how disagreeable soever, but in the 
 long run of his addresses will utter something, at least, that's worth 
 a poor woman's hearing. Besides t to be a little serious, Heartly has 
 a tincture of jealousy in his temper, which nothing but a substantial 
 rival can cure him of. 
 
 Col. O your servant, madam, now you talk reason ; I am glad 
 you are concerned enough for Heartly's faults, to think them worth 
 your mending ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. Concerned ! Why, did I say that ? look you, I'll deny it all 
 to him. Well, if ever I am serious with you again 
 
 Col. Here he comes ; be as merry with him as you please. 
 
 Mar. Pshaw ! 
 
 [MARIA takes a book from the table and reads. 
 
 Enter HEARTLY. 
 
 Hear. Dear Colonel, your servant. 
 
 Col. I am glad you did not come sooner, for in the humour my 
 father left me, 'twould not have been a proper time to have pressed 
 your affair. 1 touched upon it, but I'll tell you more presently; in 
 the meantime, lose no ground with mv sister.
 
 266 THE NON-yUKOK. [ACT I. 
 
 Hear. I shall always think myself obliged to your friendship, let 
 my success be what it will. Madam, your most obedient What 
 have you got there, pray ? 
 
 Mar. [repeating], 
 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
 Quick, as her eyes, and as unfixed as those 
 
 Hear. Pray, madam, what is it ? 
 
 Mar. Favours to none, to all she smiles extends 
 
 Har, Nay, I will see. [Struggling. 
 
 Mar. [putting him by.] 
 
 Oft she rejects but never once offends. 
 
 Col. Have a care, she hns dipped into her own character, and 
 she'll never forgive you if you don't let her through with it. 
 Hear. I beg your pardon, madam. [Gravely. 
 
 Mar. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
 
 And like the sun, they shine on all alike, Um um. 
 
 Hear. That is something like, indeed. 
 Col. You would say so if you knew all. 
 Hear. All what ? Pray what do you mean ? 
 Col. Have a little patience, I'll tell you immediately. 
 Hear, [aside.] Confusion ! some coxcomb, now, has been flatter- 
 ing her ; I'll be curst else, she's so full of her dear self upon't. 
 Mar. [turning to HEARTLY.] 
 
 If to her share some female errors fall. 
 Look on her face and you'll forget them all. 
 
 Is not that natural, Mr. Heartly ? 
 
 Hear. For a woman to expect, it is indeed. 
 
 Mar. And can you blame her, when 'tis at the same time a proof 
 of the poor man's passion, and her power ? 
 
 Hear. So that you think the greatest compliment a lover can 
 make his mistress, is to give up his reason to her ! 
 
 Mar. Certainly ; for what have your lordly sex to boast of but 
 your understanding ? And till that's entirely surrendered to her 
 discretion, while the least sentiment holds out against her, a woman 
 must be downright vain to think her conquest completed. 
 
 Hear. There we differ, madam ; for in my opinion, nothing but 
 the most excessive vanity could value or desire such a conquest. 
 
 Mar. O ! d'ye hear him, brother ? the creature reasons with me ! 
 Nay, has the frontless folly to think me in the wrong too ! O lud ! 
 he'd make a horrid tyrant positively I won't have him. 
 
 Hear. Well, my Comfort is, no other man will easily know whether 
 you'll have him or not. 
 
 Mar. [affectedly smiling] Am not I a horrid, vain, silly creature, 
 Mr. Heartly ?
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON.JUROR. 267 
 
 Hear. A little bordering upon the baby, I must own. 
 
 Mar, Laud ! how can you love one. so then ? but I don't think 
 you love me though do you ? 
 
 Hear. Yes, faith I do, and so shamefully, that I am in hopes you 
 doubt it 
 
 Mar. Poor man ! he'd fain bring me to reason. 
 
 [Smiling in his face. 
 
 Hear. I would indeed, nor am ashamed to own it ; nay, were it 
 but possible to make you serious only when you should be so, you 
 would be the most perfect creature of your sex. 
 
 Mar. O lud ! he s civil. 
 
 Hear. Come, come, you have good sense j use me but with that, 
 and make me what you please. 
 
 Mar, Laud ! I don't desire to make anything of you! not I. 
 
 Hear. Don't look so cold upon me ; by Heaven I can't bear it. 
 
 Mar. Well ! now you are tolerable. [Gently glancing on him. 
 
 Hear. Come then, be generous, and swear at least you'll never 
 be another's. 
 
 Mar, Ah ! Lard ! no^ you have spoiled all again ; beside, how 
 can I be sure of that before I have seen this t'other man my 
 brother spoke to me of? [Reads to herself again. 
 
 Hear. What riddle's this > f To the COLONEL. 
 
 Col. I told you you did not know all : to be serious, my father 
 went out but now on purpose to avoid you. In short, he absolutely 
 retracts his promises, says he would not have you fool away your 
 time after my sister, and in plain terms told me he had another 
 man in his head for her. 
 
 Hear. Another man ! Confusion ! who ! what is he ? did not he 
 name him ? 
 
 Col. No, nor has he yet spoke of him to my sister. 
 
 H^ar. This is unaccountable. What can have given him this 
 sudden turn ? 
 
 Col. Some whim our conscientious doctor has put in his head, 
 I'll lay my life. 
 
 Hear. He ! he can't be such a villain ; he professes a friendship 
 for me. 
 
 Col. So much the worse. By the way, I am now upon the scent 
 of a secret, that I hope shortly will prove him a rogue to the whole 
 nation. 
 
 Hear. You amaze me. But on what pretence, what ground, 
 what reason, what interest can he have to oppose me ? This 
 shock is insupportable. \_Hc stands, fixed and mute. 
 
 Col. [aside to MARIA.] Arc you really as unconcerned now as 
 you seem to be ? 
 
 Jlfiir, Thou art a strange dunce, brother ; thou knowest no more 
 
 of love than I do of a regiment. You shall sec now how I'll 
 
 comfort him. \_SJte goes to HKARTLY, mimics his pasture anif 
 
 uneasiness, then looks seriously in his face, and 
 
 bursts into a laugh.
 
 268 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT I. 
 
 Hear. I don't wonder at your good humour, madam, when you 
 have so substantial an opportunity to make me uneasy for life. 
 
 Mar. O lud ! how wise he is ? Well ! his reproaches have that 
 greatness of soul the confusion they give one is insupportable. 
 Betty, is the tea ready ? 
 
 Enter BETTY. 
 
 Bet. Yes, madam. 
 
 Mar. Mr. Heartly, your servant. \JExit. 
 
 Col. So, so, you have made a fine spot of work on't indeed.^ 
 Hear. Dear Tom, you'll pardon me, if I speak a little freely ; 
 I own the levity of her behaviour at this time gives me harder 
 thoughts than I once believed it possible to have of her. 
 
 Col. tndaed, my friend, you mistake her. 
 
 Hear. O pardon me, had she any real concern for me, the 
 apprehension of a man addresses, whom yet she never saw, must 
 have alarmed her to be something more than serious. 
 
 Col. Not at all, for (let this man be who he will) I take all this 
 levity as a proof of her resolution to have nothing to say to him. 
 
 Hear. And pray, sir, may I not as well suspect, that this artful 
 delay of her good nature to me now, is meant as a provisional defence 
 against my reproaches, in case, when she has seen this man, she 
 should think it convenient to prefer him to me ? 
 
 Col. No, no, she's giddy, but not capable of so serious a 
 falsehood. 
 
 Hear. It's a sign you don't judge her with a lover's eye. 
 
 Col. No ; but as a slander by, I often see more of the game than 
 you do. Don't you know that she is naturally a coguette ? And a 
 coquette's play with a serious lover is like a back-game at tables, 
 all open at first; she'll make you twenty blots and you spare 
 none, take them all up, to be sure, while she gains points upon 
 you ; so that when you eagerly expect to end the game on your 
 side, slap- -as you were, she whips up your man ; she's fortified, 
 and you are in a worse condition than when you begun with her. 
 Upon which, you know of course, you curse your fortune, and she 
 laughs at you. 
 
 Hear. Faith, you judge it rightly I have always found it so. 
 
 Col. In short, you are in haste to be up, and she's resolved to 
 make you play out the game at her leisure ; you play for the fair 
 stake, and she for victory. 
 
 Hear. But still, what could she mean by going away so abruptly ? 
 
 Col. You grew too serious for her. 
 
 Hear. Why, who could bear such trifling ? 
 
 Col. You should have laughed at her. 
 
 Hear. I can't love at that easy rate. 
 
 Col. No ; if you could, the uneasiness would lie on her side. 
 
 Hear. Do you then really think she has anything in her heart 
 for me ? 
 
 Col. Ay, marry, sir. Ah ! if you could but get her to own that 
 seriously now lord ! how you could love her !
 
 SC?ur,. i. j THE NON-JUROR. 269 
 
 Hear. And so I could, by heaven ! {Eagerly embracing him. 
 
 Col. Ay, but 'tis not the nature of the creature- you must take 
 her upon her own terms ; though, faith, I thought she owned a 
 great deal to you but now. Did not you observe, when you were 
 impatient, with what a conscious vanity she cried ? Now you are 
 tolerable. 
 
 Hear. Nay, the devil can be agreeable when she pleases. 
 
 Col. Well, well, I'll undertake for her ; if my father don't stand 
 in your way, we are well enough, and I don't question but the 
 alarm he has given us, like his other politic projects, will end all 
 :'// fumo. 
 
 Hear. What says my lady ? you don't think she's against us ? 
 
 Col. I dare swear she is not she's of so soft, so swoet a disposi- 
 tion, that even provocation can't make her your enemy. 
 
 Jfear. How came so fine a creature to marry your father with 
 such a vast inequality of years r 
 
 Col. Want of fortune, Frank. She was poor and beautiful ; he 
 rich and amorous. She made him happy, and he her 
 
 Hear. A lady. 
 
 Col. And a jointure. Now, she's the only one in the family that 
 has power with our precise doctor, and I dare engage she'll use it 
 with him, to persuade my father from anything that's against your 
 interest. By the way, you must know, I have some shrewd suspi- 
 cions that this sanctified rogue is carnally in love with her. 
 
 Hear. O, the liquorish rascal ! 
 
 Col. You shall judge by the symptoms : first, he's jealous of every 
 male thing that comes near her ; and under a friendly pretence of 
 guarding my father's honour, has persuaded him to abolish her 
 assemblies : nay, at the last masquerade this conscientious spy 
 (unknown to her) was eternally at her elbow in the habit of a 
 Cardinal. At dinner he never fails to sit next her, and will eat 
 nothing but A'hat she helps him ; always takes her side in argument, 
 and when he bows after grace, constantly ogles her ; bids my sister, 
 if she would look lovely, learn to dress by her; and at the tea table, 
 1 have seen the impudent goat most lusciously sip off her leavings. 
 She lost one of her slippers t'other day (by the way, she has a 
 mighty pretty foot), and what do you think was become of it ? 
 
 Hear. You puzzle me. 
 
 Col. Egad, this love-sick monkey had stole it for a private play- 
 thing ; and one of the housemaids, when she cleaned his stuxly, 
 found it there, with one of her old gloves in the middle of it. 
 
 Hear. A very proper relic to pin him in mind of his devr.tuno 
 to Venus. 
 
 Col. But mum ' here he comes. 
 
 Enter DOCTOR WOLF and CHARLES. 
 
 Doct. Charles, step up into my study, and bring down half a doien 
 more of those Manual Devotions that I composed for the use of our 
 friends in prison ; and, dost thou hear ? leave this writing there,
 
 270 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT r. 
 
 but bring me the key, and then bid the butler ring to prayers. \Exit 
 CHARLES.] Mr. Heartly, I am your most faithful servant. I hope 
 you and the good Colonel will stay and join in the private duties ot 
 the family. 
 
 Hear. With all my heart, sir, provided you'll do the duty of a 
 subject too, and not leave out the prayer for the Royal Family 
 
 Doct. The good Colonel knows I never do omit it. 
 
 Col. Sometimes, doctor ; but I don't remember I ever once heard 
 you name them. 
 
 Doct. That's only to shorten the service, lest in so large a family 
 some few vain, idle souls might think it tedious ; and we ought, as 
 it were, to allure them to what's good, by the gentlest, easiest means 
 we can. 
 
 Hear. How! how, doctor ! Are you sure that's your only reason 
 for leaving their names out ? 
 
 Doct. But pray, sir, why is naming them so absolutely necessary, 
 when Heaven, without it, knows the true intention of our hearts ? 
 Besides, why should we, when we so easily may avoid it, give the 
 least colour of offence to tender consciences ? 
 
 Col. Ay ! now you begin to open, doctor. 
 
 Hear. Have a care, sir, the conscience that equivocates in its 
 devotions must have the blackest colour hell can paint it with. 
 
 Col. Well said ! to him Heartly. 
 
 Hear. Your conscience, I dare say, won't be easily convinced, 
 while your scruples turn to so good account in a private family. 
 
 Doct. What, am I to be baited then ? but 'twon't be always 
 holiday. [Frowning^] The time's now yours, but mine may come. 
 
 Col. What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Doct. Sir, I shall not explain myself, but make your best of what 
 I've said. I'm not to be entrapped by all your servile spies of power 
 but power, perhaps, may change its hands, and you, ere long, as 
 little dare to speak your mind as I do. 
 
 Col. [taking him by the collar.'] Hark you, sirrah ! Dare you 
 menace the Government in my .hearing ? 
 
 Hear. Nay, colonel ! [Interposing. 
 
 Doct. 'Tis well ! 
 
 Col. Traitor ! but that our laws have chains and gibbets for such 
 villains, I'd this moment crackle all thy bones to splinters. 
 
 [Shakes him. 
 
 Doct. Very well ! your father, sir, shall know my treatment. 
 
 Hear. Nay, dear colonel, let him go. 
 
 Col. I ask your pardon, Frank, I am ashamed that such a wretch 
 could move me so. 
 
 Hear. Come, compose yourself. 
 
 Doct. [aside, and recovering himself.'] No ! I'll take no notice of 
 it ; I know he's warm and weak enough to tell this as his own story 
 to his father let him 'tis better so 'twill but confirm Sir John in 
 his good opinion of my charity, and serve to ruin him the faster. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 SCENE i.J THE NON-yUROh. 9 ji 
 
 Hear. Was there ever so insolent a rascal ? 
 
 CoL The dog will one day provoke me to beat his brains out. 
 
 Hear. Who could have believed such outrageous arrogance could 
 have lurked under so lamb-like an outside ? 
 
 Col. This fellow has the spleen and spirit of ten Beckcts in him. 
 
 Hear. What the devil is he ? Whence came he ? What's his 
 original ? Is he really a doctor? 
 
 CoL So he pretends, and that he lost his living in Ireland, upon his 
 refusing the oaths to the Government. Now I have made the strictest 
 inquiries, and can't find the least evidence that ever he was in the 
 country. But (as 1 hinted to you) there is now m prison a poor 
 unhappy rebel I went to school with, whose pardon I am soliciting, 
 and he assures me he knew him very well in Flanders ; and in such 
 circumstances, as when it can be serviceable to me to know them, 
 he faithfully promises to discover, but begs till then I will not insist 
 upon it. 
 
 Hear. Egad ! this intelligence may be worth your cherishing. 
 
 Col. Ah ! here's my sister again. 
 
 Enter MARIA, hastily, DOCTOR WOLF following. 
 
 Mar. You'll find, sir, I will not be used thus ; nor shall your 
 credit with my father protect your insolence to me. 
 
 Hear, and Col. What's the matter ? 
 
 Mar. Nothing ; pray be quiet I don't want you stand out of 
 the way ! \Thcy retire. 
 
 Col. What has the dog done to her ? 
 
 Mar. How durst you bolt with such authority into my chamber, 
 without giving me notice? 
 
 Hear. Confusion ! 
 
 Col. Now, Frank, whose turn is it to keep their temper? {Apart. 
 
 Hear, [struggling.] 'Tis not mine, I'm sure. [Apart. 
 
 Col. Hold ! If my father won't resent this, 'tis then time enough 
 for me to do it. [Apart. 
 
 Doct. Compose your transport, madam ; I came by your father's 
 desire, who being informed that you were entertaining Mr. Heartly, 
 grew impatient, and gave his positive command that you attend him 
 instantly, or he himself, he says, will fetch you. 
 
 Hear. So ! now the storm is rising. 
 
 Doct. So for what I have done, madam, I had his authority, and 
 shall leave him to answer you. 
 
 Afar. 'Tis false, he gave you no authority to insult me ; or if he 
 had, did you suppose I would bear it from you ? What is it you 
 presume upon ? your function ! Does that exempt you from the 
 manners of a gentleman ? 
 
 Docl. Shall I have any answer to your father, lady? 
 
 Mar. I'll send him none by you. 
 
 Doct. I shall inform him so. [Exit, 
 
 Mar. A saucy puppy. 
 
 Col. Prithee, sister, what has the fellow done to you ?
 
 27 2 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT I. 
 
 Hear. \ beg you tell us, madam. 
 
 Mar. Nay, no great matter ; but I was sitting carelessly in my 
 dressing-room a a fastening my garter, with my face just towards 
 i.he door, and this impudent cur, without the least notice, comes 
 counce in upon me and my hoop happening to hitch in the 
 chair, I was an hour before I could get down my petticoats. 
 
 hear. The rogue must be corrected. 
 
 Col. Yet, egad, I can't help laughing at the accident ! What a 
 ridiculous figure must she make ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. Ha ! you are as impudent as he, I think. Well, but had 
 not I best go to my father ? 
 
 Hear. Now, now, dear Tom, speak to her before she goes : this 
 is the very crisis of my life. \Apart to the COLONEL. 
 
 Mar. What does he say, brother ? 
 
 Col. Why he wants to have me speak to you, and I would have 
 him do it himself. 
 
 Mar. Ay, come, do, Heartly, I am in good humour now. 
 
 Hear. O Marir. ! my heart is bursting 
 
 Mar. Wei!, well, out with it. 
 
 Hear. Your father, now, I see. is bent on parting us. Nay, what's 
 yet worse, perhaps, will give you to another I cannot speak 
 Imagine what I want from you. 
 
 Mar. Well O lud ! one looks so silly though, when one's 
 serious O gad in short, I cannot get it out. 
 
 Col. I warrant you, try again. 
 
 Mar. O lud ! well if one must be teased, then why he 
 must hope, I think. 
 
 Hear. Is't possible ? Thus 
 
 Col. Buz {stopping his mouth} Not a syllable ; she has done 
 very well ; I bar all heroics ; if you press it too far, I'll hold six to 
 four she is off again in a moment. 
 
 Hear. I am silenced. 
 
 Mar. Now am I on tiptoe to know what odd fellow my father has 
 found out for me. 
 
 Hear. I'd give something to know him. 
 
 Mar. He is in a terrible fuss at your being here, I find I had 
 best go to him. 
 
 Col. By all means. 
 
 Mar. O bless us ! here he comes, piping hot, to fetch me ! Now 
 we are all in a fine pickle. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN, hastily. He takes MARIA under his ann, cocks 
 his hat, nods, frowning at HEARTLY, and carries her off. 
 
 Col. So Well said, Doctor! 'tis he, I'm sure, has blown this 
 fire. What horrid hands is this poor family fallen into ! and how 
 the traitor seems to triumph in his power ! How little is my father 
 like himself! by nature open, just and generous ; but this vile 
 hypocrite drives his weak passions like the wind, and I foresee at 
 last will dasli him on his ruin.
 
 SCENE i.l THE NON-JUROR. 273 
 
 Hear. Nothing but your speedily detecting him can prevent it 
 Col. I have a thought, and it is the only one that car. expose hirr. 
 
 to my lather. Come, Frank, be cheerful ; in som~ unguarded 
 
 hour, we yet, perhaps, this lurking thief 
 
 Without his holy vizor, may surprise. 
 And lay th' impostor naked to hn eyes. 
 
 \Exeun*. 
 
 ACT II. 
 CHARLES, with a writing in his hand. 
 
 Charles. 'Tis so. I have long suspected where his zeal would 
 end, in the making of his private fortune ; but then to found it on 
 the ruin of his patron's children makes me shudder at the villainy. 
 What desperation may a son be driven to, so barbarously disin- 
 herited ? Besides, his daughter, fair Maria, too, is wronged wronged 
 in the most tender point ; for so extravagant is this settlement, it 
 leaves her not a shilling, but on her conditionally marrying with 
 the doctor's consent, which seems, by what I've heard, intended as 
 an expedient, to oblige her to accept the doctor himself for her 
 husband. Now 'twere but an honest part to let Maria know this 
 snare that's laid for her. This deed's not signed, and might be yet 
 prevented. It shall be so 'twere folly not to try ; my condition 
 can't be worse. Who knows how far her good nature may think 
 herself obliged for the discovery ? Must he ruin, as he has done 
 mine, all families he conies into ? 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN, LADY WOODVIL and MARIA. 
 
 Sir John. O, Charles, your master wants you to transcribe some 
 letters. 
 
 Charles. Sir, I'll wait on him. 
 
 [Exit CHARLES, bowing respectfully to the ladies. 
 
 Mar. A pretty well-bred fellow that. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, ay ; but he has better qualities than his good 
 breeding ; he is honest. 
 
 Mar. He's always clean, too. 
 
 Sir John. I wonder, daughter, when tliou wilt take notice of a 
 man's real merit. Humph ! well bred, and clean forsooth. Would 
 not one think, now, she were describing a coxcomb ? 
 
 Mar. But, dear papa, do you make no allowance for one 3 taste ? 
 
 Sir John. Taste ; ha ! and one's taste ? That Madam One is j 
 to me the most provoking, impertinent jade alive ; and taste is the 
 true picture of her senseless, sickly appetite. When Jo you hear 
 my wife talk at this rate ? and yet she is as young as your 
 fantastical ladyship? 
 
 Lady W. Maria's of a cheerful temper, my dear ; but I know 
 you don't think she wants discretion. 
 
 Sir John. I shall try that presently, and you, sweetheart, shall 
 judge between us ; in short, daughter, your course of lite is but on?
 
 274 THE NOti-JUXOX. [ACT it, 
 
 continual round of playing the fool to no purpose, and therefore S 
 am resolved to make you think seriously, and marry. 
 
 Afar. That I shall do* before I marry, sir, you may depend 
 upon't. 
 
 Sir yohn. Um that I am not so sure of ; but you may depend 
 upon my having thought seriously, and that's as well ; for the per- 
 son I intend you, is of all the world the only man can make you 
 truly happy. 
 
 Mar. And of all the world, sir, that's the only man I'll positively 
 marry. 
 
 Lady W. [aside to MAR.] Thou hast rare courage, Maria. If I 
 had such a game to play I should be frightened out of my wits. 
 Mar. Lord, madam, he'll make nothing on't, depend upon it 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sir 'John. Mind what I say to you. This wonderful man, I say 
 first, as to his principles both in Church and State, is unques- 
 tionable. 
 
 Mar. Sir, I leave all that to you, for I should never ask him a 
 question about either of them. 
 
 Sir John. You need not ; I am fully satisfied of both ; he is a 
 true, staunch member of the English Catholic Church. 
 
 Mar. Methinks, though, I would not have him a Roman Catholic, 
 sir, because, you know, of double taxes. 
 Sir John. No, he's no Roman. 
 
 Mar. Very well, sir 
 
 Sir John. Then as to the State, he'll shortly be one of the most 
 considerable men in the kingdom, and that, too, in an office for 
 life, which, on whatsoever pretence of misbehaviour, no Civil 
 Government can deprive him of. 
 
 Mar. That's fine indeed ; I was afraid he had been a clergyman. 
 Sir yohn. I have not yet said what his function is. As for his 
 private life, he's sober. 
 
 Mar. O ! I should hate a sot 
 Sir yohn. Chaste. 
 , Mar. Ahem ! 
 
 Sir yohn. What is't you sneer at, madam ? You want one of 
 your fine gentlemen rakes, I suppose, that are snapping at every 
 woman they meet with. 
 
 Mar. No, no, sir, I am very well satisfied I I should not care 
 for such a sort of man no more than \ should for one that every 
 woman was ready to snap at. 
 
 Sir yohn. No, you'll be secure from jealousy ; he has experience, 
 ripeness of years ; he is almost forty-nine. Your sex's vanities will 
 have no charm for him. 
 
 Mar. But all this wKie, sir, I don't find that he has any charm 
 for our sex's vanity. How does he look? Is he tall, well-made ' 
 Does he dress, sing, talk, laugh, and dance well ? Has he a good 
 air, good teeth, fine eyes, fine fair periwig? Docs he keep his 
 chaise, coach, chariot, and Berlin with six flouncing Flanders?
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 27" 
 
 Does he wear blue velvet, clean white stockings, arcl subscribe. *o 
 the opera ? 
 
 Sir John. Was there ever so profligate a creature? What wi-i 
 this age come to ? 
 
 Lady W. Nay, Maria ! here I must be against you. Now you 
 are blind indeed ; z. woman's happiness has little to cio with the 
 pleasure her husband takes in his own person. 
 
 Sir John. Right. 
 
 Lady W. 'T is not how he looks ; but how he loves is the point. 
 
 Sir John. Good again ! 
 
 Lady W. And a \vifc is much more secure, that has charms for 
 her husband, than when the husband has only charms for her. 
 
 Sir John. Admirable ! Go on, my dear. 
 
 Lady W. Do you think, child, a woman of five-and-twcnty may 
 not be much happier with an honest man of fifty, than the finest 
 woman of fifty with a young fellow of five-and- twenty ? 
 
 Sir John. Mark that ! 
 
 Mar. Ay, but when 'two five-and-twenties come together, dear 
 papa, you must allow they have a chance to be fifty times as 
 pleasant and frolicsome. 
 
 Sir John. Frolicsome ! why, you idiot, what have frolics to do 
 with solid happiness ? I am ashamed of you. Go ! you talk worse 
 than a girl at a boarding-school. Frolicsome ! as if marriage were 
 only a licence for two people to play the fool according to law ? 
 Methinlcs, madam, you have a better example of happiness before 
 your face. Here's one has ten times your understanding, and she, 
 you find, has made a different choice. 
 
 Mar. Lord, sir ! how you talk ! you don't consider people's 
 temper. I don't say jny lady is not in the right ; but then you 
 know, papa, she's a prude, and I am a coquette ; she becomes her 
 character very well,. I don't deny it, and I hope you see every thing 
 I do is as consistent with mine. Your wise folks may lay down 
 what rules they please ; but 'tis constitution that governs us all, and 
 you can no more bring me, sir, to endure a man of forty-nine, than 
 you can persuade my lady to dance in a church to the organ. 
 
 Sir John. Why, you wicked wretch, could anything persuade 
 you to that ? 
 
 Mar. Lord, sir ! I won't answer for anything I should do when 
 the whim's in my head. You know I always loved a little flirtation. 
 
 Sir John. O horrible ! My poor mother has ruined her ; leaving 
 her a fortune in her own hands, has turned her brain ; in short, your 
 sentiments of life are shameful, and I am resolved upon your instant 
 reformation ; therefore, as an earnest of your obedience, 1 shall first 
 insist, that you never see young Heartly more ; for, in one word, the 
 good and pious Doctor Wolf is the man that I have decreed your 
 husband. 
 
 Mar. Ho ! ho ! ho ! [Laughing aloud. 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis very well ; this laugh YOU think becomes you, but 
 1 shall spoil your mirth ; no more give me a serious answer.
 
 tf H THE NON-JUROR. [ACT n. 
 
 trlar. (gravely, ,J I ask your pardon, sir ; I should not have smiled, 
 indeed, could I have supposed it possible that you were serious. 
 
 ^tr'john. You'll find me so. 
 
 Mar. I am sorry for it ; but I have an objection to the doctor, 
 sir, that most fathers think a substantial one. 
 
 Sir John. Name it. 
 
 Mar. Why, sir, you know he is not worth a groat. 
 
 Sir John. That's more than you know, madam ; I am able to 
 give him a better estate than I am afraid you'll deserve. 
 
 Mar. How, sir? 
 
 Sir John. I have told you what's my will, and shall leave you to 
 think on ; t. 
 
 Enter CHARLES. 
 
 Charles, {aside to SIR JOHN.] Sir, if you are at leisure, the 
 doctor desires a private conference with you, upon business of 
 importance. 
 
 Sir John. Where is he ? 
 
 Charles. In his own chamber, sir, just taking his leave of the 
 Count and another gentleman, that came this morning express from 
 Avignon ; he has sent you, too, the note you asked him for. 
 
 Sir John. : Tis well ; I'll come to him immediately. \Exit 
 CHARLES.] Daughter, I am called away, and therefore have only 
 time to tell you, as my last resolution, that if you expect a shilling 
 from me, the doctor is your husband, or I'm no more your father. 
 
 [Exit SIR JOHN, and drops the paper. 
 
 Mar. O madam ! I am at my wits' end, not for the little fortune 
 I may lose in disobeying my father ; but it startles me to find what 
 a dangerous influence this fellow has over all his actions. 
 
 Lady IV. Dear Maria, I am now as much alarmed as you ; for 
 though in compliance to your father, I have been always inclined to 
 think charitably of this doctor, yet now I am convinced 'tis time to 
 be upon our uard he's stepping into his estate, too ! 
 
 Mar. Here's my brother, madam, we'll consult with him. 
 
 To them the COLONEL. 
 
 Col. Madam, your most obedient. Well, sister, is the secret out ? 
 Who is this pretty fellow my father has picked up for you ? 
 
 Mar. Even our agreeable doctor. 
 
 Col. You are not serious. 
 
 I-ady W. He's the very man, I can assure you, sir. 
 
 Col. Confusion ! What, would the Jewish cormorant devour the 
 whole family ? Your ladyship knows he is secretly in love with 
 you too. 
 
 Lady W. Fie! fie! Colonel. 
 
 Col. I ask your pardon, madam, if I speak too freely ; but I am 
 sure, by what I have seen, your ladyship must suspect something 
 of it. 
 
 Lady H r . I am sorry anybody else has seen it ; but I must own
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 277 
 
 his civilities of late have been something warmer than I thought 
 became him. 
 
 Col. How then are these oppositcs to be reconciled ; can the 
 rascal have the assurance to think both these points are to be 
 carried ? But he does nothing like other people ; he's :i contradic- 
 tion even to his own character; most of your non-jurors now arc 
 generally people of a free and open disposition, mighty pretenders 
 to a conscience of honour indeed ; but you seldom see them put on 
 ihe least sl>Ow of religion ; but this formal hypocrite always has it 
 at his tongue's end, and there it sticks, for it never gets into his 
 heart ! I'll answer for him. 
 
 Lady W. Ay, but that's the charm that first got him into Sir 
 John's heart ; who, good man, is himself, I am sure, sincere ; how- 
 ever now misguided, 'twas not so much his principles of govern- 
 ment, as his well painted piety ; his seeming self-denial, resignation, 
 patience, and humble outside, that gave him first so warm a lodging 
 in his bosom. 
 
 Mar. My lady has judged it perfectly right. 
 
 Col. I am afraid it's too true : there has been his surest footing ! 
 But here we are puzzled again what subtle fetch can he have in 
 being really in love with your ladyship, and at the same time making 
 such a bustle to marry my sister ? 
 
 Mar. Truly one would not suspect him to be so termagant : I 
 fancy the gentleman might have his hands full of one of us. 
 
 Col. And yet his zeal pretends to be so shocked at all indecent 
 amours, that in the country he used to make the maids lock up the 
 turkey-cocks every Saturday night, for fear they should gallant the 
 hens on a Sunday. 
 
 Lady W. O ! ridiculous. 
 
 Col. Upon my life, madam, my sister told me so. 
 
 Mar. I tell you so : You impudent 
 
 Lady W. Fie ! Maria, he only jests with you. 
 
 Mar. How can you be such a monster to be playing the fool here, 
 when you have more reason to be frighted out of your wits ? You 
 don't know, perhaps, that my father declares he'll settle a fortune 
 upon this fellow too. 
 
 Col. What do you mean ? 
 
 Lady W. Tis too true ; 'tis not three minutes since he said so. 
 
 Col. Nay, then 'tis time indeed his eyes were opened; and give 
 me leave to say, madam, 'tis only in your power to save not only 
 me, but even my father too from ruin. 
 
 Lady W. I shall easily come into anything of that kind, that's 
 practicable what is it you propose ? 
 
 Col. Why, if this fellow (which 1 am sure of) is really in love with 
 you, give him a fair opportunity to declare himself, and leave me to 
 make my advantage of it. 
 
 Lady W. I apprehend you I am loath to do a wrong thing 
 
 Mar. Dear madam, it's the only way m the world to expose him 
 to my father.
 
 278 THE NON-JV&CR. [AC V r 
 
 Lady W. I'll think of it [Musing. 
 
 Col. When you do, madam, I am sure you will rom into it. How 
 now ! What paper's this ? it's the doctor s han-i. 
 Mar. I believe my father dropped it. 
 Col. What's here? [Reads.] 
 
 Laid out t\t several times for the Secret Service of His M . .. 
 
 tf . ft 4 
 
 May the aSth, For six baskets of rue and thyme 0180 
 
 The agth. Ditto. Two cart-loads of oaken boughs 200 
 
 June the roth, For ten bushels of white roses .' . i 10 o 
 
 Ditto, Given to thr bell-ringers of several parishes 10 15 o 
 
 Ditto, To Simon Chaunter, parish clerk, for his selecting proper 
 
 staves adapted to the day 57-6 
 
 Ditto, For lemons and arrack sent into Newgate . . . v r . ., . 9 5 o 
 
 Col. Well, while they drink it in Newgate, much good may it do 
 them. 
 
 L t. d. 
 Paid to Henry Conscience, juryman, for his extraordinary trouble in 
 
 acquitting Sir Preston Rebel of his indictment 53 15 o 
 
 Allowed to Patrick MacRogue, of the Foot Guards, tor prevailing 
 
 with his comrade to desert 466 
 
 Given as smart-money to Humphry Stanch, cobbler, lately wbioped 
 
 for speaking his mind of the Goyernment 346 
 
 Paid to AbeJ Perkin, news writer, for divers seasonable paragraphs . 500 
 August the ist, Paid to John Shoplift and Thomas Highway, for 
 
 endeavouring to put out the enemy's bonfire ....... 230 
 
 August the and, Paid the Surgeon for sear-cloth, for their bruises . i r 6 
 
 Was there ever such a heap of stupid, cold-scented treason T 
 Now, madam, I hope you see the necessity of blowing up this 
 traitor. These are lengths I did not think my father had gone with 
 him. What vile, what low sedition, has he made him stoop to? 
 
 Lady W. I tremble at the precipice he stands on ! 
 
 Mar. O bless us ! I am in a cold sweat, dear brother, leave it 
 where you found it 
 
 Lady W. By all means ; if Sir John should know it's in your 
 hands, it may make him desperate 
 
 Col. You are in the right, madam. [He lays down ihe paper. 
 
 Lady W. Let's steal into the next room, and observe that nobody 
 else takes it up \ he'll certainly come back to look for"t. 
 
 Col. But I must leave you, poor Heartly stays for me at White's ; 
 and he'll sit upon thorns till I bring him an account of his new rival. 
 
 Mar. Well, well, get you gone then. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN in a hurry. 
 
 Sir John. Undone ! Ruined ! where could I drop this paper ? 
 Hold let's see [ He finds it.] Ah! here it is. What a blessed 
 escape was this ? If my hot-brained son had found it, I suppose by 
 to-morrow he would have been begging my estate for the discovery
 
 SC.EML ;.* TtfZ y-W-JUROR. 270 
 
 Enter DOCTOR WOLF. 
 
 O Doctor ! all s weft ; I h^ve found my paper. 
 
 Doct. I am sincerely glad of it. It might have ruined us. 
 
 Sir John. Well, sir, what say our last advices from Avignon ? 
 
 Doct. All goes right The Council has approved our scheme, and 
 press mightily for dispatch among our friends in England. 
 
 Sir 'John. But pray, Doctor 
 
 Doct. Hold, sir, now we are alone, give me leave to inform you 
 better. Not that I am vain of any worldly title ; but since it has 
 pleased our Court to dignify me, our Church's right obliges me to 
 take it. 
 
 Sir John. Pray, sir, explain. 
 
 Doct. Our last express has brought me *" this [He shows a 
 writing] which, far unworthy as I am, promotes me to the vacant 
 See of Thetford. 
 
 Sir John. Is it possible ? My lord, I joy in your advancement 
 
 Doct. It is indeed a-spiritual comfort to. find my labours in the 
 cause are not forgotten ; though I must own some less conspicuous 
 instance of their favour had better suited me. Such high distinc- 
 tions are invidious ; and it would really grieve me, sir, among my 
 friends, to meet with envy where I only hope for love ; not but I 
 submit in any way to serve them. 
 
 Sir John. Ah ! good man 1 this meekness will, I hope, one day 
 be rewarded but pray, sir my lord ! I beg your lordship's par- 
 don pray what other news ? how do all our friends ? are they in 
 heart, and cheerful ? 
 
 Doct. To a man ! never in such sanguine hopes the Court's 
 extremely thronged never was there sucn a concourse of warlike 
 exiles ; though they talk, this sharp season, of removing farther into 
 Italy, for the benefit of milder air ; well, the Catholics are the 
 sincerest friends ! 
 
 Sir John. Nay, I must do them justice, they arc truly zealous in 
 the cause, and it has often grieved my heart, that our Church's 
 differences are so utterly irreconcilable. 
 
 Doct. O nourish still that charitable thought I there's something 
 truly great and humane in it ; and really, sir, if you examine well the 
 doctrines laid down by my learned predecessor, in his case of 
 schism, you will find thoso differences are not so terribly material 
 as some obstinate schismatics would paint them. Ah ! could we 
 but be brought to temper, a great many seeming contradictions 
 might be reconciled on both sides ; but while the laity will interpret 
 for themselves, there is indeed no doing it Now, could we, sir, 
 like other nations, but once restrain that monstrous licence. Ah J 
 sir, a union then might soon be practicable. 
 
 Sir John. Ah ! 'twill never do here ; the English arc a stubborn, 
 headstrong people, and have been so long indulged in the use of 
 their own senses, that while they have eyes in their heads, you will 
 never be able to persuade them they can't sec, there's no making them
 
 2 8o THE NON-JUROR. [ACT H. 
 
 give up their human evidences ; and your Credo, qiila ttnpossibile 
 tst, is an argument they will always make a jest of. No, no, it is 
 not force will do the thing; your pressed men don't alwa>s make 
 the best soldiers. And truly, my Lord, we seem to be wrong too in 
 another point, to which I have often imputed the ill success of oui 
 cause ; and that is, the taking into our party so many loose persons 
 of dissolute and abandoned morals, fellows whom in their daily 
 private course of life, the pillory and gallows seem to groan for. 
 
 Doct. 'Tis true indeed, and I have often wished 'twere possible 
 to do without them, but in a multitude all men won't be all saints ; 
 and then again they are really useful ; nay, and in many things, 
 that sober men will not stoop to they serve, poor curs, to bark at 
 the Government in the open streets, and keep up the wholesome spirit 
 of clamour in the common people ; and, sir, you cannot conceive 
 the wonderful use of clamour, 'tis so teasing to a ministry, it makes 
 them wince and fret, and grow uneasy in their posts. Ah ! many 
 a comfortable point has been gained by clamour ! 'tis in the nature 
 of mankind to yield more to that than reason. EVn Socrates him- 
 self could not resist it'; for, wise as he was ; yet you see his wife 
 Xantippc carried all her points by clamour. Come, come, clamour 
 is a useful monster, and we must feed the hungry mouths of it ; it 
 being of the last importance to us, that hope to change the Govern- 
 ment, to let it have no quiet. 
 
 Sir John. Well, there is indeed no resisting mere necessity. 
 
 Doct. Besides, if we suffer our spirits to cool here, at home, our 
 friends abroad will send us over nothing but excuses- 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis true, but still I am amazed, that France so totally 
 should have left us. Mardyke,they say, will certainly be demolished. 
 
 Doct. No matter, let them go we nave made a good exchange, 
 our new ally is yet better, as he is less suspected. But to give them 
 their due, we have no spirits among us like the women, the ladies 
 have supported our cause with a surprising constancy. O ! there's 
 no daunting them, even with ill success ! they will starve their very 
 vanities, their vices, to feed their loyalty ; I am informed that my 
 good lady, Countess of Night-and-Day, has never been seen in a 
 new gown, or has once thrown a die at any of the assemblies, since 
 our last general contribution. 
 
 Sir John. O my good lord, if our Court abroad but knew what 
 obligations they have to your indefatigable endeavours 
 
 Doct. Alas ! sir, I can only boast an honest heart, my power is 
 weak, I only can assist them with my prayers and zealous wishes ; 
 or if I had been serviceable, have not you, sir, overpaid me ? Your 
 daughter, sir, the fair Maria, is a reward no merit can pretend 
 to. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, good my lord, this tender gratitude confounds 
 me. O ! this insensible girl. Pray excuse me \Weeps. 
 
 Doct. You seemed concerned, pray what's amiss ? 
 
 Sir John. That I should be the father of so blind a child, alas ! 
 she slights the blessing I proposed, she sees you not, my lord, with
 
 SCENE i.J THE NON-JUROR. 281 
 
 my fond eyes ; but lay not, I beseech you, at my door, the ungrateful 
 stubbornness of a thoughtless girl. 
 
 Doct. Nay, good sir, be not thus concerned for me ; we must 
 allow her female modesty a time ; your strict commands perhaps 
 too suddenly surprised her ; maids must be slowly, gently dealt 
 with ; and might I, sir, presume to advise 
 
 Sir John. Anything ; your will shall govern me and her. 
 
 Doct. Then, sir, abate of your authority, and let the matter rest 
 a while. Suppose I first should beg your good lady, sir, to bo my 
 friend to her. Women will hear from their own sex what some- 
 times, even from the man they like, would startle them. May I 
 have your permission, sir, when dinner is removed, to entertain my 
 lady on this subject privately ? 
 
 Sir John. O, by all means, and, troth, it is an excellent thought 
 I'll go this instant, and prepare her to receive you, and will mysell 
 contrive your opportunity. 
 
 Doct. You are too good to me, sir too bountiful. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, now, my Lord, you drive me from you. 
 
 Doct. Pray pardon me. 
 
 Sir John. No more I beg you, good my Lord your servant. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Doct. Ha ! ha ! What noble harvests have been reaped from 
 bigoted credulity, nor ever was a better instance of it. Would it 
 not make one smile ! that it should ever enter into the brains ot 
 this man (who can in other; points distinguish like a man) that n 
 Protestant Church can never be secure till it has a Popish Prince 
 to defend it. 
 
 Enter CHARLES. 
 
 So, Charles, hast thou finished those letters ? 
 
 Charles. I have brought them, sir. 
 
 Doct. 'Tis very well ; let them be sealed without a direction, and 
 give them to Aaron Sham, tie Jew, when he calls for them. O ! 
 and here, step yourself this afternoon to Mr. Defeazance, ot 
 Gray's Inn, and give him this thirty pound bill from Sir Harrv 
 Foxhound ; beg him to sit up night and day till the writings are 
 finished ; for his trial certainly comes on this week ; he knows we 
 can't always be sure of a jury, and a moment's delay may make the 
 Commissioners lay hold of his estate. 
 
 Charles. My Lord, I'll take the utmost care. 
 
 Doct. Well, Charles. [Gravely smiling. 
 
 Charles. Sir John has told me of the new duty I ought to pay 
 you when in private. 
 
 Doct. But take especial heed that it be only private. 
 
 Charles. Your Lordship need not caution me. My Lord, I hear 
 another whisper in the family ; I'm told you'll shortly be allied to 
 it. Sir John, they say, has actually consented ; I hope, my Lord, 
 you'll find the fair Maria, too, as yielding. 
 
 Doct. Such a proposal has indeed Seen started, but it will end in
 
 8? THE NON-JUROR. [ACI IL 
 
 nothing. Maria is a giddy, wanton thing, not formed to, mike a 
 wise man happy ; her life's too vain, too sensual to elevate a heart 
 like mine. No, no, I have views more serious. 
 
 CJiarles. O, my fluttering joy ! [Asirff. 
 
 Doct. Marriage is a state too turbulent for me. 
 
 Charles. But with Sir John's consent, my Lord, her fortune may 
 be considerable. 
 
 Doct. Thou knowest, Charles, my thoughts of happiness wtfc 
 lever formed on fortune. 
 
 Charles. No ! I find that by the settlement. \AsuU. 
 
 Doct. Or if they were, they would be there impossible. Maria's 
 vain distaste of me I know is as deeply rooted as my contempt of 
 her ; and canst thou think I'd stain my character to be a wanton's 
 mockery, to follow through the wilds of folly she would lead me, to 
 cringe and doat upon a senseless toy, that every feather in a hat 
 can purchase ? 
 
 Charles. But may not Sir John take it ill, my Lord, to have her 
 slighted ? 
 
 Doct. No, no, her ridiculous aversion will secure me from his 
 reproaches. 
 
 Enter a SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. Sir, my master desires to speak with you. 
 
 Doct. I'll wait on him. Charles, you'll take care of my 
 directions. 
 
 Charles. Ill be sure, sir. \_Exit Doctor^ Kind Heaven, I 
 thank thee ! this bar so unexpectedly removed gives vigour to 
 my heart, and is, I hope, an omen of its fortune. But I must 
 lose : no time, the writing may be every moment called for ; this is 
 her chamber. 
 
 He knocks softly^ and BETTY enters to him. 
 
 Is your lady busy ? 
 
 Bett. I think she's only a reading. 
 
 Charles. Will you do me the favour to let her know, if she is al 
 feisure, I beg to speak with her upon some earnest business. 
 
 MARIA entering with a book. 
 
 Mar. Who's that ? 
 
 Bett. She's here Mr. Charles, madam, desires to speak with you. 
 
 Mar. O ! your servant, Mr. Charles here.take this odious Homer, 
 and lay him up again ; he tires me. [Exit. BETTY with tfa book. 
 How could the blind wretch make such a horrid fuss about a fine 
 woman, for so many volumes together, and give us no account of 
 her amours ? You have read him I suppose in the Greek, Mr, 
 Charles. 
 
 Charles. Not lately, madam, 
 
 Mar. But do you so violently admire him now ?
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-yuROK. 263 
 
 Charles. The critics say he has his beauties, madam, bu*. Ovid 
 has been always my favourite. 
 
 Mar. Ovid ! O ! he's ravishing. 
 
 Charles. And so art thou to madness. \Asidt. 
 
 Mar. Lord ! how could one do to learn Greek ; was you a great 
 while about it ? 
 
 Charles. It has been half the business of my life, madam. 
 
 Mar. That's cruel now ! then you think one can't be mistress y." 
 it in a month or two. 
 
 Charles. Not easily, madam. 
 
 Mar. They tell me it has the softest tone for love, of any 
 language in the world ; I fancy I could soon learn it I know two 
 words of it already. 
 
 Charles. Pray, madam, what are they ? 
 
 Mar. Stay, let me see O ay zoe, kai, psyche. 
 
 Charles. I hope you know the English of 'em, madam. 
 
 Mar. O lud ! I hope there's no harm in it ? I am sure I heard the 
 doctor say it to my lady pray what is it ? 
 
 Charles. You must first imagine, madam, a tender lover ga/ing 
 on his mistress, and then indeed they have a softness in 'em, as 
 thus zoe, kai psyche ! my life ! my soul ! 
 
 Mar. O the impudent young rogue ! how his eyes spoke too ! 
 \AsiiKA What the deuce can he want with me ! 
 
 Charles. I have startled ffcr ; she muses. [Aside. 
 
 Mar. It always ran in my head this' fellow had something in him 
 above his condition I'll know presently. \_Asidc.~\ Well, .but 
 your business with me, Mr. Charles ; you have something of love 
 in your head now, I'll lay my life on't. 
 
 Charles. \ never yet durst own it, madam. 
 
 Mar. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Charles. My story i:; too melancholy to entertain a mind so much 
 at case as yours. 
 
 Mar. O ! I love melancholy stories of all things. 
 
 Charles. But mine, madam, can't be told, unless I give my life 
 into your power. 
 
 Mar. O lud ! you have not done anybody a mischief, I hope, 
 
 Charles. I never did a private injury ; if I have done a public 
 wrong, I'm sure it might, in me at least, be called an honest error. 
 
 Mar. Pray whom did you serve before you lived with the doctor ? 
 
 Charles. I was not born to serve ; and had not an unfortunate 
 education ruined me, might have now appeared, like what I am by 
 birth, a gentleman. 
 
 Mar. I am surprised*! your education, say you, ruin you ? Lord! 
 I am concerned for you. Pray let me know your story ; and if any 
 Services are in my power, I am sure you may command them. 
 
 Charles. Such soft compassion, from so fair a bosom, o'erpays 
 the worst that can attend my owning what I am. 
 Mar. O your servant but pray let's hear. 
 Charles My father's elder brother, madam, was a gentleman rt
 
 284 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT ii. 
 
 an ancient family in the North, who having then no child himself* 
 begged me from my nurse's arms, to be adopted as his own, with an 
 assurance, too, of making me his heir j to which my father (then 
 alas ! in the infancy of his fortune) easily consented. This uncle 
 being himself secretly disaffected to the Government, gave me, of 
 course, in my education, the same unhappy prejudices, which since 
 have ended in the ruin of us both. 
 
 Mar. Then you were bred a Roman Catholic. 
 
 Charles. No, madam ; but I own in principles of very little 
 difference, which I imbibed chiefly from this doctor ; he having 
 been five years my governor. As I grew up, my father's merit had 
 raised his fortune under the present Government ; and fearing I 
 might be too far fixed in principles against it, desired me from my 
 uncle home again ; but I, as I then thought myself bound in 
 gratitude, excused' my going in terms of duty to my father, whom 
 since, alas! I too justly have provoked ever to hope a reconciliation. 
 I saw too late my folly, and had no defence against his anger, but 
 by artfully confirming him in a belief that I had perished with my 
 uncle in the late Rebellion. 
 
 Mar. Bless us ! what do you mean ? You were not actually in 
 it, I hope ! 
 
 Charles. I can't disown the guilt but since the Royal mercy 
 has been refused to none that frankly have confessed with penitence 
 their crime (which from my heart I mos* sincerely do) in that is all 
 my hope. My youth and education is all th" excuse I plead ; if 
 they deserve no pity, I am determined to throw off my disguise, and 
 bow me to the hand of justice. 
 
 Mar. Poor creature ! Lord ! I can't bear it. [ With concern. 
 
 Charles. But then, unknown and friendless as I am, to whom, 
 alas ! can I apply for succour ! {Weeps. 
 
 Mar. O Lord ! I'll serve you, depend upon it ; my brother shall 
 have no rest till he gets your pardon. 
 
 Charles. Your kind compassion, madam, has prevented what, if 
 I durst, I should have mentioned. I hope, too. I shall personally 
 deserve his favour ; if not, your generous inclination to have saved 
 me, even in my last despair of life, will give my heart a joy. 
 
 Mar. Lord ! The poor unfortunate boy loves me, too ; what shall 
 I do with him ? But, Mr. Charles, pray, once more to your story 
 what was it that really drew you into the Rebellion ? 
 
 Charles. This doctor, madam, who. as he is now your father's, was 
 then my uncle's bosom counsellor : 'Twas his insidious tongue that 
 painted it to us as an incumbent duty, on which the welfare of our 
 souls depended ; he warmed us, too, into such a weak belief of vile 
 reports, as infamy should blush to mention. We were assured that 
 half the churches here in town were lying all in sacrilegious ruins ; 
 which since, I found, maliciously was meant, even of those that are 
 magnificently rising from their new foundations ! 
 
 Mar. But pray, while you were in arms how didthc doctor dispose 
 of himself ?
 
 SCFNE i.] THE NON-yUROR. 285 
 
 Charles. He ! went with us, madam ; none so active in the front 
 of resolution, till danger came to face him ; then, indeed, a friendly 
 fever seized him, which, on the first alarm of the King's forces 
 marching towards Preston, gave him a cold pretence to leave the 
 town ; in the defence of which my uncle lost his life, and I my only 
 friend, with all my long-fed hopes of fortune. 
 
 ; Mar. Poor wretch ! but how came you to avoid being prisoner ? 
 Charles. Upon our surrender of the place, I bribed a townsman 
 to employ me as his servant, in a backward working-house, where, 
 from my youth and change of habit, I passed without suspicion till 
 the whole affair was over. But then, alas ! whither to turn I knew 
 not. My life grew now no more my care ; perish I saw I must, 
 whether as a criminal, or a beggar, was my only choice. 
 Mar O Lord ! tell me quickly how you came hither. 
 Charles. In this despair I wandered up to London, where I 
 scarce knew one mortal, but some few friends in prison. What 
 could I do? I ventured even thither for my safety; where 'twas 
 my fortune first ta see your father, madam, distributing relief to 
 several. He knew my uncle well ; and, being informed of my con- 
 dition, he charitably took me h<5me ; and here has ever since con- 
 cealed me as a menial servant to the Doctor, the detestation of 
 whose vile, dishonest practices at last have waked me to a sense of 
 all my blinded errors, of which this writing is his least of sordid 
 instances. [Gives it to MARIA. 
 
 Mar. You frighten me ; pray what are the purposes of it ? 'Tis 
 neither signed nor scaled. 
 
 Charles. No, madam, therefore to prevent it by this timely notice, 
 was my business here with you. Your father gave it the Doctor 
 first to show his counsel, who having since approved it, I understand 
 this evening it will be executed. 
 Mar. But what is it ? 
 
 Charles. It grants to Dr. Wolf in present four hundred pounds 
 per annum, of which this very house is part ; and at your fathers 
 death invests him in the whole remainder of his free estate. For 
 you, indeed, there is a charge of four thousand pounds upon it ; pro- 
 vided you marry only with the Doctor's consent ; if not, 'tis added to 
 my lady's jointure. But your brother, madam, is, without condi- 
 tions, utterly disinherited. 
 
 Mar. I am confounded. What will become of us ? My father 
 now, I find, was serious. O this insinuating hypocrite ! let me see 
 ay I will go this minute. Sir, dare you trust this in my hands 
 for an hour only ? 
 
 Charles. Anything to serve you my life's already in your 
 hands. 
 
 Mar. And I dare secure it with my own Hark ! they ring to 
 dinner ; pray, sir, step in, say I am obliged to dine abroad, and 
 whisper one of the footmen to get an hackney coach immediately ; 
 then do you take a proper occasion to slip out after me to Mr. 
 Double's chambers in the Temple, there I shall have time to talk
 
 S8o THE NON-JUROR. t ACT Ilr - 
 
 farther with you. You'll excuse my hurry Here, Betty, my scarf, 
 and a mask. [Exit MARIA. 
 
 Charles. What does my fortune mean me? She'll there talk 
 farther with me ! Of what ? What will she talk of? O my heart ! 
 methought she looked at parting, too, as kindly conscious of some 
 obligation to me. And then how soft, how amiably tender was her 
 pity of my fortune. But O ! I rave ! keep down my vain aspiring 
 thoughts, and to my lost condition level all my hopes. 
 
 Rather content with pity, let me live, 
 
 Than hope for more than she resolves tagive. (Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 MARIA and BETTY, taking off her Scarf, frc 
 
 Mar. Has any one been to speak with me, Betty ? 
 
 Betty. Only Mr. Heartly, madam. He said he would call again, 
 and bid his servant stay below to give him notice when you came 
 home. 
 
 Mar. You don't know what he wanted ? 
 
 Betty. No, madam, he seemed very uneasy at your beifier abroad. 
 
 Mar. Well go, and lay up those things.-^.*?/ BETTY.] Ten to 
 one, but his wise head now has found out something to be jealous 
 of ; if he lets me see it, I shall be sure to make him infinitely easy. 
 Here he comes. 
 
 Enter HEARTLY. 
 
 Hear. Your humble servant, madam. \Gravely. 
 
 Man. Your servant, sir. \Gravely. 
 
 Hear. You have been abroad, I hear. . 
 
 Mar. Yes, and now, I am come home, you see ? 
 
 Hear. You seem to turn upon my words, madam : is there any- 
 thing particular in them? 
 
 Mar. As much as there is in my being abroad, I believe. 
 
 Hear. Might not I sayyouhad been abroad, without giving offence ? 
 
 Mar. And might not I as well say, I was come home, without 
 your being so grave upon't ? 
 
 Hear. Do you know anything should make me grave ? 
 
 Mar. I know, if you are so, I am the worst person in the world 
 you could possibly show it to. 
 
 Hear. Nay, I don't suppose you do anything you won't justify. 
 
 Mar. O ! then I find I have done something you think 1 can't 
 justify. 
 
 Hear. I don't say that neither perhaps I am in the wrong in 
 what I have said ; but I have been so often used to ask pardon for 
 your being in the wrong, that I am resolved henceforth never to 
 rely on the insolent evidence of my own senses. 
 
 Mar. You don't know, now, perhaps, that I think this pretty 
 smart speech of yours is very dull ; but since that's a fault you can t 
 tclp. I will not take it ill.' Come now, be as sincere on your side,
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 187 
 
 and tell me seriously is not what real business I had abroad the 
 very thing you want to be marie easy in \ 
 
 Hear. If I thought you would make me easy, I would own it. 
 
 Mar. Now we come to/ th point to-morrow morning, then, I 
 give you my word to let you know it all, till when there is a neces- 
 sity for its being a secret, and I insist upon your believing it. 
 
 Hear. But pray, madam, what am J to do with my private jmagi- 
 nation in the meantime, that is not in my power to confine ; and 
 sure you won't be ofifended if, to avoid the tortures that may give , 
 me, I beg you'll trust me with the secret now. 
 
 Mar. Don't press me, for positively I will not, 
 
 Hear. Cannot had been a kinder term. Is my disquiet of so 
 little moment to you ? 
 
 Mar. Of none, while your disquiet dares not trust the assurances 
 I have given you ; if you expect I should confide in you for life, 
 don't let me see you dare not take my word for a day ; and if you 
 are wise, you'll think so fair a trial of your faith a favour. 
 
 Hear. If you intend it such, it is a favour; if not, 'tis something 
 ~r$o come lets waive the subject. 
 
 Mar. With all my heart. Have you seen my brother lately ? 
 
 Hear, Yes, madam, and he ellf rne, it seems, the Doctor is the 
 r/jan your father has resolved upon. 
 
 Mar. 'Tjs so : nay, and what will more surprise you, he leaves 
 me only to the choice of him, or of no fortune. 
 
 Hear. And may I, without offence, beg leave to know what reso- 
 lutions, madam, you have taken upon it ? 
 
 Mar. I have not taken any ; I do not know what to do ! What 
 would you advise me to ? 
 
 Hear. I advise you to? Nay, you are in the right to make it a 
 question. 
 
 Mar. He says he'll settle all his estate upon him too. 
 
 Hear. O, take it, take it, to be sure ; it's the fittest match in the 
 world. You can't do a wiser thing certainly. 
 
 Mar. 'Twill be as wise, at least, as the ways you take to prevent it. 
 
 Hear. I find, madam, I am not to know what you intend to do ; 
 and I suppose I am to be easy at that too ? 
 
 Mar. When I intend to marry him, I shall not care whether you 
 are easy or no. 
 
 Hear. If your indifference to me were a proof of your inclination 
 to him, the gentleman need not despair. 
 
 Mar. Very well, sir, I'll endeavour to take your advice, I promise 
 you. 
 
 Hear. O, that won't cost you much trouble, I daresay, madam. 
 
 Mar. About as much, I suppose, as it cost you to give it me. 
 
 Hear. Upon my word, madam, I gave it purely to oblige you. 
 
 Mar. Then to return your civility, the least I can do is to take it. 
 
 Hear. Is't possible? How can you torture me with this indit- 
 feience ? 
 
 Mar. Why do you insult me with such a barefaced jealous\ ?
 
 288 THE NOX-JUROR. [ACT in, 
 
 Hear. Is it a crime to be concerned for what becomes of you ? 
 Has not your father openly declared against me, in favour of my 
 rival? How is it possible, at such a time, not to have a thousand 
 fears ? What though they all are false and groundless, are they not 
 still the effect of love alarmed, and anxious to be satisfied ? I have 
 an open, artless heart, that cannot bear disguises ; but when 'tis 
 grieved, in spite of me, 'twill show it. Pray pardon me, but when I 
 am told you went out in the utmost hurry with some writings to a 
 lawyer, and took the Doctor's own servant with you, even in the 
 very hour your father had proposed him as your husband 1 Good 
 Heaven ! what am I to think ? Can I must I, suppose my senses 
 fail me ? If I have eyes, have ears, and have a heart, must it be 
 still a crime to think I see and hear yet by my torments feel I love ? 
 Mar. [aside.] Well, I own.it looks ill-natured now, not to show 
 him some concern but then this jealousy I must and will get the 
 better of. 
 
 Hear. Speak, Maria, is still my jealousy a crime ? 
 Mar. If you still insist on it, as a proof of love, then I must tell 
 you, sir, 'tis of that kind that only slighted hearts are pleased with ; 
 when I am so reduced, then I, perhaps, may bear it. The fact you 
 charge me with I grant is true. I have been abroad, as you say ; but 
 still let appearances look ne'er so pointing, while there is a possibility 
 in nature that what I have done may be innocent, I won't bear a 
 look that tells me to my face you dare suspect me. If you have 
 doubts, why don't you satisfy them before you see me ? Can yor. 
 suppose that I'm to stand confounded as a criminal before you ? 
 How despicable a figure must a woman make to bear but such a. 
 moment. Come, come, there's nothing shows so low a mind as 
 these grave and insolent jealousies. The man that's capable of 
 ever seeing a woman after he believes her false, is capable on her 
 submission and a little flattery, were she really false, poorly to for- 
 give and bear it. 
 
 Hear. You won't find me, madam, of so low a spirit, but since I 
 see your tyranny arises from your mean opinion of me, 'tis time to 
 be myself, and disavow your power ; you use it now beyond my bear- 
 ing ; not only impose on me to disbelieve my senses, but do it with 
 such an imperious air, as if my honest, manly reason were your 
 slave, and this poor grovelling frame that follows you durst show 
 no signs of life but what you deign to give it. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! you are in the right go on suspect me still, believe 
 the worst you can 'tis all true I don't justify myself. Why do 
 you trouble me with your complaints ! If you are master of that 
 manly reason you have boasted, give me a manly proof of it at once 
 resume your liberty, despise me, go go off in triumph now, and let 
 me see you scorn the woman whose vile, o'erbearing falsehood, 
 would insult your senses. 
 
 Hear. O heaven ! is this the end of all ? Are then those tender 
 protestations you have made me (for such I thought them), when 
 with the softest, kind reluctance your rising blushes gave me some-.
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-JUROR. 289 
 
 thing more than hope What all O Maria ! All but come to this ? 
 
 Mar. [aside] O lud ! I am growing silly ; if I hear on, I shall 
 tell him everything ; 'tis but another struggle, and I shall conquer 
 it. So, so, you are not gone, I see. 
 
 Hear. Do you then wish me gone, madam ? 
 
 Mar. Your manly reason will direct you. 
 
 Hear. This is too much my heart can bear no more. O ! 
 what ? am I rooted here ? 'Tis but a pang, and I am free for ever, 
 
 Enter CHARLES, with two writings. 
 
 Mar. At last I am relieved ! Well, Mr. Charles, is it done ? 
 
 Charles. I did not stir from his desk, madam, till it was entirely 
 finished. 
 
 Mar. Where's the original ! 
 
 Charles. This is it, madam. 
 
 Mar. Very well, that you know you must keep ; but come, we 
 must lose no time, we will examine this in the next room. Now I 
 feel for him. [Aside] [Exit MARIA, with CHARLES. 
 
 Hear. O rage ! rage ! this is not to be borne she's gone, she's 
 lost, sordidly has sold herself to fortune, and I must now forget 
 her. Hold, if possible, let me cool a moment. Interest I No, that 
 could not tempt her. She knows I am master of a larger fortune 
 than there her utmost hopes can give her ; that on her own con- 
 ditions she may be mine. But what's this secret treaty then within ! 
 what's doing there ? who can resolve that riddle ? and yet per- 
 haps, like other riddles, when 'tis explained, nothing may seem so 
 easy. But why, again, might she not trust me too with the secret ! 
 That ! that entangles all afresh, and sets me on the rack of jealousy. 
 
 Enter COLONEL. 
 
 Cci. H ow now, Frank ; what, in a rapture ? 
 
 hi ir. Prithee, pardon me, I am unfit to talk with you. 
 
 Cvi/. What, is Maria in her airs again ? 
 
 Hear. I know not what she is. 
 
 Col. Do you know where she is ! 
 
 Hear. Retired this moment to her chamber, with the Doctdr's 
 servant. 
 
 Col. Why, thou art not jealous of the doctor, I hope ? 
 
 Hear. Perhaps she'll be less reserved to you, and tell you wherein 
 I have mistaken her. 
 
 Col. Poor Frank, thou art a perfect Sir Martin in thy amours ; 
 every plot I lay upon my sister's inclination for thee, thou art sure 
 to ruin by thy own unfortunate conduct. 
 
 Hear. I own I have too little temper, and too much real passion 
 for a modish lover. 
 
 Col. Come, come, prithee be easy once more ; I'll undertake' for 
 you, if you'll fetch a cool turn in the park, upon Constitution Hill, 
 in less than half-an-hour I'll come to you. 
 
 K
 
 2 9 o THE NON-JUROR. [ACT in. 
 
 Heat-. Dear Tom, thou art a friend indeed ! O, I have a thousand 
 things but you shall find me there. . [Exit HEARTLY. 
 
 Col. Poor 'Frank ! now has he been taking some honest pains to 
 make himself miserable. 
 
 Enter MARIA, and CHARLES. 
 
 How now, sister, what have you done to Heartly ? The poor fellow 
 looks as if he had killed your parrot. 
 
 Afar. Pshaw ! you know him well enough ; I have only been 
 setting him a love-lesson ; it a little puzzles him to get through it at 
 first, but he'll know it all by to-morrow ; you will be sure to be in 
 the way, Mr. Charles ? 
 
 Char Its. Madam, you may depend upon me ; I have my full 
 instructions. \Exit CHARLES. 
 
 Col. O ho ! There's the business then, and it seems Heartly was 
 not to be trusted with it ; ha ! ha ! and prithee what is this mighty 
 secret, that's transacting between Charles and you ? 
 
 Mar. That's what he would have known, indeed ; but you must 
 know, I don't think it proper to let you tell him neither, for all your 
 sly manner of asking. 
 
 Col. O ! pray take your own time, dear madam ; I am not in 
 haste to know, I can assure you ; I came about another affair our 
 design upon the doctor. Now, while my father takes his nap after 
 dinner would be the properest time to put it in execution ; prithee 
 go to my lady, and persuade her to it this moment. 
 
 Mar. Why won't you go with me ? 
 
 Col. No, I'll place myself unknown to her in this passage ; for, 
 should I tell her I design to overhear him, she might be scrupulous. 
 
 Mar. That's true ; but hold, on second thoughts, you shall know 
 part of this affair between Charles and me ; nay, I give you leave 
 to tell it Heartly too, on some conditions ; 'tis true -I did design to 
 have surprised you, but now my mind's altered, that's enough. 
 
 Col. Ay, for any mortal's satisfaction ; but here comes my lady. 
 
 Mar. Away then to your post ; but let me see you, when this 
 affair is over. 
 
 Col. I'll be with you. {Exit COLONEL. 
 
 Enter LADY WOODVIL. 
 
 Mar. Well, madam, has your ladyship considered my brother's 
 proposal about the Doctor? 
 
 I^uiy W. I have, child, and am convinced it ought not to be 
 delayed a moment. I have just sent to speak with him here. Sir 
 John, too, presses me to give him a hearing upon your account ; but 
 must I play a treacherous part now, and instead of persuading you 
 to the Doctor, even persuade the Doctor against you. 
 
 Mar. Dear madam, don't be so nice ; if wives were never to dis- 
 semble, what would become of many wilful husbands' happiness ? ; 
 
 Lady W. Nay that's true too.
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-JUROR. 291 
 
 Mar. I'd give the world now, methinks, to see this solemn inter- 
 view ; sure there can't be a more ridiculous image than unlawful 
 love peeping his sly head out from under the cloak of sanctity! O ! 
 that I were in your ladyship's place, I would lead that dancing 
 blood of his such a profane courant. Your wise fellows make the 
 rarest fools, too ; but your ladyship will make a rogue of him, and 
 that will do our business at present. 
 
 Lady W. If he makes himself one, 'tis his own fault. 
 
 Mar. Dear madam, one moment's truce with the prude ; I beg 
 you, don't start at his first declaration, but let him go on till he 
 shows the very bottom of his ugly heart. 
 
 Lady. W. I'll warrant you, I'll give a good account of him here 
 he comes. 
 
 Mar. Then I hope, madam, you will give me leave to be com- 
 mode, and steal off. 
 
 Lady IV. Very well. [A'r/V MARIA, and enter DOCTOR. 
 
 Doct. I am told, madam, you design me the happiness of your 
 commands ; I am proud you think me worthy of them in any sort. 
 
 Lady W. Please to sit, sir. 
 
 Doct. Did not Sir John inform you, too, that I had desired a 
 private conference with your ladyship ? 
 
 Lady W. He did, sir. 
 
 Doct. 'Tis then by his permission we arc thus happily alone. 
 
 Lady W. True, and 'tis on that account 1 wanted to advise with 
 you. 
 
 Doct. Well, but, dear lady, ah ! [sighinf.] You can't conceive 
 the joyousness I feel, in this so unexpected interview ah ! ah ! I 
 have a thousand friendly things to say to you ah ! ah ! and 
 how stands your precious health ? Is your naughty cold abated 
 yet ? I have scarce closed my eyes these two nights, with my 
 concern for you, and every watchful interval has sent a thousand 
 sighs and prayers to heaven for your recover)'. 
 
 Lady W. Your charity was too far concerned for me. 
 
 Doct. Ah ! don't say so, don't say so you merit more than 
 mortal man can do for you. 
 
 Lady IV. Indeed, you over-rate me. 
 
 Doct. I speak it from my soul ! indeed ! indeed ! indeed I do. 
 
 [Presses her I: and. 
 
 Lady IV. O dear ! you hurt my hand, sir. 
 
 Doct. Impute it to my zeal, and want of words to express my 
 heart ; ah ! I would not harm you for the world ; no, bright creature, . 
 'tis the whole business of my soul to 
 
 Lady JI~. But to our affair, sir. 
 
 Doct. Ah ! thou heavenly woman ! \T.av:ng his hand pnhcrTinte. 
 
 Lady W. Your hand need not be there, sir. 
 
 Doct. Ah ! I was admiring the softness of this silk, mnd.im. 
 
 Lady W. Ay, but I am ticklish. 
 
 Doct. They are indeed come to a prodigious perfection in* this 
 manufacture. How wonderful is human art ! Here it disputes 
 
 1C 2
 
 292 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT HI. 
 
 the prize with Nature that all this soft and gaudy lustre, should be 
 wrought from the poor labours of a worm ! \Stroking it. 
 
 Lady W. But our business, sir, is upon another subject. Sir 
 John informs me, that he thinks himself under no obligation to 
 Mr. Heartly, and therefore resolves to give you Maria. Now pray 
 be sincere, and let me know what your real intentions are ? 
 
 Doct. Is it possible! Can you, divine perfection, be still a 
 stranger to my real thoughts ? Has no one action of my life 
 informed you better ? Since I must plainly speak them then, 
 Maria's but a feint, a blind to screen my real thoughts from shrewd 
 suspicion's eye, and shield your spotless fame from worldly censure. 
 Could you then think 'twas for Maria's sake, your balls, assemblies, 
 and your toilet, visits have been restrained ? Would I have urged 
 Sir John to make that fence to enclose a butterfly ? No, soft, and 
 serious Excellence, your virtues only were the object of my care. 
 I could not bear to see the gay, the young, and the inconstant daily 
 basking in your diffusive beams of beauty, without a secret grudge, 
 I might say envy, even, of such insect's happiness. 
 
 Lady W. Well, sir, I take all this, as I suppose you intended it, 
 for my good, my spiritual welfare. 
 
 Doct. Indeed, I meant you serious, cordial service. 
 
 Lady W. I dare say you did ; you are above the low and 
 momentary views of this world. 
 
 Doct. Ah ! I should be so and yet, alas ! I find this mortal 
 clothing of my soul is made like other men's, of sensual flesh and 
 blood, and has its frailties. 
 
 Lady W. We all have those ; but yours, I know, are well corrected 
 by your divine and virtuous contemplations. 
 
 Doct. And yet our knowledge of eternal beauties do not restrain 
 us wholly from the love of all that's mortal. Beauty here, 'tis true 
 must die, but while it lives 'twas given us to admire, to wake the 
 sluggish heart, and charm the sensible. At the first sight of you 
 I felt unusual transports in my soul, and trembled at the guilt that 
 might ensue ; but on reflection found my flame received a sanction 
 from your goodness, and might be reconciled with virtue ; on this 
 I chased my slanderous fears, let in the harmless passion at my 
 eyes, and gave up all my heart to love. 
 
 Col. [behind.} Indeed ! so warm, Sir Roger ; but I shall cool your 
 passion with a witness. [Exit. 
 
 Lady IV. These gay professions, sir, show more the courtier than 
 the zealot ; nor could I think a mind so fortified as yours could 
 have been open to such vain temptations. 
 
 Doct. What bosom can be proof against such artillery of love ? 
 I may resist, call all my prayers, my fastings, tears and penance to 
 my aid, but yet, alas ! these have not made an angel of me : I am 
 still but man ; virtue may strive, but nature will be uppermost. 
 Permit me then on this fair shrine to pay my vows, and offer up a 
 heart 
 
 Lady W. Hold, sir, you've said enough to put you in my power :
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 293 
 
 suppose I now should let my husband, sir, your benefactor, know 
 the favour you designed him. [She rises. 
 
 Doct. You cannot be so cruel ? 
 
 Lady W. Nor will, on one condition. 
 
 Doct. Name it. 
 
 Lady W. That instantly you renounce all claim and title to 
 Maria, and use your utmost interest with Sir John to give her, with 
 her full fortune, to Mr. Heartly. If you are wise, consider on't. 
 
 [SIR JOHN and COLONEL behind. 
 [The DOCTOR, turning accidentally, sees them. 
 
 Doct. Ha ! the Colonel there ! his father with him too ! here may 
 have been some treachery ; what's to be done ? [Aside. 
 
 Col. Now, sir, let your eyes convince you. [Apart. 
 
 Sir John. They do, that yours, sir, have deceived you ; all this I 
 knew of. [Apart. 
 
 Col. How, sir ! [Apart. 
 
 Sir John. Observe, and be convinced. 
 
 Doct. I have it. [Musing: 
 
 Lady W. [to the DOCTOR.] Methinks this business needs not, 
 sir, so long a pause. 
 
 Doct. Madam, I cannot easily give up such honest hopes. 
 
 Lady W. Honest ! 
 
 Doct. Perhaps my years are thought unequal to my flame, but, 
 lady, those were found no strong objection 'twixt Sir John and you ; 
 and can you blame me then for following so sure a guide in the same 
 youthful path to happiness. 
 
 Lady W. Is this your resolution then ? 
 
 Col. Will you let him go on, sir ? [Apart. 
 
 Sir John. Yes, sir, to confound your slander. [Apart. 
 
 Col. Monstrous ! [Apart. 
 
 Doct. Can you suppose my heart less capable of love than his ? 
 Is it for me to push the blessing from me too? For though my 
 flame has been of long duration, my conscious want of merit kept it 
 still concealed, till his good nature brought it to this blest occasion ; 
 and can you then, so authorized, refuse your friendly pity to my 
 sufferings ? One word from you completes my joy ; in you, madam, 
 is my only hope, my fear, my ease, my pain, my torment, or my hap- 
 piness ; Maria ! O ! Maria! 
 
 Col. Confusion ! 
 
 Sir John, [coming forward with the COLONEL.] Now. vile de- 
 tractor of all virtue, is your outrageous malice yet confounded ? Did 
 I not tell you, too, he only made an interest here to gain your 
 sister ? 
 
 Col. His devil has outreached me. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. Is this your rank detection of his treachery ! 
 
 Doct. Sir John, I did not see you. sir, I doubt you are romc too 
 soon, I have not yet prevailed with her. [Asiilf t<> Aim. 
 
 Sir John. Ah ! good man, be not concerned ; your trouble shall 
 be shorter for"t ; I'll force her to compliance.
 
 294 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT in. 
 
 Lady W. What have you done your impatience has ruined all. 
 
 {Apart. 
 
 Col. I see it now too late. {Apart. 
 
 Sir John. Now, sir ! will your base prejudice of party never be 
 at rest ? Am I to be still thought partial, blind, and obstinate to 
 favour so much injured virtue ; if thou art a man not lost to con- 
 science, or to honour, then like a man repair this wrong, confess the 
 rancour of thy vile suspicion, and throw thee at his feet for pardon. 
 
 Duct. What mean you, sir ? 
 
 Laiiy W. [aside.'} While he is in this temper, he will not easily 
 be undeceived I've yet an after-game to play, till when 'tis best 
 to leave him in his error. [Exit LADY WOODVIL. 
 
 Sir John. What ! mute ! defenceless ! hardened in thy malice ? 
 
 Col. I scorn the imputation, sir, and with the same repeated 
 honesty avow (however his cunning may have changed appear- 
 ances) that you art still deceived ; that all I told you, sir, was true ; 
 these eyes, these ears, were witnesses of his audacious love, without 
 the mention of my sister's name, directly, plainly, grossly tending to 
 abuse the honour of your bed. 
 
 Sir John. Audacious monster ! were not your own senses evi- 
 dence against your frontless accusation ? I see your aim : wife, 
 children, servants, all are bent against him, and think to weary me 
 by groundless clamours to discard him ; but all shall not do ; your 
 malice on your own vile heads ; to me it but the more endears him; 
 either submit, and ask his pardon -for this wrong 
 
 Doct. Good sir ! 
 
 Sir John. Or this instant leave my sight, my house, my family 
 for ever. 
 
 Doct. What means this rashness, sir ! on my account it must not 
 be ; what would the world report of it ? I grant it possible he loves 
 me not, but you must grant it too as possible he might mistake me ! 
 it must be so. He is too much your son to do his enemy a wilful 
 injury. If he, I say, suppose my converse with your lady criminal, 
 to accuse me then, was but the error of his virtue, not his baseness ; 
 you ought to love him, thank him for such watchful care. Was it 
 for him to see, as he believed, your honour in so foul a danger, and 
 stand concernless by ? The law of Heaven, of nature, and of filial 
 duty, all obliged him to alarm your vengeance, and detect the 
 villainy. 
 
 Sir John. O miracle of charity ! 
 
 Doct. Come, come, such breaches must not be betwixt so good a 
 son and father ; forget, forgive, embrace him, cherish him, and lot 
 me bless the hour I was the occasion of so sweet a reconcilement. 
 
 Sir John. I cannot bear such goodness ! O sink me not into 
 the earth with shame. Hear this, perverse and reprobate ! O ! 
 couldst thou wrong such more than mortal virtue! 
 
 Col. Wrong him ! the hardened impudence of this painted 
 charity 
 
 Sir John. Peace, monster
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-JUROR. 295 
 
 Col. Is of a blacker, deeper dye than the great devil himself in 
 all his triumphs over innocence, ever wore. 
 
 Sir John. O graceless infidel ! 
 
 Col. No, sir, though I would hazard life to save you from the 
 ruin he misleads you to; could die to reconcile my duty to your 
 favour ; yet on the terms that villain offers, 'tis merit to refuse it. 
 1 glory in the disgrace your errors give me. Hut, sir, I'll trouble 
 you no more ? to-day is his to-morrow may be mine. 
 
 {.Exit COLONEL. 
 
 Doct. I did not think he had had so hard a nature. 
 
 Sir John. O, my good Lord, your charitable heart discovers not 
 the rancour that's in his ; but what better can be hoped for from a 
 wretch so swelled with spleen, and rage of party. 
 
 Doct. No, no, sir, 1 am the thorn that galls him ; 'tis me, 'tis me 
 he hates. He thinks I stand before him in your favour ; and 'tis not 
 fit indeed I should do so ; for, fallen as he is, he's still your son, 
 and I, alas ! an alien, an intruder here, and ought in conscience to 
 retire, and heal these hapless breaches in your family. 
 
 Sir John. What means your Lordship? 
 
 Doct. But I'll remove this eyesore Here, Charles 1 
 
 Enter CHARLES. 
 
 Sir John. For goodness sake. 
 
 Doct. Bring me that writing I gave vou to lay up this morning. 
 
 Charles. Now fortune favours us. [Asttfa] [Exit CHARLES. 
 
 Sir John. Make haste, good Charles; it shall be signed this 
 moment. 
 
 Doct. Not for the world ; 'twas not to that end I sent for it, but 
 to refuse your kind intentions ; for with your children's curses, sir, 
 I dare not, must not take it. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, good my Lord, you carry it now too far ; my 
 daughter is not wronged by it ; but if not obstinate, may still be 
 happy ; and for my wicked son, shall he then heir my lands, to 
 propagate more miserable schismatics ? No ; let him depend on 
 you, whom he has wronged ; perhaps in time he may reflect upon 
 his father's justice ; be reconciled to your rewarded virtues, and 
 reform his fatal errors. 
 
 Re-enter CHARLES with a writing. 
 
 Doct. That would be indeed a blessing. 
 
 Sir John. If heaven should at last reclaim him, the power to 
 right him still is yours ; in you I know he yet would find a fond 
 forgiving father. 
 
 Doct. The imagination of so blest an hour softens me to a 
 tenderness I can't support. 
 
 Sir John. O, the dear, good man ! come, come, let's in to execute 
 this deed. 
 
 Doct. Will you then force me to accept this trust ? Kor. call it 
 what you will, with me, it shall never be more than such.
 
 296 THE UON-JVROR. [ACT tv. 
 
 Sir John. Let that depend upon the conduct of my son. 
 Doct. Well, sir, since yet it may prevent his ruin, I consent 
 
 So sweet a hope must all my fears control ; 
 1 take the trust, as guardian to his sool. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 MARIA and CHARLES. 
 
 Mar. You were a witness then ? 
 
 Charles. I saw it signed, sealed, and delivered, madam. 
 
 Mar. And all passed without the least suspicion ? 
 
 Charles. Sir John signed it with such earnestness, and the 
 doctor received it with such a seeming reluctance, that neither had 
 the curiosity to examine a line of it. 
 
 Mar. Well, Mr. Charles, whether it succeeds to our ends or not, 
 we have still the same obligations to you. You saw with what a 
 friendly warmth my brother heard your story, and I don't in the 
 least doubt his success in your affair at Court. 
 
 Charles. What I have done, my duty bound me to. But pray, 
 madam, give me leave, without offence, to ask you one innocent 
 question. 
 
 Mar. Freely, sir. 
 
 Charles. Have you never suspected, then, that in all this affair I 
 have had some secret, stronger motive to it, than barely duty? 
 
 Mar. Yes ; but have you been in no apprehensions I should 
 discover that motive. \Gra-vely. 
 
 Charles. Pray, pardon me ; I see already I have gone too far. 
 
 Mar. Not at all ; it loses you no merit with me, nor is it in my 
 nature to use any one ill that loves me, unless I loved that one 
 again, then indeed there might be danger. Come, don't look grave, 
 my inclinations to another shall not hinder me paying every one 
 what's due to their merit ; I shall, therefore, always think myself 
 obliged to treat your misfortunes and your modesty with the utmost 
 tenderness. 
 
 Charles. By the dear, soft ease you have given my heart, I never 
 hoped for more. 
 
 Mar. Then I'll give you . a great deal more, and to show my 
 particular good opinion of you, I'll do you a favour, Mr. Charles, 
 I never did any man since I was borri. I'll be sincere with you. 
 
 Charles. Is it then possible you can have loved another, to whom 
 you never were sincere ? 
 
 Mar. Alas ! you are but a novice in the passion. Sincerity is a 
 dangerous virtue, and often surfeits what it ought to nourish ; there- 
 fore I take more pains to make the man I love believe I slight him, 
 than (if possible) I would to convince you of my esteem and 
 friendship. 
 
 Charles. Be but sincere in that, madam, and I can't complain.
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 297 
 
 Mar. Nay, I'll give you a proof of it I'll show you all the good- 
 nature you can desire ; you shall make what love to me you please 
 now ; but then I'll tell you the consequence, I shall certainly be 
 pleased with it, and that will flatter you till I do you a mischief. 
 Now do you think me sincere ? 
 
 Charles. I scarce consider that, but I'm sure you are agreeable. 
 
 Mar\ Why, look you there now ! do you consider that a woman 
 had as gladly be thought agreeable as handsome ? And how can 
 you suppose, from one of your sense, that I am not pleased with 
 being told so ? 
 
 Charles. Was ever temper so enchanting ? 
 
 Mar. Or vanity more venial ! I'm pleased with you. [Smiling. 
 
 Charles. Distracting ! sure never was despair administered with 
 a hand so gentle. 
 
 Mar. So, now you have convinced me, I have a good under- 
 standing too. Why I shall certainly have the better opinion of 
 yours for finding it out now. 
 
 Charles. Your good opinion's what I aim at. 
 
 Mar. Ay, but the more I give it to you, the better you'll think of 
 me still ; and then I must think the better of you again, and then 
 you the better of me upon that too ; and so at last I shall think 
 seriously, and you'll begin to think ill of me. But I hope, Mr. 
 Charles, your good sense will prevent all this. 
 
 Charles. I see my folly now, and blush at my presumption ; but 
 yet to cure my weaning heart, and reconcile me to my doom, be yet 
 sincere, and satisfy one sickly longing of my soul. 
 
 Mar. To my power, command me. 
 
 Charles. O ! tell me then the requisites I want, and what's the 
 secret charm that has preicrrcd my rival to your heart. 
 
 Mar. Come then, be cheerful, and I'll answer like a friend. The 
 gentleness and modesty of your temper would make with mine but 
 an unequal mixture ; with you I should be ungovernable not know 
 myself: your compliance would undo me. I am by nature vain, 
 thoughtless, wild, and wilful ; therefore ask a higher spirit to control 
 and lead me. For whatever outward airs I give myself, I am 
 within convinced, a woman makes a very wrong figure in happiness, 
 that docs not think superiority best becomes her husband. But 
 what's yet more, though I confess you have qualities uncommon in 
 your sex, and such as ought to warm a heart to love, yet here you 
 come too late ; compassion's all within my power ; and I know you 
 cannot but have seen I am under obligations I need not explain 
 to you. 
 
 Charles. I am satisfied. You treat me with so kind and gentle a 
 concern that I must submit to it. 
 
 Mar. \apart] Well ! when all's done, he's a pretty fellow ; and 
 the first, sure, that ever heard reason against himself with so good 
 an understanding.
 
 298 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT iv. 
 
 Enter a SERVANT with a fitter to CHARLES. 
 
 Serv. Sir, the Colonel ordered me to give this into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Afar. From my brother ? Where is he ? 
 
 Serv. I left him, madam, at the Secretary's office with one Sir 
 Charles Trueman, and Mr. Heartly. {Exit SERVANT. 
 
 Charles. Ha ! my father ! O ! Heaven, 'tis his hand too ! Now 
 I tremble ! 
 
 Mar. Come, sir, take heart ; I daresay there's good news in't, 
 and I should be glad to hear it. But no ceremony ; pray read to 
 yourself first. 
 
 Charles. Since you command me, madam. {^Reads to himself. 
 
 Maria. \apartJ\ Lord ! how one may live and learn ! I could not 
 have believed that modesty in a young fellow could have been so 
 amiable a virtue. And though, I own, there is I know not what of 
 dear delight in indulging one's vanity with them, yet, upon serious 
 reflection, we must confess that truth and sincerity have a thousand 
 charms beyond it. And I now find more pleasure in my self-deny- 
 ing endeavours to make this poor creature easy, than ever I took in 
 humbling the airs and assurance of a man of quality. I believe I 
 had as good confess all this to Heartly, and even make up the 
 bustle with, him too. But then he will so teaze one for instances of 
 real inclination. O God ! I can't bear the thought on't. And yet 
 we must come together too. Well ! Nature knows the way to be 
 sure, and so I'll even trust to her for't. Bless me ! what's the 
 matter? you seem concerned, sir. \To CHARLES, wiping his tears. 
 
 Charles. I am indeed, but 'tis with joy ! O, madam 1 my father's 
 reconciled to me. This letter is from him. 
 
 Mar. Pray let's hear. 
 
 Charles, [reading.] 
 Dear Charles, 
 
 This day, by Colonel Woodvil, I received the joyful news of your 
 being yet alive, and well, though thafs but half my comfort. He 
 has assured me, too, you have renounced those principles that made 
 me think your death my happiness. The services you have intended 
 his family, and may do the Government, in your just detection of a 
 traitor that would ruin both, have been so well received at Court, and 
 so generously represented t/iere by tlx Colonel and Mr. Heartly, 
 that they have obtained an order for your pardon ; which I now 
 stay the passing of, before I throw my arms about you, that I may 
 leave no doubt or fear behind to interrupt the fulness of my joy. I 
 am informed, that in re~t>ealing yourself to a certain fair lady, you 
 have let fall some words that show you have an innocent, though 
 hopeless passion for her. Your youth excuses what is past ; but now 
 consider how far you owe your life to Mr. Heartly. I therefore 
 charge you, on my blessing, to give up every idle thought of love 
 (hat may interrupt his happiness, or abate the merit of what you've
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-JUROR. 299 
 
 done to deserve the pardon of your Sovereign, or of your affectionate, 
 forgiving father, CHARLES TRUEMAN. ' 
 
 Mar. I am overjoyed at your good fortune. 
 
 Charles. You, madam, arc the source of all ; but I am now unfit 
 to thank you. [ Weeps. 
 
 Mar. You owe me nothing, sir ; success was all I hoped for. 
 
 Charles. Pray excuse me. It would be rudeness to trouble you 
 with the tender thoughts this must give a heart obliged like mine. 
 
 [Exit CHARLES. 
 
 Mar. Poor creature ! how full his honest heart is ? What early 
 vicissitudes of fortune has he run through ? Well ! this was hand- 
 somely done of Hcartly, considering what he had felt upon his 
 account, to be so concerned for his pardon. 
 
 Enter LADY WOODVIL. 
 
 Lady W. Dear Maria, what will become of us ? The tyranny of 
 this subtle priest is insupportable : he has so fortified himself in 
 Sir John's opinion by this last misconduct of your brother, that I 
 begin to lose my usual power with him. 
 
 Mar. Pray explain, madam. 
 
 Lady W. In spite of all I could urge, he is this minute bringing 
 the Doctor to make his addresses to you. 
 
 Mar. I am glad on't ; for the beast must come like a bear to the 
 stake, I'm sure ; he knows I shall bait him. 
 
 Lady W. No, no, he presses it, to keep Sir John still blind to 
 his wicked design upon me. Therefore, I came to give you notice, 
 that you might be prepared to receive him. 
 
 Mar. I am obliged to your Ladyship. Our meeting will be a 
 tender scene, no doubt on't. 
 
 Lady W. You have heard, I suppose, what an extravagant settle- 
 ment your father has signed to. 
 
 Mar. Yes, madam ; but I'm glad your Ladyship's like to be a 
 gainer by it, however ; for when I marry it will be without the 
 Doctor's consent, depend upon't. 
 
 Lady W. No, child, I did not come into Sir John's family with 
 a design to injure it, or make any one of it my enemy. Whenever 
 that four thousand pounds falls into my hands, you'll find it as 
 firmly yours as if it had been given you without that odious 
 condition. 
 
 Mar. Madam, I think myself as much obliged by this kind in- 
 tention as the performance ; but if your Ladyship could yet find a 
 way to prove this hypocrite a private villain to my father, I am not 
 without hopes the public will soon have enough against him to give 
 a turn to the settlement. 
 
 Lady W. But suppose that fails, what will become of your poor 
 brother ? 
 
 Mar. But, dear madam, I cannot suppose this fellow must not 
 be hanged at last ; and then, you know, the sainc honest hand that 
 tics him up releases the settlement.
 
 300 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT IV. 
 
 Lady W. Not absolutely, neither ; for this very house is given 
 him in present, which, though that were to be the end of him, 
 would then be forfeited. 
 
 Mar. Why, the n my brother must even petition the Government. 
 There have been precedents of the same favour, madam. If not, 
 he must pay for his blundering, and lay his next plot deeper, I 
 think. 
 
 Lady W. I am glad you are so cheerful upon it, however ; it 
 looks as if you had something in petto to depend upon. But here 
 comes the Doctor. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN, -with the DOCTOR. 
 
 Sir John. Daughter, since you have the happiness to be thought 
 amiable in the eye of this good man, I expect you give him an 
 instant opportunity to improve it into an amity for life. 
 
 Mar. I hope, sir, I shall give him no occasion to alter his opinion 
 of me. 
 
 Sir John. Why, that's well said ; come, sweetheart, we'll use no 
 ceremony. [Exit SIR JOHN with LADY W. 
 
 [MARIA and the DOCTOR stand some time mute, informal 
 civilities, and a conscious contempt of each other. 
 
 Mar. Please to sit, sir. What can the ugly cur say to me ? He 
 seems a little puzzled. This puts me in mind of the tender inter- 
 view between Lady Charlotte and Lord Hardy in the Funeral. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Doct. Look you, fair lady, not to make many words, I am con- 
 vinced, notwithstanding your good father's favour, I am not the 
 person you desire to be alone with, upon this occasion. 
 
 Mar. Your modesty is pleased to be in the right, sir. 
 
 Doct. Humph ! if I don't flatter myself, you have always had a 
 very ill opinion of me. 
 
 Mar. A worse, sir, of no mortal breathing. 
 
 Doct. Humph ! and ius likely it may be immovable. 
 
 Mar. No rock so firm. 
 
 Doct. Humph ! from these premises, then, I may reasonably 
 conclude, you hate me heartily. 
 
 Mar. Most sincerely, sir. 
 
 Doct. Well ! there is, however, some merit in speaking truth ; 
 therefore to be as just on my side, I ought, in conscience, to let you 
 know that I have as cordial a contempt for you too. 
 
 Mar. Oh, tie ! you flatter me. [Affecting a blush. 
 
 Doct. Indeed I don't ; you wrong your own imperfections to 
 think so. 
 
 Mar. These words from any tongue but yours might shock me ; 
 but coming from the only man I hate they charm me. 
 
 Doct. Admirable ! there seems good sense in this. Have you 
 never observed, madam, that sometimes the greatest discords 
 raise the most agreeable harmony ?
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-yUROR. 301 
 
 Mar. Yes ; but what do you infer from thence ? 
 
 Doct. That while we still preserve this temper in our hate, a 
 mutual benefit may rise from it. 
 
 Mar. O ! never fear me, sir ; I shall not fly out ; being con- 
 vinced that nothing gives so sharp a point to one's aversion as 
 good breeding, as, on the contrary, ill manners often hide a secret 
 inclination. 
 
 Doct. Most accurately distinguished. Well, madam, is there no 
 project you can think of now, to turn this mutual aversion, as I 
 said, into a mutual benefit. 
 
 Mar. None, that I know of, unless we were to marry for our 
 mutual mortification. 
 
 Doct. What would you give, then, to avoid marrying me ? 
 
 Mar. My life, with joy, if death alone could shun you. 
 
 Doct. When you marry any other person my consent is necessary. 
 
 Mar. So, I hear, indeed. But pray, Doctor, tell me, how could 
 your modesty receive so insolent a power, without putting my poor 
 father out of countenance with your blushes ? 
 
 Doct. You overrate my prtidence. I sought it not, but he would 
 crowd it in among other obligations ; he is good-natured, and I 
 could not shock him by a refusal. Would you have had me plainly 
 tell him what a despicable opinion I had of his daughter ? 
 
 Mar. Or, rather, what a favourable one you had of his wife, 
 sir? 
 
 Doct. Humph ! You seem to lose your temper. 
 
 Mar. Why, do you suppose the whole family does not see it ex- 
 cept my father ? 
 
 Doct. If you will keep your temper I have something to propose 
 to you. 
 
 Mar. Your reproof is just ; but I only raised my voice to let you 
 know I know you. 
 
 Doct. You might have spared your pains, it being of no conse- 
 quence to my proposal what you think of me. 
 
 Mar. Not unlikely. Come, sir, I am ready to receive it. 
 
 Doct. In one word then I take it for granted that you would 
 marry Mr. Heartly. Am I right ? 
 
 Mar. Once in your life, you are. 
 
 Doct. Nay, no compliments ; let us be plain. Would you marry 
 him? 
 
 Mar. You are mighty nice, methinks well I would. 
 
 Doct. Then I won't consent to it. Now, if you have any pro- 
 posal to make me so if not, our amour's at an end, and we 
 part as civil enemies, as if we had been married this twelvemonth. 
 Think of it. 
 
 Mar. {aside7\ O the mercenary villain ! He wants to have a 
 fellow-feeling, I find. What shall I do with him ? Bite him 
 pretend to comply and make my advantage of it ? Well, sir, I 
 understand everything but the sum ; if we agree upon that it's a 
 bargain.
 
 3 02 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT IV. 
 
 Doct. Half. 
 
 Mar. What, two thousand pounds for your consent only ? 
 
 Doct. Why, is not two thousand pounds worth two thousand 
 pounds ? Don't you actually get so much by it? Is not the half 
 better than nothing ? Come, come, say I have used you like a 
 friend. 
 
 Mar. Nay, I think it is the only civil thing you have done since 
 you came into the family. 
 
 Doct. Do you then make your advantage of it 
 
 Mar. Why, as you say, Doctor, 'tis better than nothing. But how 
 is my father to be brought into this ? 
 
 Doct. Leave that to my management. 
 
 Mar. What security, though, do you expect for this money ? 
 
 Doct. O, when I deliver my consent in writing, Heartly shall lay 
 it me down in bank-bills. 
 
 Mar. Well, on one proviso, I'll undertake that too. 
 
 Doct. Name it. 
 
 Mar. Upon your immediately qwning to my father that you are 
 willing to give up your interest to Mr. Heartly. 
 
 Doct. Humph ! Stay I agree to it ; you shall have proof of it 
 this evening. But in the meantime, let me warn you too. Don't 
 expect, after I have hinted what you desire to your father, to make 
 your advantages now by betraying me to him. You know my 
 power there ; if you do, I can easily give it a counterturn. So dis- 
 cover what you please, I shall only pity you. 
 
 Mar. O, I sh .11 not stand in my own light. I know your power 
 and your conscience too well, dear Doctor. 
 
 Doct. Nay, I dare depend upon your being true to your own in- 
 terest. Here comes your father ; I will break it to him immediately. 
 You'll prepare Mr. Heartly in the meantime. 
 
 Mar. Without fail. 
 
 Doct. I am satisfied. 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN. 
 
 Sir John. Well, sir, is my daughter prudent ? has she at last a 
 true and virtuous sense of happiness ? 
 
 Doct. She understands me better than I hoped, sir. 
 
 Mar. Well said, Equivocation. \Asidt. 
 
 Doct. If you please, Sir John, we'll take a turn in the garden. I 
 have something there to offer to you. 
 
 Sir John. With all heart, sir, Maria, there's a toy for thee. 
 Now tnou art again my daughter. [Gives her a ring.] Come, sir, 
 I wait on you. [Exeunt SIR JOHN and DOCTOR. 
 
 Mar. What this fellow's original was, I know not ; but by his 
 conscience and cunning, he would make an admirable Jesuit. 
 Here comes my brother, and I hope with a good account of him. 
 Well ! brother, what success ?
 
 SCENK i.] THE NON-JUROR. 303 
 
 Enter COLONEL. 
 
 Col. All that ray honest heart could wish for substantial affida- 
 vits ! that will puzzle him to answer. I have planted a messenger 
 at the next door, who has a warrant in his pocket, when I give the , 
 word, to take him. 
 
 Mar. Why should not you do it immediately, he's now in the 
 garden with my father ? 
 
 Col. No ; our seizing him now for treason, I am afraid won't 
 convince my father of his villainy : my design is not only to get my 
 father out of his hands, but to drive the pernicious principles he has 
 instilled out of my father too. 
 
 Mar. That I doubt will be difficult. 
 
 Col. Not at all, if we can first prove him a private villain to him. 
 My father's honesty will soon reflect, and may receive as sudden a 
 turn as his credulity. 
 
 Mar. That's tme again ; and I hope I am furnished with a new 
 occasion to begin the alarm to him. 
 
 Col. Pray, what is't ? 
 
 Mar. Not to trouble you with particulars ; but, in short, I have 
 agreed with the Doctor, that Heartly shall give him two thousand 
 pounds for his consent ; without which, you know, by my father's 
 late settlement, Heartly and I can never come together. 
 
 Col. And does the monster really insist upon't? 
 
 Mar. Not only that, but even defies me to make an advantage of 
 the discovery. 
 
 Col. One would think the villain suspects his footing in the 
 familv is but short-lived, he is in such haste to have his pennyworths 
 out on't. But prithee, sister, what secret is this that you have yet 
 behind in those writings that Charles brought to you ? 
 
 Mar. O ! that's what I can't yet tell you. 
 
 Col. Why, pray ? 
 
 Mar. Because, when you have done all you can, I am resolved 
 to reserve some merit against him to myself. 
 
 Col. But why do you suppose I would not assist in it ? 
 
 Mar. You can't ; it's now too late. 
 
 Col. Pshaw ! this is rash, and ridiculous. 
 
 Mar. Ay, mny be so ; I suppose Heartly will be of that opinion 
 too ; but if he is you had better advise him to keep it to himself. 
 
 Col. You will have your obstinate way, I find. 
 
 Mar. It can't be worse than yours, I'm sure ; remember how you 
 came off in your last project ; I know you meant well, but you 'are 
 disinherited for all that. 
 
 Col. That's no surprise to me ; but I am ashamed, however. 
 
 Mar. By the way, what have you done with Hcartiy ? why is he 
 not here ? 
 
 Col. He has been here, but you must excuse him ; he was obliged 
 to call in haste for Charles, whom he took homo with him in his 
 own coach, where his father waited to rcreivc him.
 
 304 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT iv. 
 
 Mar. The poor boy by this time, then, has seen him. Sure their 
 meeting must have been a moving sight ; I would give the world 
 methinks for a true account of it. 
 
 Col. You'll have it from Heartly by and by ; 'tis at his house they 
 meet. The father, Sir Charles Trueman, happened to be Heartly 's 
 intimate acquaintance. 
 
 Mar. Well ! I own Heartly has gained upon me by this. 
 
 Col. I am glad to hear that at least. But I must let my lady* 
 
 'know what progress we have made in the Doctor's business, and beg 
 
 her assistance to finish him. {Exit COLONEL. 
 
 Enter a SERVANT. 
 
 Ser. Madam, Mr. Heartly. 
 Mar. Desire him to walk in. 
 
 Enter HEARTLY. 
 
 Hear. To find you thus nlone, madam, was an happiness I did 
 not expect from the temper of our last parting. 
 
 Mar. I should have been as well pleased now to have been 
 thanked, as reproached for my good nature ; but you will be in the 
 right, I find. 
 
 Hear. Indeed you took me wrong ; I literally meant, that I was 
 afraid you would not so soon think I had deserved this favour. 
 
 Mar. Well, then, one of us has been in the wrong at least 
 
 Hear. 'Twas I I own it more is not in my power ; all the 
 amends that have been, I have made you : my very joy of seeing 
 you has waited, till what you had at heart unasked, was perfected ; 
 my own pardon was postponed, till I had secured one even for a 
 rival's life, whom you so justly had compassionated. 
 
 Mar. Pooh ! but why would you say unasked now ? Don't you 
 consider your doing it so is half the merit of the action ? Lord ! 
 you have no art ; you should have left me to have taken notice of 
 that ; only imagine now, how kind and handsome an acknowledg- 
 ment you have robbed me of? 
 
 Hear. And yet how artfully you have paid it ? with what a 
 wanton, charming ease you play upon my tenderness ? 
 
 Mar. Well, but was not you silly now ? 
 
 Hear, \_gazing on her.~\ Come you shall not be serious you 
 can't be more agreeable. 
 
 Afar. O ! but I am serious. 
 
 Hear. Then I'll be so do you forgive me all ? 
 
 Mar. What. [Looking on her fun, as not hearing him. 
 
 Hear. Are we friends, Maria ? 
 
 Mar. O Lord ! but you have told me nothing of poor Charles ; 
 pray how did his father receive him ? 
 
 Hear. Must you needs know that, before you answer me ? 
 
 Mar. Lord, you are never well till you have talked one out of 
 countenance.
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 305 
 
 Hear. Come, I won't be too particular, you shall answer nothing 
 give me but your hand only. 
 
 Mat: Pshaw ! I won't pull off my glove, not I. 
 
 hear. I'll take it as it is then. 
 
 Mar. Lord! there, there, eat it, eat it. [Putting it awkwardly fo him. 
 
 Hear. And so I could, by Heav'n. 
 
 [Kisses it eagerly, end pulls off her glove. 
 
 Mar. O my glove ! my glove ! my glove ! Pooh ! you are in a 
 perfect storm ! Lord ! if you make such a rout with one's hand 
 only, what would you do if you had one's heart ! 
 
 Hear. That's impossible to tell ; but you were asking me of 
 Charles, madam. 
 
 Mar. O ! ay, that's true ! Well, now you are good again come, 
 tell me all that affair, and then you shall see how I will like you. 
 
 Hear. O ! that I could thus play with inclination ! 
 
 Mar. Pshaw ! but you don't tell me now. 
 
 Hear. There is not much to tell where two such tender passions 
 met, words had but faintly spoke them. The son conducted to the 
 door, with sudden fear stopped short, and bursting into sighs, over- 
 charged with shame and joy, had almost fainted in my arms : the 
 father, touched with his concern, moved forward with a kindly 
 smile to meet him. At this he took new life, and springing from 
 his hold, fell prostrate at his feet ; where mute, and trembling, for 
 a while he lay : at length with streaming eyes, and faltering tongue, 
 he begged his blessing, and his pardon ; the tender father caught 
 him in his arms, arid dropping his fond head upon his cheek, kissed 
 him, and sighed out, Heaven protect thee ! then gave into his 
 hand the Royal pardon ; and turning back his face to dry his 
 manly eyes, he cried, Deserve this Royal mercy, Charles, and I am 
 still thy father. The grateful youth, raising his heart-swollen voice, 
 replied, May Heaven preserve the royal life that gave it. But here 
 their passions grew too strong for farther speech : silent embraces, 
 alternate sighs, and mingling tears, were all their language now. 
 The moving scene became too tender for my eyes, and called, 
 methought, for privacy ; there unperceived I left them, to recover 
 into breathing sense, and utterable joy. 
 
 Mar. Well ! of all the inmost transports of the soul, there's none 
 that dance into the heart, like friendly reconcilements. 
 
 Hear. Those transports might be ours, Maria, would you but try 
 your power to pardon. 
 
 Mar. Which of those two now do you think was happiest at that 
 meeting ? 
 
 Hear. O ! the father, doubtless ; great souls feel a kind of honest 
 glory in forgiving, that far exceeds the transport of receiving pardon. 
 
 Mar. Now I think to bend the stubborn mind to ask it is an 
 equal conquest ; and the joy superior to receive, where the heart 
 wishes to be under obligations. 
 
 Hear. Put me into the happy boy's condition, and I may then, 
 perhaps, resolve you better.
 
 306 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT IV. 
 
 Mar. You shall positively bring him into acquaintance. 
 
 Hear. Upon my word I will. 
 
 Mar. And show him to all the women of taste ; and I'll have you 
 call him my pretty fellow too. 
 
 Hear. I will indeed. But hear me 
 
 Mar. I'm positive, if he had white stockings he would cut down 
 all the danglers at Cotrft in a fortnight ! 
 
 Hear. O ! no doubt on't ; but 
 
 Mar. You can't conceive how prettily he makes love now. 
 
 Hear. Not so well as you make your defence, Maria. 
 
 Mar. O Lord ! I had forget he's to teach me Greek, too. 
 
 Hear. O, the trifling tyrant ! How long, Maria, do you think 
 you can find out new evasions for what I say unto you ? 
 
 Mar. Lord, you are horrid silly ! But since 'tis love that makes 
 you such a dunce poor Heartly I forgive you. 
 
 \_Enter COLONEL, unseen. 
 
 Hear. That's kind, however. But to complete my joy, be 
 kinder yet and 
 
 Mar. O ! I can't, I can't. Lord ! did you never ride a horse- 
 match ? 
 
 Hear. Was ever so wild a question ? 
 
 Mar. Because if you have, it runs in my head, you certainly 
 galloped a mile beyond the winning post to make sure on't. 
 
 Hear. Now I understand you. But since you will have me touch 
 everything so very tenderly, Maria, how shall I find proper words 
 to ask you the lover's last necessary question ? 
 
 Mar. O ! there's a thousand points to be adjusted before that's 
 answered. 
 
 Col. {coming unexpectedly between tltem.] Name them this 
 moment then, for positively this is the last time of asking. 
 
 Mar. Pshaw ! Who sent for you ? 
 
 Col. I only came to teach you to speak plain English, my dear. 
 
 Mar. Lord ! mind your own business, can't you ? 
 
 Col. So I fwill ; for I will make you do more of yours in two 
 minutes, than you would have done without me in a twelvemonth. 
 Why, how now ! What ! do you think the man's to dnngle after 
 your ridiculous airs for ever ? 
 
 Mar. This is mighty pretty. 
 
 Col. You'll say so on Thursday sevenight (for let affairs take 
 what turn they will in the family) that's positively your wedding- 
 day. Nay, you shan't stir. 
 Mar. Was ever such assurance ? 
 
 Hear. Upon my life, madam, I am out of countenance : I don't 
 know how to behave myself to him. 
 
 Afar. No, no, let him go on, only This is beyond whatever 
 
 was known, sure ! 
 
 Hear. Admirable ! I hope it will come to something. [Asidf. 
 
 Col. Ha ! ha ! If I were to leave you to yourselves now, what 
 
 a couple of pretty out-of-countcnance figures you would make ;
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-yUROR. 307 
 
 humming and hawing upon the vulgar points of jointure and pin- 
 money. Come, come ! I know what's proper on both sides ; you shall 
 leave it to me. 
 
 Hear. I had rather Maria would name her own terms to me. 
 
 Col. Have you a mind to anything particular? [To MARIA. 
 
 Mar. Why sure 1 What ! Do you think I'm only to be filled out 
 here as you please, and sweetened, and supped up like a dish of 
 Bohea ? 
 
 Col. Why, pray madam, when your tea's ready, what have you 
 to do but to drink it ? But you, I suppose, expect a lover's heart, 
 like your lamp, should be always flaming at your elbow, and when 
 it's ready to go out, you indolently supply it with the spirit of 
 contradiction. 
 
 Mar. And so you suppose, that your assurance has made an 
 end of this matter ? 
 
 Col. Not till you have given him your hand upon it. 
 
 Mar. That then would complete it ? 
 
 Col. Perfectly. 
 
 Mar. Why then, take it, Heartly. [Giving her hand to HEARTLY. 
 
 Hear. O soft surprise ! ecstatic joy. 
 
 Mar. Now I presume you are in high triumph, sir. 
 
 [To the COLONEL. 
 
 Col. No, sister, now you are consistent with that good sense 
 I always thought you mistress of. 
 
 Mar. I'm afraid, Mr. Heartly, we are both obliged to him. 
 
 Hear. If you think so, Maria, my heart 
 Is under double obligations laid. [Embracing him. 
 
 Col. If it cements our friendship, I am overpaid. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 HEARTLY and MARIA. 
 
 Mar. Well now, Heartly, you have nothing to do but to look 
 forward, and if possible to forget what I have been to you : though 
 'tis a horrid restraint you lay upon our sex : you first make it the 
 business of your lives to blow up our vanity, and then prepos- 
 terously expect we should be prudent and humble : that is, you invite 
 us to a feast, where 'tis criminal to taste, or have an appetite ; you 
 put a sword into a child's hand, and then are angry if it does 
 mischief. 
 
 Hear. You give up too much, Maria ; I never treated you so : 
 what might have been flattery to most women, was bet honest truth 
 to you. 
 
 Mar. Why, look you there now? Is not that enough to turn any 
 poor woman into a changeling ? 
 
 Hear. No, because it is true ; charge me with a falsehood, and I 
 submit. 
 
 Mar. Nay then, did you not once tell me, that all my airs and
 
 3 o8 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT V. 
 
 follies were merely put on in compliance to the world, and that 
 good sense was only natural to me ; that even my affectation (I 
 have not forgot your words) carried more sincerity than the serious 
 vows of other women. 
 
 Hear. By all my happiness I think so still. 
 
 Mar. What, seriously ? 
 
 Hear. Upon my soul I do. 
 
 Mar. Lord ! that's delightful ! Do you really love me then, 
 Heartly ? Do tell me, for now I begin to believe everything you 
 say to me. But don't neither I am vain still 'twas my vanity 
 that made me ask you. 
 
 Hear. Now I don't take it so. 
 
 Mar. There was some in't I am sure, though it begins to dwindle, 
 I can tell you. 
 
 Hear. No matter, I love you as you are ; I would not have you 
 lose your pleasantry, Maria. 
 
 Mar. Well, do, let me be silly sometimes. 
 
 Hear. O ! I can play with you, for that matter. 
 
 Mar. Pshaw ! you'll laugh at me. 
 
 Hear. Not while you are good in essentials. 
 
 Mar. Indeed I'll be very good. 
 
 Hear. O fie ! that will be the way to make me so. 
 
 Mar. Lord ! what signifies sense, where there is so much 
 pleasure in folly ? 
 
 Hear. No perfect passion ever was without it ; the pleasure 
 would subside were we always to be wise in it. 
 
 Mar. For my part I think so : but will you really stand to the 
 agreement tho', that I have made with the Doctor ? 
 
 Hear. Why not ? You shall not break your word upon my ac- 
 count, tho' he might be a villain you gave it to. 
 
 Mar. Well, I take it as a compliment ; not but I have some 
 hopes of getting over it, and justly too ; but don't let me tell you 
 now. I love to surprise though you shall know all if you desire it. 
 
 Hear. No, Maria, I don't want the secret ; I am satisfied in 
 your inclination to trust me. 
 
 Mar. Well then, I'll keep the secret, only to show you, that you 
 upon occasion may trust me with one. 
 
 Hear. After that, Maria, it would be wronging you to ask it ; but 
 pray, madam, has the Doctor yet given you any proof of his having 
 declined his interest to your father ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, he told me just now, he had brought him to pause 
 upon it, and does not question in two days to complete it ; but 
 desires in the meantime you will be ready and punctual with the 
 premium. 
 
 Hear. Suppose I should talk with Sir John myself; 'tis true he 
 has slighted me of late, but however, I ought at least to ask his 
 consent, though I have but little hopes of it. 
 
 Mar. By all means, do so. Here he comes. This may open 
 another scene of action, too, that we are preparing for.
 
 I 
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-JUROR. 309 
 
 Enter SIR JOHN, and LADY WOODVIL, who "walks apart with 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Sir John. Mr. Heartly, I am glad I have met with you here. 
 
 Hear. I have endeavoured twice to-day, sir, to pay my respects 
 to you. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I'll be plain with you. I went out to avoid you ; 
 but where the welfare of a child is concerned you must not take it 
 ill if we don't stand upon ceremony. However, since I have reason 
 now to be more in temper than perhaps I was at that time, I should 
 be glad to talk with you. 
 
 Hear. I take it as a favour, sir. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, Doctor Wolf informs me that he is well assured 
 
 ,ou were born the year before the Revolution. Now, sir, I should 
 e glad to be well satisfied in that point ; a greater consequence 
 depending on it, perhaps, than you imagine. 
 
 Hear. Sir, I have been always told that was my age ; but for 
 your further satisfaction I appeal to the register. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I dare believe you, and am glad to hear it. 
 
 Hear. But pray, sir, may I beg leave to ask, why you are so con- 
 cerned to know this ? 
 
 Sir John. Because, sir, if this be true, I am satisfied you may 
 be a regular Christian ; the doubt of which may have, perhaps, 
 done you some disservice in my private opinion. 
 
 Hear. Sir, if that can reconcile me to it, I shall be thankful for 
 the benefit, without considering why I that way came to deserve it. 
 
 Sir John. That argument might hold us now too long. But, sir, 
 here's the case your principles and mine have the misfortune 
 to differ your's being (as I take it) entirely on the Revolution side. 
 
 Hear. If I am not misinformed, sir, you yourself commanded a 
 regiment in defence of it. 
 
 Sir John. I did so, and thought it just. 'T.would be fruitless, 
 perhaps, to offer you the reasons that since have altered my opinion. 
 But now, sir, even supposing that I err in principle, you must still 
 allow, that conscience is the rule that every honest man ought to 
 walk by. 
 
 Hear. Tis granted, sir. 
 
 Sir John. Then give me leave to tell you, sir, that giving you my 
 daughter would be to act against that conscience I pretend to, and 
 consequently the same ties oblige me to bestow her where the same 
 principles with mine, I think, deserve her. Now, sir, consult your 
 own honour, and tell me, how you can still puruse my daughter, 
 without doing violence to mine? 
 
 Hear. But, sir, to shorten this dispute, suppose the Doctor (whom 
 I presume you design her for) actually consents to give me up his 
 interest ; might not that soften your objections to me ? 
 
 Sir John. But why do you suppose, sir, he would give up his 
 interest ? 
 
 Hear. I only judge from what your daughter tells me, sir.
 
 310 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT V, 
 
 Sir John. My daughter 1 
 
 Hear, I appeal to her. 
 
 Mar. And I appeal even to yourself, s ir. Has not the Doctor just 
 now in the garden spoke in favour of Mr. Heartly to you? Nay, 
 pray, sir, be plain, because more depends on that than you can 
 easily imagine or believe. 
 
 Sir John. What senseless insinuation have you got in your head 
 now ? 
 
 Mar. Be so kind, sir, first to answer me, that I may be better able 
 to inform you. 
 
 Sir John. Well, I own he has declined his interest in favour of 
 Mr. Heartly. But I must tell you, madam, he did it in so modest, 
 so friendly, so good natured, so conscientious a manner, that I now 
 think myself more than ever bound in honour to espouse him. 
 
 Mar. But now, sir (only for argument sake) suppose I could 
 prove that all this seeming virtue was utterly artificial ; that his 
 regard to Mr. Heartly was neither founded upon modesty, friendship, 
 good nature, nor conscience ; or, in short, that he has baselv betrayed 
 and sold the trustxyou made him ; like a villain bartered, bargained 
 to give me to Mr. Heartly for half the four thousand pounds you 
 have valued his consent at I say, suppose this were the case, 
 where would be his virtue then, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. And I say 'tis impious to suppose it. 
 
 Hear. Under favour, sir, hjow is it possible your daughter could 
 know the Doctor had spoke to you upon this head, if he himself had 
 not told her so, in consequence of his agreement ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I don't admit your consequence. Her knowing it 
 from him is no proof that he might not still resign her from a 
 principle of modesty or good nature. 
 
 Mar. Then, sir, from what principle must you suppose that I 
 accuse him ? 
 
 Sir John. From an obstinate prejudice to all that's good and 
 virtuous. 
 
 Mar. That's too hard, sir. What blot has stained my life, that 
 you can think so of me ? But, sir, the worst your opinion can 
 provoke me to, is to marry Mr. Heartly, without either his consent 
 or yours. 
 
 Sir John. What, do you brave me, madam ? 
 
 Mar. [in tears. \ No, sir, but I scorn a lie, and will so far vindi- 
 cate my integrity as to insist on your believing me ; if not. as a 
 child whom you abandon, I have a right to throw myself into other 
 arms for protection. 
 
 Hear. O, Maria ! how thy spirit charms me. [Apart to her. 
 
 Sir John. I am confounded ! Those tears cannot be counterfeit, 
 nor can this be true. 
 
 Lady W. Indeed, my dear, I fear it is ; it would be cmcl to her 
 concern to think it wholly false. Can you suppose she'd urge so 
 gross an accusation only to expose herself to the justice of your 
 resentment ?
 
 SCENE I.] THE NON-JUROR. 311 
 
 Sir John. What, are you against him too ? then he has no friend 
 but me, and I cannot, at so short a warning, give him up to infamy 
 and baseness. 
 
 Lady W. Good sir, be composed, and ask your heart one farther 
 question. 
 
 Sir John. What would you say to me ? 
 
 Lady W. In all our mutual course of happiness, have I ever yet 
 deceived you with a falsehood ? 
 
 Sir John. Never, I grant it ; nor has my honest heart yet wronged 
 thy goodness with a jealous thought of it. 
 
 Lady W. Would you then believe me should I accuse him too, 
 even of crimes that virtue blushes but to mention ? 
 
 Sir John. To what extravagance would you drive me ? 
 
 Lady W. I would before have undeceived you, when his late 
 artifice turned the honest duty of your son into his own reproach 
 and ruin ; but knowing then your temper was inaccessible, I durst 
 not offer it. But now, in better hope of being believed, I here avow 
 the truth of all he was accused of then. 
 
 Sir John. Will you distract me? my senses could not be deceived. 
 
 Lady W, Indeed they were; he saw you listening, and at the 
 instant turned his impious, barefaced love to me into equivocal 
 intercessions, pretending to Maria. 
 
 Sir John. You startle me. 
 
 Lady W. Could you otherwise suppose your son would have 
 brought you to be witness of his own weak malice in accusing him ? 
 
 Sir John. I'm all astonishment ! 
 
 Lady W. Come, sir, suspend your wonder, respite your belief, 
 even of this, till grosser evidence convinces you. Suppose I here, 
 before your face, should let you see his villainy, make him repeat 
 his odious love to me, at once throw off his mask, and show the 
 barefaced traitor. 
 
 Sir John. Is it possible ? Make me but witness of that fact, and 
 I shall soon accuse myself, and own my folly equal to his baseness. 
 But pardon me, as I in such a case would not believe even him 
 accusing you, so am I bound in equal charity to think you yet may 
 be deceived in what you charge on him. 
 
 Lady W. 'Tis just let it be so we'll yet suppose him innocent, 
 till you yourself pronounce him guilty ; and since I have staked my 
 faith upon the truth of what I urge, 'tis fit we bring him to immediate 
 trial ; but then, sir, I must beg you to descend even to the poor 
 shifts we are reduced to. 
 
 Sir John. All to anything to ease me of my doubts ; propose 
 them. 
 
 Lady W. They that would set toils for beasts of prey must lurk 
 in humble caves to watch their haunts. 
 
 Sir John. Place me where you please. 
 
 Lady IV. Under this table is your only stand, the carpet will 
 conceal you. 
 
 Sir John. Be it so, I'll take my post ; what more ?
 
 312 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT v. 
 
 Lady IV. Mr. Heartly, shall we beg your leave, and you, Maria, 
 take the least suspected way to send the Doctor to me immediately. 
 
 Mar. I have a thought will do it, madam. Come, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt MARIA and HEARTLY. 
 
 Lady W. Here, sir, take this cushion you will be easier. [SIR 
 JOHN goes under the tabled} Now, sir, you must consider how 
 desperate a disease I have undertaken to cure, therefore you must 
 not wince nor stir too soon at any freedom you observe me 
 take with him ; be sure lie close and still, and when the proof is 
 full, appear at your discretion. 
 
 Sir John. Fear not, I'll be patient. 
 
 Lady W. Hush ! he comes. 
 
 Enter DOCTOR, "with a book. 
 
 Doct. Your woman told me, madam, you were here alone, and 
 desired to speak with me. 
 
 Lady W. I did, sir, but that we may be sure we are alone, pray 
 shut the outward door, and see that passage to be clear ; another 
 surprise might ruin us is all safe ? 
 
 Doct. I have taken care, madam. 
 
 Lady W. I am afraid I interrupt your meditations. 
 
 Doct. Say rather you improve them ; you, madam, were the sub- 
 ject of my solitary thoughts. I take in all the little aids I can to 
 guard my frailty, and truly I have received great consolation from 
 an unfortunate example here before me. 
 
 Lady W. Pray of what kind, sir ? 
 
 Doct. I had just dipped into poor Eloisa's passion for Abelard. 
 It is indeed a piteous conflict ! How terrible ! How penitent a 
 sense she shows of guilty pleasures past, and fruitless pains to shut 
 them from her memory. 
 
 Lady W. I have read her story, sir. 
 
 Doct. Is it not pitiful ? 
 
 Lady W. A heart of stone might feel for her. 
 
 Doct. Oh ! think then what I endure for you, such are my pains ; 
 but such is my sincerity, though I fear my being reduced to feign a 
 passion for Maria, in my late surprise, has done dishonour to the 
 vows I then preferred to you. 
 
 Lady W. 'Twas on that point I wanted now to talk with you, 
 not knowing then how far you might mistake my silence. Now, 
 had I closed with the Colonel in accusing you, il would have been 
 plain I was your enemy ; as, had I joined in your defence against 
 him, it had been as grossly evident I was his ; but since I have 
 uses for his friendship, and as I saw your credit with Sir John 
 needed no support, I hope you'll think betwixt the two extremes I 
 have acted but a prudent part. 
 
 Doct. Let me presume to hope, then, what I did you judge was 
 self-defence and pure necessity. 
 
 Lady W. 'Twas wonderful ! surprising to perfection ! The wit 
 of it but I won't tell you what effect it had upon me.
 
 SCENE 1.] TH NOH-JUKOK. 313 
 
 Doct. Why, madam ? let me beseech you. 
 
 Lady W. No, 'twas nothing beside what need you ask me ? 
 
 Doct. Why do you thus decoy my foolish heart, and feed it with 
 such Hybla drops of flattery ? You cannot sure think kindly of me. 
 
 Lady W. O well-feigned fear ! You too, I find, can flatter in your 
 turn. You know how well the subtle force of modesty prevails. 
 O men ! men ! men ! 
 
 Doct. 'Twere arrogance to think I have deserved this goodness ; 
 but treat me as you please, I'll be at least sincere to you, and frankly 
 own, I still suspect that all this softening favour is out artifice. 
 
 Lady W. Well ! well ! I'd have you think so. 
 
 Doct. What transport would it give to be assured I wrong you 1 
 but oh ? I fear this shadow of compliance is only meant to lure 
 me from Maria, and then as fond Ixions were of old, to fill my arms 
 with air. 
 
 Lady IV. Methinks this doubt of me seems rather founded on 
 your second thoughts of not resigning her ; 'tis she, I find, is your 
 substantial happiness. 
 
 Doct. O that you could but fear I thought so 1 how easy 'twere 
 to prove my coldness, or my love. 
 
 Lady W. Oh, sir, you have convinced me now of both. 
 
 Doct. Can all this pretty anger then be real ? take heed, fair 
 creature, it flatters more than kindness. 
 
 Lady W. I can assure you, sir, I should have spared you this 
 trouble, had I known how deeply you were engaged to her. 
 
 Doct. Nay, then, I must believe you ; but indeed you wrong me ; 
 to prove my innocence, 'tis not an hour since I pressed Sir John to 
 give Maria to young Heartly. 
 
 Lady W. O ! all artifice ! you knew that modest resignation 
 would make Sir John but warmer in your interest. 
 
 Doct. Since you will rip the secret from my heart know then, I 
 actually have sold her, like a bawble, to her childish lover, for two 
 thousand times her value. 
 
 Lady W. Are you serious ? 
 
 Doct. As this is true, or false, may I in you be blest, or miserable. 
 
 Lady W. But how can you suppose Sir John will ever hear of it. 
 
 Doct. Alas ! poor man ! he knows not his own weakness, he's 
 moulded into any shape, if you but gently stroke his humour. I 
 dare depend on his consent ; beside, I intend to-morrow to per- 
 suade him it is for the interest of our cause it should be so, and 
 then I have him sure. 
 
 Lady W. Fie 1 how is that possible ? he can't be so implicitly 
 credulous. You don't take him sure for a Roman Catholic. 
 
 Doct. Um not absolutely but, poor soul ! he little thinks how 
 near he is one. 'Tis true < name to him but Rome, or Popery, he 
 startles, as at a monster. But jrild its grossest doctrines with the 
 style of English Catholic, he swallows down the poison like a cordial. 
 
 Lady W. Nay, if he's so far within your power, it cannot fail ; he 
 must consent. Well, sir, now I give you leave to guess the reason,
 
 314 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT V. 
 
 why 1 too, at our last meeting, so warmly pressed you to resign 
 Maria. 
 Doct. Is it possible ? was I then so early your concern ? 
 
 Lady IV. You cannot blame me sure for having there opposed 
 your happiness. 
 
 Doct. I die upon the transport. \Taking her hand. 
 
 Lady W. Be sure you are secret now ; your least imprudence 
 makes these, like fairy favours, vanish in a moment. 
 
 Doct. How can you form so vain a fear ? 
 
 Lady W. Call it not vain, for let our converse end in what it 
 may, you still shall find my fame is dear to me as life. 
 
 Doct. Where can it find so sure a guard ? The grave austerity 
 of my life will strike suspicion dumb, and yours may mock the 
 malice of detraction. I am no giddy, loose-lived courtier, whose 
 false professions end only in his boast of favours. No, fair, spot- 
 less miracle, the mysteries of love are only fit for hearts recluse 
 and elevate as mine rny happiness, like yours, depending on my 
 secrecy. 
 
 Lady W. 'Tis you must answer for this folly. 
 
 Doct. I take it whole upon myself. The guilt be only mine, 
 but be our transports mutual. Come, lovely creature ! let us 
 withdraw to privacy, where murmuring love shall hush thy fears. 
 [SiR JOHN, stepping softly behind him, seizes him by the throat. 
 
 Sir John. Traitor. 
 
 Doct. Ah ! {.Astonished. 
 
 Sir John. Is this thy sanctity? this thy doctrine? these thy 
 mediations ? If, stung with my abuses, I now should stab thee to 
 the heart, what devil durst murmur 'twere not an act of justice ? 
 But since thy vile hypocrisy, unmasked, must make mankind abhor 
 thee, be thy own shame thy living punishment. 
 
 Doct. Do ! Triumph, sir ; your artifice has well succeeded. I 
 see your ends ! you needed not so deep a plot to part with me. 
 
 [ Trembling. 
 
 Sir John f Suppress thy weak evasions. Ungrateful wretch ! have 
 I for this redeemed thee from the jaws of gaping poverty, fed, 
 clothed, loved, preferred thee to my bosom, to my family, and 
 fortune ; wife, children, friends, servants, all that were not friends 
 to thee, accounted as my enemies ? nay more, to crown my faith in 
 thee, I have relied on thy integrity even for my future happiness ; 
 and how hast thou, in one short day, requited me ? Taking the 
 advantage of my blinded passion, thou hast turned the duty of my 
 son to his undoing ; sordidly hast sold the trust I made thee of my 
 daughter ; attempted, like a felonious traitor, to seduce my wife, 
 and hast, I fear, with poisonous doctrines too, ensnared my soul. 
 
 Lady W. Now heaven be praised, his heart seems conscious of 
 his error. [Aside. 
 
 Sir John. But why do I reproach thee? had I not been the 
 
 weakest of mankind, thou never couldst have proved so great a 
 
 ..yillain. Whether heaven intends all this to punish, or to save me,
 
 SCENE i.j THE NON-JUROR. 315 
 
 yet I know not ; my senses stagger at the view, and my reflection's 
 lost in wild astonishment. [He stands musing. 
 
 Doct. This snare was worthy of you, madam ; 'tis you have made 
 this villain of me. [Apart to LADY WOODVIL. 
 
 Lady IV. You would have made me worse, but I have only 
 shown him what you were before. 
 
 Doct. I thank you. 
 
 Lady W. Thank your own ingratitude and wickedness ; but I 
 must now pursue my victory. [Exit LADY WOODVIL. 
 
 Doct. [apart.] No. It ends not here. He was not brought to 
 listen to this proof alone ! There's something deeper, yet designed 
 against me. I must be speedy. Suppose I talk with Charles ; alarm 
 him with our common danger ; point out his ruin as our only means 
 of safety, and like the panther in the toil provoked, turn short with 
 vengeance on my hunters ! 
 
 Sir John. What 1 still within my sight ? Of all my follies, which 
 is it tells thec that I now shall keep my temper. 
 
 Doct. {turning boldly to him.~\ Whom do you menace ? me, sir. 
 Reflect upon your own condition first, and where you are. 
 
 Sir John. What would the villain drive at ? I prithee leave me ; 
 I cannot look on thee ! thy overbearing insolence coYifounds me. 
 But since thy wickedness has turned my eyes upon myself, and to 
 thy crimes detected, I hope to owe my future innocence, as the 
 sore wound the viper gives, the viper best can cure ; for that one 
 good may Heaven like me forgive thee ; but seek thy biding in some 
 other place; out of my house, this instant, hence! begone! and 
 see my shameful face no more. 
 
 Doct. Nay, then, 'tis time to be myself, and let you know, that I 
 am master here. Turn you out, sir ; this house is mine ; and now, 
 sir, at your peril, dare to insult me. 
 
 Sir John. O ! heaven ! 'tis true, thou hast disarmed my justice, 
 and turned its sword into my own weak bosom. I had forgot my 
 folly ; 'tis fit it should be so, and heaven is just, at once to let me 
 see my crime, and punishment. O, my poor injured son ! Whither 
 shall I fly to hide me from the world. 
 
 Enter LADY WOODVIL. 
 
 Lady W. Whither are you going, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. I know not ; but here it seems I am a trespasser , the 
 master of this house has warned me hence, and since the right is 
 now in him, 'tis just I should resign it. 
 
 I^ady W. You shall not stir. He dares not act with such 
 abandoned insolence. No, sir, possession still is yours. If he 
 pretends a right, let him by open course of law- maintain it. 
 
 Doct. Are these the shifts you are reduced to ? No. madam. I 
 shall not wait so slow a vengeance ; you'll find I have a shorter way 
 to rout you. Here ! Charles ! [Ex-it DOCTOR'. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, then, there is an end of all. I have provoked a 
 serpent. My life, I see, must pay the forfeit of my folly !
 
 3 r6 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT v. 
 
 Lady W. Come, sir, take heart! Your life, in spite of him, is 
 free, and, I hope, your actions too. However, tell me freely, have 
 you rashly done anything for which the law may question you ? 
 
 Sir John. I think not strictly ; 'tis true I have lately trusted 
 him with sums of money, which he pretended, if accounted for, 
 might endanger both of us. 
 
 Lady W. O, the subtle villain ! Those sums are innocent, I 
 dare answer for them. But is there nothing more ? 
 
 Sir John. Not that I can call to mind, more criminal. 
 
 Lady W. Pray tell the worst, that we may arm against him. 
 
 Sir John. Sometimes with my own band I h?ve relieved the 
 wants of wretched prisoners to the State. 
 
 Lady W. We have no laws that frown on acts of charity ; if that 
 were criminal, the Government itself is guilty. 
 
 Sir John. How far our private converse may affect me that I 
 know not. If Charles betrays me not, I think his malice cannot 
 reach me. 
 
 Lady W. Then, sir, be easy, for he has lost his influence there. 
 Charles has long since perceived his villainy, and grew from thence 
 a secret convert to the cause of truth and loyalty, of which he has 
 given such meritorious proof that Mr. Heartly and your son this 
 very day, sir, have obtained his pardon. 
 
 Sir John. You tell me wonders ! Pardoned ! and a convert, say 
 you ! How strongly are our hearts persuaded by example ! What 
 darkness have I wandered in ! How amiable is such Royal mercy ! 
 yet with what hardened malice has that slave traduced it ? 
 
 Enter MARIA, hastily. 
 
 Mar. O, sir ! I am frightened out of my senses ! For Heaven's 
 sake begone ! Fly this moment ! this wicked fellow has designs 
 upon your life. 
 
 Lady W. How? 
 
 Sir John. What dost thou mean ? explain. 
 
 Mar. As I was passing by the hall, I heard him earnest in dis- 
 course with Charles, and, upon their naming you, I stopped awhile to 
 listen, where I heard the Doctor urge to him, that you were false at 
 heart ; that, from your late frivolous pretence to break with him, he 
 was convinced your malice now would stop at nothing to undo him ; 
 that Charles himself was equally in danger ; and that, to save your 
 own life, you certainly designed to sacrifice theirs to the Govern- 
 ment, which there was no possibility of preventing, but by their 
 immediate joining in a charge of treason against you. 
 
 Lady W. O, the villain ! 'Tis well we are secure in Charles. 
 
 Sir John. If we are not, why, be it as it may, I will not stir. I'll 
 stand upon my innocence, or, if that's betrayed, will throw me on 
 the mercy of that Royal breast whose virtues my credulity has 
 injured. 
 
 Lady W. and Mar. Ah ! [A pistol is heard from within.
 
 SCENE i.] THE NON-JUROR. 317 
 
 Sir John. 'What means that pistol ? 
 
 Lady IV. Don't stir, I beg you, sir. 
 
 Mar. What terrors has this monster brought into our family ? 
 
 Lady W. What will it end in ? 
 
 Sir John. How wretched has my folly made me ? 
 
 Lady W. How now ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Enter BETTY. 
 
 Bet. O, dear madam ! I shall faint away ; there's murder 
 doing. 
 
 Sir John. Who ? where ? what is it ? 
 
 Bet. The Doctor, sir, and Mr. Charles, were at high words just 
 now in the hall, and upon a sudden there was a pistol fired between 
 them. Oh ! I am afraid poor Mr. Charles is killed. 
 
 Sir John. How? 
 
 Bet. Oh ! here he comes himself, sir ; he will tell you more. 
 
 Enter HEARTLY, CHARLES, and the DOCTOR, held by SERVANTS. 
 
 Hear. Here, bring in this ruffian, this is villainy beyond example. 
 
 Sir John. What means this outrage ? 
 
 Lady W. I tremble. 
 
 Charles. Don't be alarmed, madam, there's no mischief done ; 
 what was intended, the Doctor here can best inform you. 
 
 Doct. {To HEARTLY.] You, sir, shall answer for this insult ? What 
 am I held for ? who's here, that dares assume a right to question 
 me? 
 
 Hear. Keep your temper, sir, we'll release you presently ; but Sir 
 John must first know the bottom of his obligations to you. 
 
 Sir John. Mr. Heartly, I am ashamed to look on you. 
 
 Doct. What, sir ! shall my own servant abuse me, brave me, lift 
 his hand against me, and I not dare to punish him. 
 
 Hear. Your servant, sir we know him better. 
 
 Doct. Then, sir, I demand my liberty, that the Government too 
 may know him. 
 
 Charles. Yes, and let it too be known, you first seduced me to 
 rebel, and now would have me expiate my offence with perjury. 
 
 Doct. How, sir ? 
 
 Charles. Yes, perjury' ! for such it must have been, should I have 
 charged, as you'd have had me, this gentleman with treason. What 
 facts have I been privy to, that reach that name ? The worst I 
 know of him, is, that all the factious falsehoods you have raised 
 against the best of princes, he, blinded with your hypocrisy, 
 believed. 
 
 Doct. Tis well, sir, you are protected now. 
 
 Charles. This, sir, in short has been our cause of quarrel. The 
 Doctor, finding I received with coldness his vile designs against 
 your life, began to offer menaces on mine, if I complied not ; at 
 which I, smiling,, told him the disappointments of his love had made
 
 3 i 8 THE NON-JUROR. [ACT v. 
 
 him desperate. This stung him into rage, and fastening at my 
 throat, he answered, Villain! you'll be humbler, when you groan in 
 chains for this. Here indeed all temper left me, when, disengaging 
 from his hold, with one home blow I felled him reeling to the pave- 
 ment. At this grown desperate, he ran with fury to some pistols 
 that hung above the chimney, to revenge him. I in the instant as he 
 reached one, seized upon his wrist, and as we grappled, sir, the 
 pistol firing to the ceiling, alarmed the family, when Mr. Heartly 
 and your servants rushed in to part us. 
 
 Sir John. Insatiate villain ! O my shame ! 
 
 Doct. Well, sir ! now you have heard this mighty charge ! what 
 have you more against me ? 
 
 Hear. More, sir, I hope is needless, but if Sir John is yet un- 
 satisfied 
 
 Sir John. O ! I have seen too much ! every new instance of his 
 wickedness but adds afresh to. my confusion. 
 
 Lady W. Now, sir, is your time. [Apart. 
 
 Hear. I go this minute, madam. [Apart. 
 
 Docl. I value not your whispered menaces, for know, to your 
 confusion, my vengeance is not yet defeated. You'll find, sir, that 
 to rebel, or to conceal a rebel, are in the eye of law both equal acts 
 of treason. That fact, I'm sure, is evident against you ; there ! there 
 stands in proof the stripling traitor you have sheltered ! This, sir, 
 your whole family can charge you with, and swear it home they 
 shall, or load their souls with perjury. But then, to dash your few 
 remaining days with bitterness of misery, remember, I, sir, whom 
 mortally you hate, succeed the instant heir to your possessions. 
 Now farewell, and let disgrace and beggary be your children's 
 portion. 
 
 A s he is going Qut the COLONEL stops him. 
 
 Col. Hold, sir, not so fast, you cannot pass. 
 Doct. Who, sir, shall dare to stop me ? 
 Col. Within there ! march ! 
 
 Enter a MESSENGER, -with zfile of Musketeers. 
 
 MCss. Is your name Wolf, sir ? 
 
 Doct. What if it be, sir ? 
 
 Mess. Then, sir, I have a warrant against you for high treason. 
 
 Doct. Me, sir ? [Startled. 
 
 Mess. Do you know one Colonel Perth, sir ? 
 
 Doct. Ha ! then I am betrayed indeed. 
 
 Hear. This Perth, it seems, sir, has managed his correspondence 
 at Avignon, from whence he came last night express ; but the Go- 
 vernment having immcdrate notice of his arrival, he was this morn- 
 ing seized, and examined before the Council, where, among other 
 facts, he has confessed he knew the Doctor actually in arms at the 
 first rebellious rising in Northumberland, which has been since by 
 other witnesses confirmed.
 
 SCENE i.j THE NON-JUROR. 
 
 Col. And, sir, to convince you, that even the doctrine he has 
 broached could never flow from the pure fountain of our established 
 faith, here are affidavits in my hand that prove him, under his 
 disguise, a lurking emissary of Rome ; that he is actually a priest in 
 Popish orders, and has several times been seen, as such, to officiate 
 at public Mass in the church of Notre Dame, at Antwerp. 
 
 Mar. Hear, and Lady W. How ! 
 
 Sir John. I start with horror, even, at the danger I am freed 
 from. 
 
 Col. And now, sir, had not your insatiate villanics to this family 
 forced me to this close inquiry into your private life, perhaps you 
 might have passed unquestioned among the rout of enemies whom 
 our Government despises. 
 
 Doct. Well, sir ! Now, then, you know your worst of me. But 
 know, what you call criminal may yet before your triumph is secure, 
 not only find its pardon, but reward. I yet may live, sir, to retort 
 your insult ; at least the days that are allotted me will want for no 
 supports of life while this conveyance calls me master. 
 
 Sir John. There ! there indeed he stings me to the heart ! for 
 that rash act reproach and endless shame will haunt me. 
 
 Mar. No, sir ; be comforted ! for even there, too, his abandoned 
 hope must leave him. 
 
 Sir John. Why dost thou torture me ! Did I not sign that 
 deed? 
 
 Mar. Yes, sir ; but in that deed you'll find my brother, not that 
 traitor, is your heir ; for know the fatal deed, which you intended, 
 sir, to sign, is here, even yet unsealed and innocent. 
 
 Omnes. Ha ! [The Doctor hastily opens the deed to examine //, 
 and all the company seem surprised. 
 
 Sir John. What means she ? 
 
 Mar. I mean, sir, that this deed, by accident falling into this 
 gentleman's hands, his generous concern for our family discovered 
 it to me ; when I, reduced to this extremity, instantly procured that 
 other to be drawn exactly like it, which, in your impatience, sir, to 
 execute, passed unsuspected for the original. Their only difference 
 is, that, wherever here you read the Doctor's name, there you'll find 
 my brother's only, throughout and wholly, sir, in every article 
 investing him in all that right, and title, which you intended for 
 your mortal enemy. 
 
 Doct. Distraction ! Outwitted by a brainless girl. 
 
 \Throivs tiou'n the writing in ragf. 
 
 All the servants having attended to the discovery, break 
 out into huzzas of joy. f*c., "while SIR JOHN, the 
 COLONEL, CHARLES and MARIA severally embrace: 
 HEARTLY and LADY WOOUVIL silently join in their 
 congratulations. 
 
 Doct. 1 cannot bear their irksome joy. Come, sir, lead me where 
 you please ; a dungeon would relieve me now, 
 
 Col. Secure your prisoner.
 
 3 20 THE NONrJUROR. [ACT V, 
 
 Ser. Huzza ! a traitor ! a traitor ! 
 
 [Exeunt MESSENGER, SOLDIERS, DOCTOR and SERVANTS, 
 
 Afar. Now, Heartly, I hope I have made atonement for your 
 jealousy. 
 
 Hear. You have banished it for ever : this was beyond yourself 
 surprising. 
 
 Col. Sister 
 
 Mar. Come, no set speeches. If I deserve your thanks, return 
 them in a friendship here. [Pointing to CHARLES. 
 
 Col. The business of my life shall be to merit it 
 
 Charles. And mine to speak my sense of obligations. 
 
 Sir John. O my child ! for this deliverance I only can reward 
 thee here. [Gives MARIA to HEARTLY.] For thee, my son, whose 
 filial virtues I have injured, this honest deed in every article shall 
 be ratified. I see your eyes are all upon me, expecting from that 
 vile traitor's practices some voluntary instance of my heart's con- 
 version. I must be blind, indeed, were I not now convinced he must 
 in all things have alike deceived me, as the dial that mistells one 
 hour, of consequence is false through the whole round of day. Let it 
 suffice, I see my errors with a conscious shame ; but hope, when I 
 am justly weighed, you'll find those errors rose but from a ductile 
 heart, not disinclined to truth, but fatally misled by false appear- 
 ances. 
 
 Col. Whoever knows your private life, must think you, sir, in 
 this sincere. 
 
 Hear. And now, sir, since I am sure it will no more offend you, 
 give me leave to observe, that of all the arts our enemies make use 
 on to embroil us, none seem so audaciously preposterous as their 
 insisting that a nation's best security is the word of a prince, whose 
 religion indulges him to give it, and at the same time obliges him to 
 break it. And though, perhaps, in lesser points our politic disputes 
 won't suddenly be ended, methinks there's once principle that all 
 parties might easily come into, that no change of Government can 
 give us a blessing equal to our liberty. 
 
 Grant us but this, and then of course you'll own, 
 To guard that freedom, GEORGE must fill the throne. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 George Rontledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 George Routledge & Sows' List of Novels. 
 
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 Harold 
 
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 i 
 
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 Thirty Years of Paris Banker and Broker
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 ii 
 
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 The Princess of Alaska 
 
 The Passing Show 
 
 The Flying Halcyon 
 
 A Daughter of Judas 
 
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 Miss Devereux of the Mari- 
 
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 His Cuban Sweetheart. By 
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 For Her Life : a Romance 
 
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 Her Foreign Conquest 
 Lost Countess Falka 
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 12 
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 Mary of Lorraine 
 
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 Lucy Arden ; or, Holly- 
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 First Love and Last Love 
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 Shall I Win Her ? 
 Morley Ashton 
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 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 The Quick or the Dead ? 
 Virginia of Virginia 
 A Brother to Dragons 
 
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 My Official Wife 
 
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 Prince Schamyl's Wooing 
 The Masked Venus : A Story 
 
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 For Life and Love ; A Story 
 
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 His Cuban Sweetheart. 
 
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 Lewis Arundel 
 Harry Coverdale's Courtship
 
 George Routledge < Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 ROUTLEDGE'S RAILWAY LIBRARY continued. 
 
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 Whom to Marry. 
 
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 MAYHEW 
 
 The Greatest Plague of Life 
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 False Colours. 
 
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 Mrs. ADAMS-ACTON 
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 Bridget 
 
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 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
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 MARK Horn 
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 Old London Bridge 
 
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 EDMUND PENDLETON 
 
 Something Occurred 
 
 B. L. FARJEON 
 
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 R. M. MANLEY 
 
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 H. KNIGHT 
 
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 A Hasty Marriage 
 
 Sir RANDAL H. ROBERTS, 
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 JULIEN GORDON 
 
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 BRADNOCK HALL 
 
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 CLARICE IRENE CLINGHAM 
 
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 PRICE WARUNG 
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 PERCY LYSLE 
 
 Since First I Saw Your Face 
 Mrs. KER-SEYMER
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 Gould, Nat. 
 
 Jockey Jack 
 Running it Off 
 
 The Double Event: A Tale 
 of the Melbourne Cup 
 
 Banker and Broker 
 Harry Dale's Jockey 
 Thrown Away 
 Stuck Up 
 Only a Commoner 
 
 On and Off the Turf in 
 Australia 
 
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 Who Did It ? 
 Horse or Blacksmith ? 
 Not So Bad After All 
 Seeing Him Through 
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 BLIXKHOOI.IK 
 
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 Horses and Hounds 
 
 SCRUTATOR 
 
 Reminiscences of a i9th 
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 The Young Squire 
 
 " BORDKRKR " 
 
 Soapey Sponge's Sporting 
 
 Tour 
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 J. CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN 
 
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 i6 
 
 George Routledge 6- Softs' List of Novels. 
 
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 Auriol 
 
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 Austen, Jane. 
 
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 Emma 
 
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 Shirley 
 
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 Villette 
 
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 Stanley Thorn 
 
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 Antonina 
 
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 The Deerslayer 
 
 The Pathfinder 
 
 The Last of the Mohicans 
 
 The Pioneers 
 
 The Prairie 
 
 The Red Rover 
 
 The Pilot 
 
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 The Waterwitch 
 
 The Spy 
 
 The Sea Lions 
 
 Miles Wallingford
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 STANDARD NOVELS continued. 
 
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 Homeward Bound 
 
 The Crater ; or, Vulcan's 
 
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 Wing and Wing 
 Jack Tier 
 Satanstoe 
 The Red Skins 
 The Heidenmauer 
 Precaution 
 The Monikins 
 The Ways of the Hour 
 Mercedes 
 Afloat and Ashore 
 Home as Found 
 
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 Oak Openings 
 
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 The Family Feud 
 
 Crowe, Mrs. 
 
 The Nightside of Nature 
 
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 Salathiel 
 
 Dickens, Charles. 
 
 Barnaby Rudge 
 Old Curiosity Shop 
 Dombey and Son 
 
 Grimaldi the Clown 
 
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 Pickwick Papers 
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 Bleak House 
 
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 Married for Love 
 
 Dumas, Alexandre. 
 
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 Forty-five Guardsmen 
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 Memoirs of a Physician 
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 Twenty Years After
 
 i8 
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 Marriage 
 
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 Destiny 
 
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 Amelia 
 
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 Haliburton, Judge. 
 
 The Clockmaker 
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 Hugo, Victor. 
 
 History of a Crime 
 Ninety-Three 
 Toilers of the Sea 
 By Order of the King 
 
 Kingsley, Charles. 
 
 Yeast 
 Hypatia 
 
 To 
 
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 The Scottish Cavalier 
 Jane Seton 
 The Yellow Frigate 
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 Oliver Ellis 
 Mary of Lorraine 
 Lucy Arden 
 Colville of the Guards 
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 Did She Love Him ? 
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 Dulcie Carlyon 
 First Love and Last Love 
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 Philip Rollo 
 
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 Handy Andy 
 
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 Rienzi 
 
 Ernest Maltravers
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 Lytton, Lord continued. 
 
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 Disowned 
 
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 Godolphin 
 
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 Harold 
 
 Lucretia 
 
 The Coming Race 
 
 Kenelm Chillingly 
 
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 What will He do with It? 
 
 Vol. i 
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 Eugene Aram 
 
 Last Days of Pompeii 
 
 The Last of the Barons 
 
 Night and Morning 
 
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 Marry at. Captain. 
 
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 Phantom Ship 
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 Newton Forster 
 Jacob Faithful 
 
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 Dog Fiend 
 The Poacher 
 Percival Keene 
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 Valerie 
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 Maxwell, W. H.- 
 
 The Bivouac 
 
 May he w. The Brothers. 
 
 The Greatest Plague of Life 
 
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 Gideon Giles 
 
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 Tom Bullkley 
 
 The Roll of the Drum 
 
 The Red Rag 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan. 
 
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 Thaddeus of Warsaw
 
 20 
 
 George Rontledge 6- Sons 1 List of Novels. 
 
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 Clarissa Harlowe 
 
 Pamela 
 
 Sir Charles Grandison 
 
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 Old London Bridge 
 
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 Tom Cringle's Log 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. 
 
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 Ivanhoe 
 
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 The Monastery 
 
 The Abbot 
 
 The Pirate 
 
 The Fortunes of Nigel 
 
 Peveril of the Peak 
 
 Quentin Durward 
 
 St. Ronan's Well 
 
 Redgauntlet 
 
 Betrothed and Highland 
 
 Widow 
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 Drovers 
 Woodstock 
 Anne of Geierstein 
 Count Robert of Paris 
 The Surgeon's Daughter
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 21 
 
 STANDARD NOVELS continued. 
 
 Smed ley , Frank. 
 
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 The Mysteries of Paris 
 
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 Court- Vanity Fair 
 
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 Warren, Samuel. 
 
 The Diary of a Late 
 
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 Smollett, Tobias. 
 
 Roderick Random 
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 Peregrine Pickle 
 
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 Alice (sequel) 
 
 Night and Morning 
 
 Paul Clifford 
 
 The Disowned 
 
 Harold 
 
 The Caxtons 
 
 Devereux 
 
 Godolphin ; Calderon 
 
 The Coming Race ; Leila 
 
 Zicci ; The Haunted 
 Eugene Aram 
 Lucretia 
 Zanoni 
 The Parisians. Vol. i 
 
 The Parisians. Vol. 2 
 My Novel. Vol. \ 
 My Novel. Vol. 2 
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 The Last of the Barons 
 Vol. i 
 Vol. 2 
 What Will He Do With It ? 
 
 Vol. i 
 What Will He Do With It? 
 
 Vol. 2 
 
 A Strange Story 
 Falkland ; The Pilgrims of 
 
 the Rhine, etc. 
 Kenelm Chillingley 
 
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 22 George Roittledge S- Sows' List of Novels. 
 
 Is. Novels continued. 
 
 HARRISON AINSWORTH'S NOVELS, 
 
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 The Tower of London Jack Sheppard 
 
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 Old St. Paul's Star Chamber 
 
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 7"Ju Pocket Volume Edition. Cloth, cut edges. 
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 Newton Forster 
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 Jacob Faithful 
 Peter Simple 
 
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 Pacha of Many Tales Olla Podrida 
 
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 Father Percival Keene 
 
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 Frederick Gerstaecker. 
 
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 A Curious Dream 
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 George Routledge & Sons 1 List of Novels. 
 
 RAILWAY LIBRARY continual. 
 
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 Nadine: The Study of a 
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 The Log of the " Water- 
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 Uncle Remus, Illustrated 
 J. C. HARRIS 
 
 Adventures of a Mounted 
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 Helen's Babies 
 
 JOHN HABBERTON 
 
 Jennie of "The Prince's" 
 
 Mrs. BUXTON 
 
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 Won 
 
 Mrs. BUXTON 
 
 Nights with Uncle Remus 
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 An Episode of Fiddletown 
 BRET HARTE 
 
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 Out of the Hurly Burly 
 
 MAX AUELER 
 
 Elbow Room 
 
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 Les Mise"rables 
 Notre Dame 
 
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 Ernest Maltravers, and Alice 
 
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 My Novel 
 
 What will He do with It ? 
 The Parisians
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 LARGE-SIZE SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
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 FIELDING 
 
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 SIR T. DICK LAUUER 
 
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 A ins worth, W. H. Ainsworth, W. H. continued. 
 
 Rookwood 
 Mervyn Clitheroe 
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 James II. 
 
 The Tower of London 
 Jack Sheppard 
 Old St. Paul's 
 
 Windsor Castle 
 
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 Crichton 
 
 St. James's
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 THE CAXTON NOVELS continued. 
 
 Austen, Jane. 
 
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 Shirley 
 
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 Ben Brace 
 
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 Valentine Vox, the Ven- 
 triloquist 
 
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 Collins, Wilkie. 
 Antonina 
 
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 Afloat and Ashore 
 
 Wyandotte 
 
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 Precaution 
 
 Mark's Reef 
 
 Ned Myers 
 
 The Borderers 
 
 Jack Tier 
 
 Mercedes
 
 26 
 
 George Kentledge & Softs' List of Novels. 
 
 THE CAXTON NOVELS continued. 
 
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 Martin Chuzzlewit 
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 Vol. 2 
 
 The Old Curiosity Shop 
 
 Barnaby Rudge 
 
 A Christmas Carol, with 
 
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 Bleak House 
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 Twenty Years After 
 Marguerite de Valois 
 Monte Christo. Vol. \ 
 
 Vol. 2 
 
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 The Forty-five Guardsmen 
 Chicot the Jester 
 Ten Years Later. Vol. \ 
 Vol. 2 
 
 Memoirs of a Physician. 
 Vol. i 
 
 Dumas, Alexandra continued. 
 
 Memoirs of a Physician. 
 
 Vol. 2 
 The Vicomte de Bragelonne. 
 
 Vol. i 
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 Vol. 2 
 
 Fielding, Henry. 
 
 Joseph Andrews 
 Tom Jones. Vol. i 
 
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 Amelia 
 
 Gaboriau, Einile. 
 
 Marie de Brinvilliers 
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 The Clique of Gold 
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 Vol. 2 
 
 Gaskell, Mrs. 
 
 Mary Barton 
 
 Grant, James. 
 
 The Scottish Cavalier 
 The Aide-de-Camp 
 The Romance of War 
 Philip Rollo 
 Bothwell
 
 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
 27 
 
 THE CAXTON NOVELS continued. 
 
 Green, Anna K. 
 
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 Seven to Twelve 
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 The Autocrat of the Break- 
 
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 Hugo, Victor. 
 
 Les Misdrables. Vol. i 
 Vol. 2 
 Notre Dame 
 
 The Laughing Man 
 
 (L'Homme Qui Kit) 
 Ninety-three 
 Toilers of the Sea 
 
 James, G. P. R.- 
 
 The Smuggler 
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 The Brigand 
 Morley Ernstein 
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 Alton Locke 
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 Hypatia 
 
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 Tom Burke of " Ours " 
 
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 Charles O'Malley 
 
 Harry Lorrequer 
 
 Arthur O'Leary 
 
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 Vol. \ 
 The Knight of Gwynne. 
 
 Vol. 2 
 Jack Hinton 
 
 Lover, Samuel. 
 
 Handy Andy 
 
 Lytton, Lord. 
 
 [Author's Copyright Revised Edition.] 
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 A Stran S e Stor y 
 My Novel. Vol. \ 
 
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 The Caxtons 
 
 what wm He J)o 
 
 - It? Voll 
 What 
 
 The Coming Race; Pau- 
 
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 The Parisians Vol l 
 
 Vol. 2 
 
 Godolphin 
 Rienzi
 
 28 
 
 George Routledge 6- Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 Lytton, Lord continued. 
 
 Alice 
 
 Ernest Maltravers 
 
 The Last Days of Pompeii 
 
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 Night and Morning 
 
 Zanoni 
 
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 Harold 
 
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 Devereux 
 
 Lucretia 
 
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 Rattlin the Reefer. 
 
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 Newton Forster 
 Valerie 
 The Mission 
 
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 Wild Sports of the West 
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 Cornered at Last 
 
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 Robbery 
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 Reade, Charles. 
 
 Peg Woffington and Christie 
 
 Johnstone 
 It is Never too Late to Mend 
 
 Reid, Captain May ne. 
 
 The Scalp Hunters 
 
 The Headless Horseman. 
 
 Vol. i 
 The Headless Horseman. 
 
 Vol. 2
 
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 Waverley 
 
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 Woodstock 
 
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 Count Robert of Paris 
 
 Redgauntlet 
 
 Smedley, Frank E. 
 
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 Mr. Ledbury 
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 George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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 Verne, Jules. 
 
 A Journey to the Centre of 
 
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 CHARLES LAMIJ 
 
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 Mrs. SHELLEY 
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 Mrs. CROWE 
 The Clockmaker 
 
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 Mrs. HALL 
 Buffalo Bill 
 
 Old London Bridge. Vol. \ 
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 A Friend's Victim 
 St. Clair of the Isles
 
 George Routledge 6- Sons' List of Novels. 31 
 
 THE CAXTON HOVELS continued. 
 
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 George Routledge 6- Sons' List of Novels. 
 
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