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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The Tower of London
Jack Sheppard
Old St. Paul's
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The Miser's Daughter
The Star Chamber
I ^ancashire Witches
The Flitch of Bacon
Crichton
St. James's
George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels.
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Pride and Prejudice
Sense and Sensibility
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Jane Eyre
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Valentine Vox, the Ven-
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Sylvester Sound, the Son),
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Antonina
Cooper, J. F.
The Headsman
The Deerslayer
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Satanstoe
The Prairie
The Last of the Mohicans
The Waterwitch
The Pathfinder
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The Oak Openings
The Spy
The Pilot
Eve Effingham
The Two Admirals
Miles Wallingford
Afloat and Ashore
Wyandotte
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The Bravo
The Sea Lions
Precaution
Mark's Reef
Ned Myers
The Borderers
Jack Tier
Mercedes
26
George Kentledge & Softs' List of Novels.
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Martin Chuzzlewit
Oliver Twist
The Pickwick Papers
Grimaldi, the Clown
Nicholas Nickleby. Vol. i
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The Old Curiosity Shop
Barnaby Rudge
A Christmas Carol, with
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The Cricket on the Hearth
American Notes
Sunday under Three Heads
The Chimes
Hard Times
Bleak House
Sketches by " Boz "
Dumas, Alexandre.
Twenty Years After
Marguerite de Valois
Monte Christo. Vol. \
Vol. 2
The Three Musketeers
The Queen's Necklace
The Forty-five Guardsmen
Chicot the Jester
Ten Years Later. Vol. \
Vol. 2
Memoirs of a Physician.
Vol. i
Dumas, Alexandra continued.
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The Vicomte de Bragelonne.
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Fielding, Henry.
Joseph Andrews
Tom Jones. Vol. i
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Marie de Brinvilliers
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Mary Barton
Grant, James.
The Scottish Cavalier
The Aide-de-Camp
The Romance of War
Philip Rollo
Bothwell
George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels.
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The Leavenworth Case
Seven to Twelve
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The Autocrat of the Break-
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The Professor at the Break-
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__ __.
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Les Misdrables. Vol. i
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Notre Dame
The Laughing Man
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Ninety-three
Toilers of the Sea
James, G. P. R.-
The Smuggler
The Convict
The Brigand
Morley Ernstein
Th e Forgery
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Alton Locke
Yeast : A Problem
Hypatia
Lever, Charles.
Tom Burke of " Ours "
The O'Donoghue
Charles O'Malley
Harry Lorrequer
Arthur O'Leary
The Knight of Gwynne.
Vol. \
The Knight of Gwynne.
Vol. 2
Jack Hinton
Lover, Samuel.
Handy Andy
Lytton, Lord.
[Author's Copyright Revised Edition.]
Kenelm Chillingly
A Stran S e Stor y
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M X Novel - Vo! - 2
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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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Alice
Ernest Maltravers
The Last Days of Pompeii
The Last of the Barons
Eugene Aram
Night and Morning
Zanoni
Leila, Calder on the Cour-
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Paul Clifford
The Disowned
Harold
Pelham
Devereux
Lucretia
Falkland
Marry at, Captain.
The Little Savage
Mr. Midshipman Easy
Peter Simple
The Pirate, and The Three
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The King's Own
Jacob Faithful
The Pacha of Many Tales
The Phantom Ship
Percival Keene
Rattlin the Reefer.
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Children of the New Forest
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Frank Mildmay
Newton Forster
Valerie
The Mission
Maxwell, W. H.-
Stories of Waterloo
Hector O'Halloran
Wild Sports of the West
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Cornered at Last
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The Crime of the Midnight
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Reade, Charles.
Peg Woffington and Christie
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It is Never too Late to Mend
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The Scalp Hunters
The Headless Horseman.
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The Headless Horseman.
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George Routledge & Sons' List of Novels.
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The Heart of Midlothian
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The Pirate
Old Mortality
Quentin Durward
The Black Dwarf
Anne of Geierstein
Woodstock
The Betrothed
The Fair Maid of Perth
The Surgeon's Daughter
Count Robert of Paris
Redgauntlet
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Frank Fairlegh
Lewis Arundel. Vol. i
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The Innocents Abroad
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A Journey to the Centre of
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The Last Essays of Elia
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Monte Cristo and His Wife
Tristram Shandy
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The Sketch Book
WASHINGTON IRVING
Peck's Bad Boy and His Pa
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Gulliver's Travels
The Luck of Roaring Camp
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The Trials of Margaret
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Frankenstein
Mrs. SHELLEY
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Mrs. CROWE
The Clockmaker
JUDGE HALLIBURTON
The Whiteboy
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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Mrs. CROWE
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WFRNKR A Good Boy's Diary'
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