I Graduate Root" TR 1245" TS3 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD Oxford English Series By American Scholars General Editor : GEORGE PHILIP KRAPP, Professor of English in Columbia University. Hazlitt on English Literature: An Introduction to the Appre- ciation of Literature. By J. ZEITLIN. Crown 8vo. $1.25. College English: A Manual for the Study of English Literature and Composition. By FRANK AYDELOTTE. Crown 8vo. 6oc. Materials for the Study of English Literature and Composition: Selections from Newman, Arnold, Huxley, Rus- kin, and Carlyle. Edited by FRANK AYDELOTTE. Crown 8vo. A History of American Literature: By w. B. CAIRNS. Crown 8vo. $1.25. Kepresentative English Dramas from Dryden to Sheridan FREDERICK TUPPER, PH.D. Professor of English in the University of Vermont AND JAMES W. TUPPER, PH.D. Professor of English Literature in Lafayette College NEW YORK OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS AMERICAN BRANCH : 35 WEST 32ND STREET LONDON, TORONTO, MELBOURNE, AND BOMBAY HUMPHREY MILFORD 1914 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Copyright ', 7974 BY OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS AMERICAN BRANCH College Library T83 PREFACE THIS book is designed for students rather than for scholars or specialists. It makes little or no contribution to the present knowledge of authors and their plays. It grapples with no difficult problems of origins and solves no riddles of dramatic evolution. It enters into no competition with histories of the English drama. Its mission is the humble one of presenting in a single volume representative plays of the century and more between the Restoration of the Stuarts and the American Revolution. The introductions to the dozen dramas and the notes and bibliographies at the end of the book contain only such information as the editors deem necessary for an understanding of the circumstances of this literary output, only such interpretative comment as they consider stimulating to the reader's own critical sense. With regard to the necessity and stimulus of this editorial matter, others may well be of a different mind. After all, the plays are the thing. Admittedly it is very convenient to have in one volume a dozen plays of an important epoch. But why the dozen here selected? The editors have been guided in their choice not by their own likes and dislikes, which happen to be strong, but by the consensus of critical and popular opinion. The Conquest of Granada is acknowledged by all as typical of the short-lived heroic drama. All for Love is deemed Dryden's best tragedy and furnishes in addition the most striking example of the Restoration treatment of a Shakespearean theme. Otway's Venice Pre- served is reckoned easily first among the tragedies of the later Stuart time; indeed it finds no peer until Shelley's Cenci. For the editors' sins of omission Wycherley and Vanbrugh is pleaded only the enforced omission of sins. The ubiquitous Rehearsal of Buckingham has yielded here the editors accept full responsibility to the less accessible, equally repre- sentative, and more amusing burlesque, Fielding's Tom Thumb. No English comedy of manners vies, in the judgment of many others than Meredith, with The Way of the World by Congreve. No lighter drama of the Restora- tion tradition has had longer life on the stage and off than that " red leaf, the last of its clan," Farquhar's often-dancing Beaux' Stratagem. Dull beyond all conception Addison's Cato may seem to us now, yet it scored the most signal triumph of eighteenth-century classical tragedy. Sentimental comedy must be represented, and almost as a matter of course by The Conscious Lovers of Steele. The Beggar's Opera by Gay is the foremost of its musical genre in both time and merit. Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer and Sheridan's chief comedies, The Rivals and The School for Scandal, were 672473 PREFACE sure of their place. Indeed, the selection of all these twelve plays was so obvious as to demand little discrimination. The text of each play has been derived from a careful comparison of the earliest quartos with the latest and most scholarly editions ; but the presen't editors have unhesitatingly omitted the so-called " critical apparatus " of variant readings and proposed emendations, for the same reason that they have shunned archaic spelling and pointing as being entirely out of keeping with the design of the book. PAGE CONTENTS INTRODUCTIONS AND PLAYS : THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA . . - 3 ALL FOR LOVE -39 VENICE PRESERVED 77 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 117 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM . . . . . . . . .156 CATO 195 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS 226 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA 261 TOM THUMB THE GREAT 291 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 318 THE RIVALS 353 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ........ 397 NOTES . 435 BIBLIOGRAPHY 459 REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH DRAMAS FROM DRYDEN TO SHERIDAN JOHN DRYDEN THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA JOHN DRYDEN was born of good, vigorous Puritan stock on August g, 1631, at Aldwinkle in Northamptonshire. The rigorous drill of Busby, and much reading in the Latin and Greek poets at Trinity College, Cambridge, made up his academic education till 1654, when he received his bachelor's degree. His poetic genius was slow in developing, as the notorious verses on the death of Lord Hastings abundantly testify, and it was not till the death of Cromwell in 1658 that he did anything with much promise of eminence in verse. This production was the Heroic Stanzas, followed two years later by Astrea Redux, which welcomed the restored Charles. Dryden, as Professor Root points out, is not to be charged with mere time-serving, since he but joined in the universal welcome to a king who seemed to assure stability of government when a collapse was threatened by the weak rule of Richard Cromwell. Dryden was throughout in strong sympathy with autocracy. In 1663 began his active connection with the stage that lasted more or less constantly for thirty-one years and that witnessed the composition of twenty- eight plays. He wrote comedies that pandered all too successfully to the corrupt taste of the Restoration Court, such as The Wild Gallant and The Rival Ladies (1663), Marriage a la Mode (1672), and The Spanish Friar (1681) ; heroic plays, which are the most striking examples of the peculiar product of this age, such as Tyrannic Love (1669), The Conquest of Granada (1670-2), and Aurengzebe (1675); adaptations of foreign plays, such as Sir Martin Mar-all (1667) from Moliere, and of native plays, such as The Tem- pest with D'Avenant (1667), All for Love (1677-8), and Troilus and Cressida (1679) from Shakspere; a "tagging" of Milton's Paradise Lost in The State of Innocence (1674); a dignified tragedy in Don Sebastian (1690); and a bitter invective with the purely political purpose of stirring up English wrath against the Dutch in Amboyna (1673). After writing his earlier plays in the heroic couplet he discarded in All for Love his " long-loved mistress Rhyme" for blank verse. It was a long and arduous service for a man not particularly gifted as a dramatist, but it gave him a mastery of verse and of terse expression, as one can see by comparing his early work in Annus Mirabilis (.1667) with the splendid satires of the '8o's. In 1670 Dryden attained the height of his popularity when he was appointed historiographer royal and poet laureate, and he expresses his supreme self- 3 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA satisfaction in the Epilogue to the Second Part of The Conquest of Granada. Punishment quickly followed in the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearsal (1671), in which he is mercilessly caricatured as the silly, conceited, and immoral " Mr. Bayes " and his heroic plays are made the butt of enduring wit. His political affiliations led to his entering the controversy with Shaftesbury and the Whigs and to his writing the most brilliant poetry of his career, Absalom and Achitophel (1681), The Medal and Mac Flecknoe (1682), the last being directed particularly against the unfortunate poet Shadwell for his share in the controversy. Dryden's interest in the cause of law and order, which seemed then most assured by the Anglican Church, occasioned Religio Laid (1682), in which he conceived of the Church as a "via media between the foreign tyranny of Papistry on the one hand, and the seditious anarchy of the Fanatics on the other" (Root). When James II ascended the throne, Dryden embraced the Roman Catholic faith and championed it in The Hind and the Panther (1687). The Church was to him a political institution and he now saw in it the most effective agency for enforcing obedience to govern- ment. His purely religious convictions were wholly negligible. Dryden's prose work consists chiefly of essays in the form of prefaces to his plays and poems, and it covers the entire period of his authorship. Pre-eminent are the Essay of Dramatic Poesy (1668), An Essay of Heroic Plays (1672), and A Discourse Concerning the Original and Progress of Satire (1693). Not without justice has he been called the first writer of modern prose. With the Revolution in 1688 Dryden lost all his offices so that he had to depend upon authorship for his living. He translated Juvenal and Persius (1693) and Vergil (1697) ; he composed Alexander's Feast (1697) and wrote his Fables (1700). He died on May i, 1700, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. " The two parts of The Conquest of Granada are written with a seeming determination to glut the public with dramatick wonders ; to exhibit in its highest elevation a theatrical meteor of incredible love and impossible valor, and to leave no room for a wilder flight to the extravagance of posterity. All the rays of romantick heat, whether amorous or warlike, glow in Alman- zor by a kind of concentration. He is above all laws; he is exempt from all restraints ; he ranges the world at will, and governs wherever he appears. He fights without enquiring the cause, and loves in spite of the obligations of justice, of rejection by his mistress, and of prohibition from the dead. Yet the scenes are, for the most part, delightful ; they exhibit a kind of illustrious depravity, and majestick madness: such as, if it is sometimes despised, is often reverenced, and in which the ridiculous is mingled with the astonishing." Dr. Johnson's judgment of The Conquest of Granada (1672), thus de- livered about a hundred years after the production of the play, does not differ essentially from that of the present. The heroic play was at best a 4 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA short-lived species of drama, and the contemporary Rehearsal had already in burlesque pretty well taken its measure. The wonder to us at first glance is that such a fantasia of extravagant emotions should ever have been ap- plauded by admiring audiences and been written by such a genius as Dryden. The explanation is to be found partly in social conditions. The patrons of the Restoration theatre were the dwellers in the Court and its purlieus. Charles had come into his own and proceeded to enjoy it. After twenty years of Puritan rule England by royal example was to be merry once more. Naturally, there was a mighty swing of the pendulum from the repression of all worldly pleasures, as shown in the closing of the theatres in 1642, to the uncontrolled license that marked their opening in 1660. The actresses were for the first time regularly established on the English stage, and a vivacious beauty was sure of preferment as a royal or at least a noble mistress. The dialogue of comedy and the prologue and epilogue of tragedy and heroic play carried suggestiveness to a limit unparalleled in our stage history. Yet in so doing they did not surpass the actual conduct of the patrons of the theatres. Now, as if to form a proper artistic contrast, the heroic drama repre- sented usually, in the roles of Nell Gwyn and her like, persons of extraor- dinary virtue successfully undergoing temptations that would corrupt an anchorite. It exalted pure love and marital fidelity to a degree unattempted yet in prose or rime. Sensual love is a monster of so frightful mien As, to be hated, needs but to be seen. Lyndaraxa is as abhorrent an instance of selfish infidelity as Almahide is a glorious example of unselfish devotion to duty. Death is as nothing when it comes between the pure love of Ozmyn and Benzayda. Hard-hearted parents relent before the pleadings of innocent affection. Such exalted virtue formed no part of the daily life or experience of those who applauded it on the stage. It has, moreover, a falsetto note which betrays it ; the lovers protest too much ; devotion unto death is largely a matter of words. It was part of the insincerity of the age that demanded that the protestations of virtuous love should be loud if not deep. An audience that laughs at immorality is the readiest to applaud virtue provided it is sufficiently declamatory. There was a similar extravagance in sentiment. England put on gay colors on the death of Oliver. Gallantry, the fine flower of courtly life, attains a rank growth while homely love withers. The sprightly cavalier flourished on and off the boards, and he held amorous discourse and corre- spondence with some matchless Orinda. But there was no real chivalry back of the dainty speeches ; it was merely a pretty game to play out of a book in which the participants strove to outdo each other in clever repartee. 5 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA Honor is in everyone's mouth but it thrives only on the stage, and there only in the breast of the artificially virtuous heroine. Even Almanzor, the beau ideal of the heroic, naively asks, when in a more than questionable situation his honor is appealed to, "What is honor but a love well hid?" Valor is matched only by love in its extravagance. Almanzor, when not checked by the exigencies of Dryden's plot, is literally as terrible as an army with banners. And as if to abate any astonishment which we might feel in the presence of such a hero, Dryden in his dedication of this play to the Duke of York makes clear who his living models were. He says : " I have always observed in your Royal Highness an extreme concern- ment for the honor of your country; 'tis a passion common to you with a brother, the most excellent of kings ; and in your two persons are eminent the characters which Homer has given us of heroic virtue : the commanding part in Agamemnon, and the executive in Achilles." It was a splendidly mendacious tribute to Charles and the Duke ! But this drama was not merely the offspring of the time. It had its origins in the romantic plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, and its later devel- opment was affected by the extravagant French romances which were trans- lated into English and imitated. D'Avenant, especially in his Love and Honour and The Siege of Rhodes, is the link connecting the romantic and the heroic plays. The hero has greatly advanced beyond his romantic pro- totype and the heroine has attained far more independence of character. The rival has become more important, since he must advance with the hero whose foil he is. The influence of the French romances is chiefly shown in the heightened intensity of the characterization and in certain stock situ- ations. In fact, as Hill remarks, one in " passing directly from the romances to some of Dryden's plays . . . experiences little sense of change : the types of characters are the same, the characters are related in the same way, under similar circumstances they do the same things." So Artaban, " like Alman- zor, inspires fear by his terrible eyes; he controls armies with a glance, puts terror into the hearts of his foes, paralyzing them by his mere presence. The first sight the heroine has of him impresses her as Almahide at her first meeting with Almanzor with ' a natural fierceness ' and with ' the sparkling vivacity of his eyes.' " 1 " An heroic play," says Dryden in his Essay of Heroic Plays, " ought to be an imitation, in little, of an heroic poem ; and, consequently, . . . love and valor ought to be the subject of it." As in the poem, the action is built around two heroic characters, one a hero unsurpassed in valor, the other his beloved, as constant in virtue as she is in love, and it is carried out in a court harassed by domestic treason, rebellion, and foreign attack. The action proceeds from one great scene to another, so that there is no lack of excitement in the entire course of the five acts. The object of the play is not, as in the Shaksperean tragedy, to work out the fate of a mighty 1 La Calprenede's Romances, pp. 58 and 78. 6 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA soul in conflict with great moral forces, but to depict the fortunes of a superhuman hero, who by his amazing valor or the very awe of his name puts down rebellions and overthrows kingdoms in order that he may win his love and that as a consequence virtue may triumph over the forces of evil, his enemies. The motives of action are often violent in keeping with the violent deeds which they occasion ; they are unexpected, sometimes arbi- trary, but never commonplace. They spring from the complication of love affairs with those of state, and in their variety and startling character they never allow the action to drag. The scene of the play is usually laid in some strange court, as in Jerusalem or Africa or Spanish America, and thus it had for the untravelled Englishman all the charm of a journey into the realm of the imagination. Finally, there was a certain pleasure in the very verse, the heroic couplet, which was admirably adapted to express the exalted sentiments of the heroic character. It is in the exceeding turmoil of events that the interest of The Conquest of Granada chiefly lies. Through the ten acts of its two parts three love plots of divergent claims to attention, laid in a city which is besieged by a foreign foe and distracted by warring factions within its walls, keep one as busy as a spectator at a three-ring circus. Standing out pre-eminently is the love of Almanzor and Almahide. The mighty hero holds in his hands the fortunes of the city and the fates of the Spaniard and the rival factions. His love is the quintessence of the heroic ; so far is it above Zulema's that this rival shall "not dare to be so impudent as to despair." In contrast to such love is that of the infatuated Abdelmelech and Abdalla for the design- ing Lyndaraxa, who plays one lover against another for a crown. Then as striking a more normal balance there is the pure romance of Ozmyn and Benzayda. In addition to the complexities of love there is excitement caused by the recurrently attacking Spaniards and the intermittently revolting Zegrys. It may indeed impress one that the revolts and the siege are timed to suit the exigencies of the love plots ; when one of the heroes has to ad- vance his love affair, he goes or is taken over to the Spaniards and thereby sets both love and war in motion. When love is not in need of external excitation, zambras may be danced, songs may be sung, and tournaments and bull fights conducted in ceremonious state without fear of disturbing foes. Then when in Part II mortal agencies fail to keep the stage astir, the ghost of Almanzor's mother dares to reprove her erring son. Very unfilially he threatens to Squeeze thee, like a bladder, there And make thee groan thyself away to air. [The ghost retires. In addition to these more important events we have songs and dances, duels, a murder, a suicide, an attempted assault on of all persons Almahide, and a trial by combat. No one need complain that the drama lacks action! 7 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA In the motivation of his events Dryden rarely fails of startling effects. His interweaving of love affairs with the military operations of the city has very little of the inevitable. One hardly notices that Almahide has a third lover, Zulema, who is mentioned in the early acts. It is seen later that he is used by the dramatist as a mere tool in the manipulation of plot. When Almanzor has aided Abdalla in overthrowing Boabdelin and is therefore in a position to dispose of Almahide, he is checked by his rival Zulema. This check so enrages him that he deserts Abdalla, goes over to Boabdelin, and restores the deposed king to the throne. The counter-turn may not be inevitable, but it furnished lively action. It is action rather than development of character that we have in this play. Almanzor is as mighty when he kills the bull before the curtain rises as he is when he slays his adversary at the close of the fifth act of the Second Part. And a splendidly imposing personage he must have been to his ad- miring spectators of the Restoration theatre. It is easy enough for us to pick out inconsistencies which we can glibly say were intended to subserve Dryden's plot. Almanzor can quell riots at a word, turn defeat into victory, and sigh that he has no task worthy of his valor ; but when it is necessary to arrest him that the plot may proceed, a few guards are easily equal to the task. Similarly Almahide's repose under distressing circumstances may seem to us ever to be the same, yet this constancy in love must have charmed the cavaliers by its very contrast to their daily experience. She reasons with a calm inflexibility of temper that marks her off from her passionate lover, and she dispenses wisdom and convincing argument in couplets as elegant as her sentiments are fine. It was these scenes of debate, usually on love, that Scott says were the most applauded in the heroic plays ; they would drive a modern audience through the doors. Scenes almost seem to be invented for the sake of the argument they contain. Thus the attempt of Lyndaraxa to win Almanzor is a fine example of argument in verse and not much else. It is a foregone conclusion that no wicked woman can shake the faith of the incomparable lover. Nearly all of Act II is argument, and when Lyndaraxa and one of her lovers appear, they do nothing but debate. Lyndaraxa speaks quite truly when she says : " By my own experience I can tell, They who love truly cannot argue well." To argue well is as necessary to an heroic lover as to be valiant is to a soldier. That it was out of place in a play and that it was yet very good verse only show that Dryden was less a dramatic than an argumentative poet. No form of verse was better adapted to such dialogue than the couplet, as we see it in perfection in the later poems. Dryden was now in the full flush of his enthusiasm over his verse, and he not only used it in the heroic plays but defended it in the critical essays. A serious play, he says, "is 8 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA indeed the representation of Nature, but 'tis Nature wrought up to a higher pitch. The plot, the characters, the wit, the passions, the descriptions, are all exalted above the level of common converse, as high as the imagination of the poet can carry them, with proportion to verisimility. . . . Heroic rhyme is nearest Nature, as being the noblest kind of modern verse " (Ker, Essays, I, 100-1). And again, "Rhyme . . . has something of the usurper in him; but he is brave and generous, and his dominion pleasing" (ibid. p. 115). Rime bears about the same relation to blank verse that the heroic drama does to the Shaksperean. It is as a pair of stilts on which the char- acters stalk through the play so that they may have the appearance of heightened dignity. The very artificiality of rime suits very well the exag- gerated pose of the characters. It is essentially declamatory in Dryden's hands and at times rises to poetic heights. The heroic play would lose in complete consistency were it not written in the couplet form, and it is sig- nificant that when Dryden tired of his long-loved mistress rime, he ceased to write heroic plays. Dryden was not a great dramatic poet, but he wrote the best heroic drama of his time. His stage is nearly always crowded with action, his characters possess the extravagant traits that would thrill a jaded audience, and his verse is rarely without dignity. When events were not following one another rapidly, his audiences were entertained by the thrust and parry of argumentative discourse on the all-important matters of love and honor, so that boredom was impossible to them. To us the heroic play may not remain, as Johnson says, " for the most part delightful," yet it does " ex- hibit a kind of illustrious depravity, and majestic madness: such as, if it is somewhat despised, is often reverenced, and in which the ridiculous is mingled with the astonishing." PROLOGUE THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA PART I Major rerum mihi nascitur ordo; Majus opus moveo. VIRGIL, JEneid, vii, 44, 45. PROLOGUE TO PART I Spoken by Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, in a Broad-brimmed Hat, and Waist-belt. This jest was first of t'other house's making, And five times tried, has never failed of taking; For 'twere a shame a poet should be killed Under the shelter of so broad a shield. This is that hat, whose very sight did win ye To laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye. As then, for Nokes, so now I hope you'll be So dull, to laugh once more for love of me. " I'll write a play," says one, " for I have got A broad-brimmed hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot." Says t'other, "I have one more large than that." Thus they out-write each other with a hat! The brims still grew with every play they writ; And grew so large, they covered all the wit. Hat was the play ; 'twas language, wit, and tale : Like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale. What dulness do these mongrel wits confess, When all their hope is acting of a dress ! Thus, two the best comedians of the age Must be worn out, with being blocks o' the stage; Like a young girl, who better things has known, Beneath their poet's impotence they groan. See now what charity it was to save ! They thought you liked, what only you forgave ; And brought you more dull sense, dull sense much worse Than brisk gay nonsense, and the heavier curse. They bring old iron, and glass upon the stage, To barter with the Indians of our age. Still they write on, and like great authors show ; But 'tis as rollers in wet gardens grow Heavy with dirt, and gathering as they go. 10 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA ACT I, Sc. I. May none, who have so little understood, To like such trash, presume to praise what's good ! And may those drudges of the stage, whose fate Is damned dull farce more dully to translate, Fall under that excise the state thinks fit To set on all French wares, whose worst is wit. French farce, worn out at home, is sent abroad; And, patched up here, is made our English mode. Henceforth, let poets ere allowed to write, Be searched, like duellists before they fight, For wheel-broad hats, dull humor, all that chaff, Which makes you mourn, and makes the vulgar laugh : For these, in plays, are as unlawful arms, As, in a combat, coats of mail, and charms. DRAMATIS PERSONS MAHOMET BOABDELIN, the last King of Granada. PRINCE ABDALLA, his brother. ABDELMELECH, chief of the Abencerrages. ZULEMA, chief of the Zegrys. ABENAMAR, an old Abencerrago. SIXIN, an old Zegry. OZMYN, a brave young Abencerrago, son to Abenamar. HAMET, brother to Zulema, a Zegry. GOMEL, a Zegry. AI.MANZOR. FERDINAND, King of Spain. DUKE OF ARCOS, his General. DON ALONZO D'AGUILAR, a Spanish Captain. ALMAHIDE, Queen of Granada. LYNDARAXA, sister of ZULEMA, a Zegry lady. BENZAYDA, daughter to SELIN. ESPERANZA, slave to the Queen. HALYMA, slave to LYNDARAXA. ISABELLA, Queen of Spain. Messengers, Guards, Attendants, Men, and Women. SCENE. GRANADA, AND THE CHRISTIAN CAMP BESIEGING IT. ACT I SCENE I BOABDELIN, ABENAMAR, ABDELMELECH, Guards. Boab. Thus, in the triumphs of soft peace, I reign; And, from my walls, defy the powers of Spain; With pomp and sports my love I celebrate, While they keep distance, and attend my state. [To ABEN. Parent to her, whose eyes my soul enthral, Whom I, in hope, already father call, Abenamar, thy youth these sports has known, Of which thy age is now spectator grown; Judge-like thou sit'st, to praise, or to ar- raign The flying skirmish of the darted cane: But, when fierce bulls run loose upon the place, And our bold Moors their loves with danger grace, Then heat new-bends thy slackened nerves again, And a short youth runs warm through every vein. Aben. I must confess the encounters of this day Warmed me indeed, but quite another way: Not with the fire of youth; but generous rage, To see the glories of my youthful age So far out-done. Abdclm. Castile could never boast, in all its pride, A pomp so splendid, when the lists, set wide, Gave room to the fierce bulls, which wildly ran In Sierra Ronda, ere the war began; Who, with high nostrils snuffing up the wind, 11 ACT I, Sc. I. THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA Now stood the champions of the savage kind. Just opposite, within the circled place, Ten of our bold Abencerrages' race (Each brandishing his bull-spear in his hand) Did their proud jennets gracefully command. On their steeled heads their demi-lances wore Small pennons, which their ladies' colors bore. Before this troop did warlike Ozmyn go; Each lady, as he rode, saluting low; At the chief stands, with reverence more profound, His well-taught courser, kneeling, touched the ground; Thence raised, he sidelong bore his rider on, Still facing, till he out of sight was gone. Boab. You praise him like a friend; and I confess. His brave deportment merited no less. Abdelm. Nine bulls were launched by his victorious arm, Whose wary jennet, shunning still the harm, Seemed to attend the shock, and then leaped wide: Meanwhile, his dexterous rider, when he spied The beast just stooping, 'twixt the peck and head His lance, with never-erring fury, sped. Abcn. My son did well, and so did Hamet too; Yet did no more than we were wont to do; But what the stranger did was more than man. Abdelm. He finished all those triumphs we began. One bull, with curled black head, beyond the rest, And dew-laps hanging from his brawny chest, With nodding front a while did daring stand, And with his jetty hoof spurned back tHe sand; Then, leaping forth, he bellowed out aloud: The amazed assistants back each other crowd, While monarch-like he ranged the listed field; Some tossed, some gored, some trampling down he killed. The ignobler Moors from far his rage pro- voke With woods of darts, which from his sides he shook. Meantime your valiant son, who had before Gained fame, rode round to every mirador; Beneath each lady's stand a stop he made, And, bowing, took the applauses which they paid, Just in that point of time, the brave ua- known Approached the lists. Boab. I marked him, when alone (Observed by all, himself observing none) He entered first, and with a graceful pride His fiery Arab dexterously did guide, Who while his rider every stand surveyed, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade; Not moving forward, yet, with every bound, Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground. What after passed Was far from the ventanna where I sate, But you were near, and can the truth relate. [To ABDELM. Abdelm. Thus while he stood, the bull, who saw his foe, His easier conquests proudly did forego; And, making at him with a furious bound, From his bent forehead aimed a double wound. A rising murmur ran through all the field, And every lady's blood with fear was chilled: Some shrieked, while others, with more help- ful care, Cried out aloud, " Beware, brave youth, be- ware ! " At this he turned, and, as the bull drew near, Shunned and received him on his pointed spear: The lance broke short, the beast then bel- lowed loud And his strong neck to a new onset bowed. The undaunted youth Then drew! and from his saddle bending low, Just where the neck did to the shoulders grow, With his full force discharged a deadly blow. Not heads of poppies (when they reap the grain) Fall with more ease before the laboring swain, Than fell this head: It fell so quick, it did even death prevent, And made imperfect bellowings as it went. Then all the trumpets victory did sound, And yet their clangors in our shouts were drown'd. [A confused noise within. Boab. The alarm-bell rings from our Al- hambra walls, And from the streets sound drums and atabals. [Within, a bell, drums, and trumpets. To them a Messenger. How now? from whence proceed these new alarms ? Mess. The two fierce factions are again in arms; And, changing into blood the day's delight, The Zegrys with the Abencerrages fight; On each side their allies and friends appear; The Macas here, the Alabezes there: The Gazuls with the Bencerrages join, And, with the Zegrys, all great Gomel's line. 12 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA ACT I, Sc. I. Boab. Draw up behind the Vivarambla place; Double my guards, these factions I will face; And try if all the fury they can bring, Be proof against the presence of their king. [Exit BOAB. The Factions appear: At the head of the Abencerrages, OZMYN; at the head of the Zegrys, ZULEMA, HAMET, GOMEL, and SELIN: ABENAMAR and ABDELME- LECH joined with the Abencerrages. Zul. The faint Abencerrages quit their ground; Press 'em; put home your thrusts to every wound. Abdelm. Zegry, on manly force our line relies; Thine poorly takes the advantage of sur- prise: Unarmed and much out-numbered we retreat; You gain no fame, when basely you defeat. If thou art brave, seek nobler victory; Save Moorish blood; and, while our bands stand by, Let two to two an equal combat try. Ham. 'Tis not for fear the combat we refuse, But we our gained advantage will not lose. Zul. In combating, but two of you will fall; And we resolve we will despatch you all. Ocm. We'll double yet the exchange be- fore we die, And each of ours two lives of yours shall buy. ALMANZOR enters betwixt them, as they stand ready to engage. Almanz. I cannot stay to ask which cause is best; But this is so to me, because opprest. [Goes to the Abencerrages. To them BOABDELIN and his Guards, going betwixt them. Boab. On your allegiance, I command you stay; Who passes here, through me must make his way; My life's the Isthmus; through this narrow line You first must cut, before those seas can join. What fury, Zegrys, has possessed your minds? What rage the brave Abencerrages blinds? If of your courage you new proofs would show, Without much travel you may find a foe. Those foes are neither so remote nor few, That you should need each other to pur- sue. Lean times and foreign wars should minds unite; When poor, men mutter, but they seldom fight. O holy Allah! that I live to see Thy Granadines assist their enemy ! You fight the Christians' battles; every life You lavish thus, in this intestine strife, Does from our weak foundations take one prop Which helped to hold our sinking country up. Ocin. 'Tis fit our private enmity should cease; Though injured first, yet I will first seek peace. Zul. No, murderer, no; I never will be won To peace with him, whose hand has slain my son. Ozm. Our prophet's curse On me, and all the Abencerrages light, If, unprovoked, I with your son did fight. Abdelm. A band of Zegrys ran within the place, Matched with a troop of thirty of our race. Your son and Ozmyn the first squadrons led, Which, ten by ten, like Parthians, charged and fled, The ground was strowed with canes where we did meet, Which crackled underneath our coursers' feet: When Tarifa (I saw him ride apart) Changed his blunt cane for a steel-pointed dart, And, meeting Ozmyn next, Who wanted time for treason to provide, He basely threw it at him, undefied. Ozm. [showing his arms}. Witness this blood which when by treason sought, That followed, sir, which to myself I ought. Zul. His hate to thee was grounded on a grudge, Which all our generous Zegrys just did judge: Thy villain-blood thou openly didst place Above the purple of our kingly race. Boab. From equal stems their blood both houses draw, They from Morocco, you from Cordova. Ham. Their mongrel race is mixed with Christian breed; Hence 'tis that they those dogs in prisons feed. Abdelm. Our holy prophet wills, that charity Should even to birds and beasts extended be: None knows what fate is for himself de- signed; The thought of human chance should make us kind. Com. We waste that time we to revenge should give: Fall on: let no Abencerrago live. [Advancing before the rest of his party. 13 ACT I, Sc. I. THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA ALMANZOR, advancing on the other side, and describing a line with his sword. Almans. Upon thy life pass not this mid- dle space; Sure death stands guarding the forbidden place. Com. To dare that death, I will approach yet nigher Thus, wert thou compassed in with circling fire. [They fight. Boab. Disarm 'em both; if they resist you, kill. ALMANZOR, in the midst of the Guards, kills GOMEL, and then is disarmed. Almans. Now you have but the leavings of my will. Boab. Kill him! this insolent unknown shall fall, And be the victim to atone you all. Ozm. If he must die, not one of us will live: That life he gave for us, for him we give. Boab. It was a traitor's voice that spoke those words; So are you all, who do not sheathe your swords. Zul. Outrage unpunished, when a prince is by, Forfeits to scorn the rights of majesty: No subject his protection can expect, Who what he owes himself does first neglect. Aben. This stranger, sir, is he, Who lately in the Vivarambla place Did, with so loud applause, your triumphs grace. Boab. The word which I have given, I'll not revoke; If he be brave, he's ready for the stroke. Almam. No man has more contempt than I of breath, But whence hast thou the right to give me death ? Obeyed as sovereign by thy subjects be, But know, that I alone am king of me. I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran. Boab. Since, then, no power above your own you know, Mankind should use you like a common foe; You should be hunted like a beast of prey: By your own law I take your life away. Almans. My laws are made but only for my sake; No king against himself a law can make. If thou pretend'st to be a prince like me, Blame not an act, which should thy pattern be. I saw the oppressed, and thought it did be- long To a king's office to redress the wrong: I brought that succor, which thou ought'st to bring, And so, in nature, am thy subjects' king. Boab. I do not want your counsel to di- rect, Or aid to help me punish or protect. Almans. Thou want'st 'em both, or better thou wouldst know, Than to let factions in thy kingdom grow. Divided interests, while thou think'st to sway, Draw, like two brooks, thy middle stream away: For though they band and jar, yet both com- bine To make their greatness by the fall of thine. Thus, like a buckler, thou art held in sight, While they behind thee with each other fight. Boab.. Away, and execute him instantly! [To Ins Guards. Almans. Stand off; I have not leisure yet to die. To them ABDALLA, hastily. Abdal. Hold, sir! for heaven sake hold! Defer this noble stranger's punishment, Or your rash orders you will soon repent. Boab. Brother, you know not yet his in- solence. Abdal. Upon yourself you punish his of- fence: If we treat gallant strangers in this sort, Mankind will shun the inhospitable court; And who, henceforth, to our defence will come, If death must be the brave Almanzor's doom ? From Africa I drew him to your aid, And for his succor have his life betrayed. Boab. Is this the Almanzor whom at Fez you knew, When first their swords the Xeriff brothers drew? Abdal. This, sir, is he, who for the elder fought, And to the juster cause the conquest brought; Till the proud Santo, seated in the throne, Disdained the service he had done to own: Then to the vanquished part his fate he led: The vanquished triumphed, and the victor fled. Vast is his courage, boundless is his mind, Rough as a storm, and humorous as wind: Honor's the only idol of his eyes; The charms of beauty like a pest he flies; And, raised by valor from a birth unknown, Acknowledges no power above his own. [BOABDELIN coming to ALMANZOR. Boab. Impute your danger to our igno- rance: The bravest men are subject most to chance: Granada much does to your kindness owe; But towns, expecting sieges, cannot show THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA ACT I, Sc. I. More honor, than to invite you to a foe. Almans. I do not doubt but I have been to blame: But, to pursue the end for which I came, Unite your subjects first; then let us go, And pour their common rage upon the foe. Boab. [to the Factions]. Lay down your arms, and let me beg you cease Your enmities. /.ul. We will not hear of peace, Till we by force have first revenged our slain. Abdelm. The action we have done we will maintain. Sclin. Then let the king depart, and we will try Our cause by arms. /.ul. For us and victory! Boab. A king entreats you. Almans. What subjects will precarious kings regard? A beggar speaks too softly to be heard: Lay down your arms! 'tis I command you now. Do it or, by our prophet's soul I vow, My hands shall right your king on him I seize. Now let me see whose look but disobeys. All. Long live king Mahomet Boabdelin! Almans. No more; but hushed as mid- night silence go: He will not have your acclamations now. Hence, you unthinking crowd! [The common people go off on both parties. Empire, thou poor and despicable thing, When such as these unmake or make a king! Abdal. How much great soul, of virtue lies in one [Embracing him. Whose single force can multitudes control! [A trumpet within. Enter a Messenger. Messen. The Duke of Arcos, sir, Does with a trumpet from the foe appear. Boab. Attend him; audience here. he shall have his Enter the DUKE OF ARCOS. Arcos. The monarchs of Castile D. Aragon and Have sent me to you, to demand this town, To which their just and rightful claim is known. Boab. Tell Ferdinand, my right to it ap- pears By long possession of eight hundred years: When first my ancestors from Afric sailed, In Rodrique's death your Gothic title failed. I>. Arcos. The successors of Rodrique still remain, And ever since have held some part of Spain: Even in the midst of your victorious powers, The Asturias, and all Portugal, were ours. You have no right, except you force allow; And if yours then was just, so ours is now. Boab. 'Tis true from force the noblest title springs; I therefore hold from that, which first made kings. D. Arcos. Since then* by force you prove your title true, Ours must be just, because we claim from you. When with your father you did jointly reign, Invading with your Moors the south of Spain, I, who that day the Christians did command, Then took, and brought you bound to Fer- dinand. Boab. I'll hear no more; defer what you would say: In private we'll discourse some other day. D. Arcos. Sir, you shall hear, however you are loth, That, like a perjured prince, you broke your oath: To gain your freedom you a contract signed, By which your crown you to my king re- signed, From thenceforth as his vassal holding it, And paying tribute such as he thought fit; Contracting, when your father came to die, To lay aside all marks of royalty, And at Purchena privately to live, Which, in exchange, king Ferdinand did give. Boab. The force used on me made that contract void. D. Arcos. Why have you then its benefits enjoyed ? By it you had not only freedom then, But, since, had aid of money and of men; And, when Granada for your uncle held, You were by us restored, and he expelled. Since that, in peace we let you reap your grain, Recalled our troops, that used to beat your plain; And more Almans. Yes, yes, you did with wondrous care, Against his rebels prosecute the war, While he secure in your protection slept; For him you took, but for yourselves you kept. Thus, as some fawning usurer does feed, With present sums, the unwary unthrift's need, You sold your kindness at a boundless rate, And then o'erpaid the debt from his estate; Which, mouldering piecemeal, in your hands did fall Till now at last you came to swoop it all. D. Arcos. The wrong you do my king I cannot bear; Whose kindness you would odiously com- pare. The estate was his; which yet, since you deny, 15 ACT II, Sc. I. THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA He's now content, in his own wrong, to buy. Almans. And he shall buy it dear what his he calls We will not give one stone from out these walls. Boab. Take this for answer, then, Whate'er your arms have conquered of my land, I will, for peace, resign to Ferdinand. To harder terms my mind I cannot bring; But, as I still have lived, will die a king. D. Areas. Since thus you have resolved, henceforth prepare For all the last extremities of war: My king his hope from heaven's assistance draws. Almans. The Moors have heaven, and me, to assist their cause. [Exit ARC-OS. Enter ESPERANZA. Esper. Fair Almahide, (Who did with weeping eyes these discords see, And fears the omen may unlucky be,) Prepares a zambra to be danced this night, In hope soft pleasures may your minds unite. Boab. My mistress gently chides the fault I made: But tedious business has my love delayed, Business, which dares the joys of kings in- vade. Almans. First let us sally out, and meet the foe. Abdal. Led on by you, we on to triumph Sfo. Boab. Then with the day let war and tumult cease; The night be sacred to our love and peace: 'Tis just some joys on weary kings should wait; 'Tis all we gain by being slaves of state. {Exeunt. ACT II SCENE I ABDALLA, ABDELMELECH, OZMYN, ZULEMA, and HAMET, as returning from the sally. Abdal. This happy day does to Granada bring A lasting peace, and triumphs to the king: The two fierce factions will no longer jar, Since they have now been brothers in the war. Those who, apart, in emulation fought, The common danger to one body brought; And, to his cost, the proud Castilian finds Our Moorish courage in united minds. Abdelm. Since to each other's aid our lives we owe, Lose we the name of faction, and of foe; Which I to Zulema can bear no more, Since Lyndaraxa's beauty I adore. Zul. I am obliged to Lyndaraxa's charms, Which gain the conquest I should lose by arms; And wish my sister may continue fair, That I may keep a good, Of whose possession I should else despai/. Osm. While we indulge our common hap- piness, He is forgot, by whom we all possess; The brave Almanzor, to whose arms we owe All that we did, and all that we shall do; Who, like a tempest, that outrides the wind, Made a just battle ere the bodies joined. Abdelm. His victories we scarce could keep in view, Or polish 'em so fast as he rough-drew. Abdal. Fate, after him, below with pain did move, And victory could scarce keep pace above: Death did at length so many slain forget, And lost the tale, and took 'em by the great. To them ALMANZOR with the DUKE OF ARCOS, prisoner. Hamet. See, here he comes, And leads in triumph him who did command The vanquished army of king Ferdinand. Almanz. [to the DUKE OF ARCOS]. Thus far your master's arms a fortune find Below the swelled ambition of his mind; And Allah shuts a misbeliever's reign From out the best and goodliest part of Spain. Let Ferdinand Calabrian conquests make, And from the French contested Milan take; Let him new worlds discover to the old, And break up shining mountains, big with gold; Yet he shall find this small domestic foe, Still sharp and pointed, to his bosom grow. L>. Areas. Of small advantages too much you boast; You beat the out-guards of my master's host: This little loss, in our vast body, shows So small, that half have never heard the news. Fame's out of breath, ere she can fly so far, To tell 'em all that you have e'er made war. Almanz. It pleases me your army is so great; For now I know there's more to conquer yet. By heaven, I'll see what troops you have behind: I'll face this storm, that thickens in the wind; And, with bent forehead, full against it go, Till I have found the last and utmost foe. D. Areas. Believe, you shall not long at- tend in vain: To-morrow's dawn shall cover all your plain; Bright arms shall flash upon you from afar, A wood of lances, and a moving war. But I, unhappy, in my bands, must yet Be only pleased to hear of your defeat, 16 THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA ACT II, Sc. I. And with a slave's inglorious ease remain, Till conquering Ferdinand has broke my chain. Almanz. Vain man, thy hopes of Ferdinand are weak! I hold thy chain too fast for him to break. But, since thou threaten'st us, I'll set thee free, That I again may fight, and conquer thee. D. Areas. Old as I am, I take thee at thy word, And will to-morrow thank thee with my sword. Almans. I'll go, and instantly acquaint the king, And sudden orders for thy freedom bring; Thou canst not be so pleased at liberty As I shall be to find thou dar'st be free. [Exeunt ALMANZOR, ARCOS, and the rest, excepting only ABDALLA and ZULEMA. Abdal. Of all those Christians who infest this town, This Duke of Arcos is of most renown. Zul. Oft have I heard, that in your father's reign, His bold adventurers beat the neighboring plain; Then under Ponce Leon's name he fought, And from our triumphs many prizes brought; Till in disgrace from Spain at length he went, And since continued long in banishment. Abdal. But see, your beauteous sifter does appear. To them LYNDARAXA. Zul. By my desire she came to find me here. [ZULEMA and LYNDARAXA whisper; then ZULEMA goes out, and LYNDARAXA is going after. Abdal. Why, fairest Lyndaraxa, do you fly [Staying her. A prince, who at your feet is proud to die? Lyndar. Sir, I should blush to own so rude a thing, [Staying. As 'tis to shun the brother of my king. Abdal. In my hard fortune I some ease should find, Did your disdain extend to all mankind. But give me leave to grieve, and to complain, That you give others what I beg in vain. Lyndar. Take my esteem, if you on that can live; For, frankly, sir, 'tis all I have to give: If from my heart you ask or hope for more, I grieve the place is taken up before. Abdal. My rival merits you. To Abdelmelech I will justice do; For he wants worth, who dares not praise a foe. Lyndar. That for his virtue, sir, you make defence, Shows in your own a noble confidence. But him defending, and excusing me, I know not what can your advantage be. Abdal. I fain would ask, ere I proceed in this, If, as by choice, you are by promise his? Lyndar. The engagement only in my love does lie, But that's a knot which you can ne'er untie. Abdal. When cities are besieged, and treat to yield, If there appear relievers from the field, The flag of parley may be taken down, Till the success of those without be known. Lyndar. Though Abdelmelech has not yet possest, Yet I have sealed the treaty for my breast. Abdal. Your treaty has not tied you to a day; Some chance might break it, would you but delay. If I can judge the secrets of your heart, Ambition in it has the greatest part; And wisdom, then, will show some difference Betwixt a private person and a prince. Lyndar. Princes are subjects still, Subject and subject can small difference bring: The difference is 'twixt subjects and a king. And since, sir, you are none, your hopes re- move; For less than empire I'll not change my love. Abdal. Had I a crown, all I should prize in it, Should be the power to lay it at your feet. Lyndar. Had you that crown which you but wish, not hope, Then I, perhaps, might stoop and take it up. But till your wishes and your hopes agree, You shall be still a private man with me. Abdal. If I am king, and if my brother die, Lyndar. Two if's scarce make one possi- bility. Abdal. The rule of happiness by reason scan; You may be happy with a private man. Lyndar. That happiness I may enjoy, 'tis true; But then that private man must not be you. Where'er I love, I'm happy in my choice; If I make you so, you shall pay my price. Abdal. Why would you be so great? Lyndar. Because I've seen, This day, what 'tis to hope to be a queen. Heaven, how you all watched each motion of her eye! None could be seen while Almahide was by, Because she is to be Her Majesty! Why would I be a queen? Because my face Would wear the title with a better grace. If I became it not, yet it would be Part of your duty, then, to flatter me. These are not half the charms of being great; I would be somewhat that I know not yet: Yes! I avow the ambition of my soul, 17 ACT II, Sc. I. THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA To be that one, to live without control! And that's another happiness to me, To be so happy as but one can be. Abdal. Madam, because I would all doubts remove, Would you, were I a king, accept my love? Lyndar. I would accept it; and, to show 'tis true, From any other man as soon as you. Abdal. Your sharp replies make me not love you less; But make me seek new paths to happiness. What I design, by time will best be seen: You may be mine, and yet may be a queen. so, your word your love When you are assures. Lyndar. Perhaps not love you, but I will be yours. [He offers to take her hand, and kiss it. Stay, sir, that grace I cannot yet allow, Before you set the crown upon my brow. That favor which you seek, Or Abdelmelech, or a king, must have; When you are so, then you may be my slave. [Exit; but looks smiling back on him. Abdal. Howe'er imperious in her words she were, Her parting looks had nothing of severe; A glancing smile allured me to command, And her soft fingers gently pressed my hand: I felt the pleasure glide through every part; Her hand went through me to my very heart. For such another pleasure, did he live, I could my father of a crown deprive. What did I say? Father! That impious thought has shocked my mind: How bold our passions are, and yet how blind! She's gone; and now, Methinks there is less glory in a crown: My boiling passions settle, and go down. Like amber chafed, when she is near, she acts; When farther off, inclines, but not attracts. To him ZULEMA. Assist me, Zulema, if thou wouldst be That friend thou seem'st, assist me against me. Betwixt my love and virtue I am tossed; This must be forfeited, or that be lost. I could do much to merit thy applause; Help me to fortify the better cause. My honor is not wholly put to flight, But would, if seconded, renew the fight. Zul. I met my sister, but I do not see What difficulty in your choice can be: She told me all; and 'tis so plain a case, You need not ask what counsel to embrace. Abdal. I stand reproved, that I did doubt at all; My waiting virtue stayed but for thy call: 'Tis plain that she, who, for a kingdom, now Would sacrifice her love, and break her vow, Not out of love, but interest, acts alone, And would, even in my arms, lie thinking of a throne. Zul. Add to the rest this one reflection more: When she is married, and you still adore, Think then and think what comfort it will bring She had been mine, Had I but only dared to be a king! Abdal. I hope you only would my honor try; I'm loth to think you virtue's enemy. a crown and mistress are Zul. If, when in place, Virtue intrudes, with her lean holy face, Virtue's then mine, and not I virtue's foe. Why does she come where she has nought to do? Let her with anchorites, not with lovers, lie; Statesmen and they keep better company. Abdal. Reason was given to curb our headstrong will. Zul. Reason but shows a weak physician's skill; Gives nothing, while the raging fit does last, But stays to cure it, when the worst is past. Reason's a staff for age, when nature's gone; But youth is strong enough to walk alone. Abdal. In cursed ambition I no rest should find, But must for ever lose my peace of mind. Zul. Methinks that peace of mind were bravely lost. A crown, whate'er we give, is worth the cost. Abdal. Justice distributes to each man his right; But what she gives not, should I take by might? Zul. If justice will take all, and nothing give, Justice, methinks, is not distributive. Abdal. Had fate so pleased, I had been eldest born, And then, without a crime, the crown had worn. Zul. Would you so please, fate yet a way would find; Man makes his fate according to his mind. The weak low spirit fortune makes her slave; But she's a drudge when hectored by the brave : If fate weaves common thread, he'll change the doom, And with new purple spread a nobler loom. Abdal. No more! I will usurp the royal seat; Thou, who hast made me wicked, make me great. Zul. Your way is plain: the death of Tarifa Does on the king our Zegrys* hatred draw; 18 THE CONQUEST OP GRANADA ACT III, Sc. I. Though with our enemies in show we close, Tis but while we to purpose can be foes. Selin, who heads us, would revenge his son; But favor hinders justice to be done. Proud Ozmyn with the king his power main- tains, And in him each Abencerrago reigns. Abdal. What face of any title can I bring? Zul. The right an eldest son has to be king. Your father was at first a private man, And got your brother ere his reign began: When, by his valor, he the crown had won, Then you were born, a monarch's eldest son. Abdal. To sharp-eyed reason this would seem untrue; But reason I through love's false optics view. Zul. Love's mighty power has led me captive too; I am in it unfortunate as you. Abdal. Our loves and fortunes shall to- gether go; Thou shalt be happy, when I first am so. ZuL The Zegrys at old Selin's house are met, Where, in close council, for revenge they sit: There we our common interest will unite; You their revenge shall own, and they your right. One thing I had forgot which may import: I met Almanzor coming back from court, But with a discomposed and speedy pace, A fiery color kindling all his face: The king his prisoner's freedom has denied, And that refusal has provoked his pride. Abdal. Would he were ours! I'll try to gild the injustice of his cause, And court his valor with a vast applause. Zul. The bold are but the instruments o' the wise; They undertake the dangers we advise: And, while our fabric with their pains we raise, We take the profit, and pay them with praise. [Exeunt. ACT III SCENE I ALMANZOR and ABDALLA. Almanz. That he should dare to do me this disgrace ! Is fool or coward writ upon my face? Refuse my prisoner! I such means will use, He shall not have a prisoner to refuse. Abdal. He said you were not by your promise tied; That he absolved your word, when he denied. Almanz. He break my promise and ab- solve my vow! 'Tis more than Mahomet himself can do! The word which I have given shall stand like fate; the king's, that weathercock of Not like state. He stands so high, with so unfixed a mind, Two factions turn him with each blast of wind: But now, he shall not veer! My word is passed; I'll take his heart by the roots, and hold it fast. Abdal. You have your vengeance in your hand this hour; Make me the humble creature of your power: The Granadines will gladly me obey Tired with so base and impotent a sway; And, when I show my title, you shall see I have a better right to reign than he. Almanz. It is sufficient that you make the claim ; You wrong our friendship when your right you name. When for myself I fight, I weigh the cause, But friendship will admit of no such laws: That weighs by the lump; and, when the cause is light, Puts kindness in to set the balance right. True, I would wish my friend the juster side; B_uJk__jn__the unjust, my kindness mpre__is_ tried; And all the opposition I can bri fear to make you such a kir pea-hens in a passion," and declare that " Shakspere would never have opposed the capti- vating, brilliant and meretricious Cleopatra to the noble and chaste Octavia." On the other hand Furness praises the dignity of the scene and Churton Collins regards it as perhaps finer than anything which the stage had seen since Massinger. Certainly, a comparison between this scene and the " heroic " treatment of a very similar situation in The Rival Queens by Nat Lee invites only admiration for Dryden's self-restraint. In the author's own discussion of the mooted passage, he places himself frankly on the side of illicit love. " I had not enough considered," he writes in his Preface, "that the compassion she [Octavia] moved to herself and children was 40 ALL FOR LOVE destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra, whose mutual love being founded upon vice must lessen the favor of the audience to them when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it." Here in art as in ethics the caterer to depraved Restoration palates is guilty of as great an error as Keats in his Lamia. The moral topsey-turveydom of the drama is ap- parent not in this single scene in which our sympathies are unwittingly diverted to the side of right, but in all the others in which our bias leans rather to the side of wrong. Not undeserved by Dryden was Lowell's cen- sure: "He who .was of a stature to snatch the torch of life that flashes from lifted hand to hand along the generations over the heads of inferior men chose rather to be a link-boy to the stews." With the severest criticism directed against All for Love that the strug- gle is over as Antony is already lost, and that hence the action is narrative rather than dramatic the present editors cannot agree. The struggle is not over. Antony's better angel, Ventidius, has power over him yet, and at the end of the first act wins him for a while from his allegiance to Cleopatra. Then the Queen, through the force of her charms, wins him back. But her final victory is not yet gained, for the hero's wife and children so appeal to his heart that they lose him at last only through a strategic mistake, which, by inflaming his jealousy, fans his passion for the Egyptian. Thus through- out the drama and the theme is essentially dramatic the forces of good and of ill wage doubtful battle for possession of the hero. All this is surely not " episodic," but shows the highest constructive skill. Until the final act all is not lost. Chiefly in the persons of the drama is Dryden's inferiority to his model palpably revealed. The limitation of time to the protagonists' last day, in accord with the conventional compass of pseudo-classic tragedy, is responsible for the changed conception of Antony : now no longer a Colossus astride the Roman world, but a bankrupt of fortune and honor, penned in a corner; no more an imperial-minded captain swayed by convulsive passions that shake the wide earth, but a broken voluptuary, a " sighing swain of Arcadia," a victim struggling in the snare of sentimental infatuation; not an eager-hearted Antony, splendid master of opportunity, but an Antony in the fell clutch of circumstance, whose wavering spirit yields to weakness in its final hour and hence forfeits all. And Cleopatra " every man's Cleo- patra"? Every man's but Shakspere's ! What age and custom could not inflict upon the rare Egyptian has been wrought by Dryden at the dictation of contemporary " heroic " convention. Her infinite variety is staled in response to critic Rymer's preposterous decree that " Tragedy cannot rep- resent a woman, without modesty as natural and essential to her." And so " the serpent of old Nile " suffers change to " A silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit." 41 ALL FOR LOVE Of all the clashing elements that compose that " wonderful piece of work," charm, cruelty, caprice, wit, wiles, fierce fickleness, and tender faith, only the last abides in the stock heroine of Restoration drama, the fond maiden who vaunts a whole life's truth. " Cleopatra is wretched," says Churton Collins bluntly of Dryden's ideal queen; and the critics dazzled by her brilliant prototype concur. Sir Walter Scott, always very kind to our drama, declares that " the in- ferior characters are better supported in Dryden than in Shakspere." A just claim perhaps, as the earlier tragedy offers no mates to Ventidius, Alexas, and Dolabella. But Scott's praise of the omission of " low buffoonery as in Ehobarbus" awakes no echo, as that worldly wis'e cynic in his double role of foil and chorus is such a favorite with many that nothing in Dryden compensates us for his absence. That the later Octavia is " cold, selfish, and unamiable " few will deny who view her only as Cleopatra's rival. In the more gracious role of wife and mother, she is tender and forgiving. A word or two now of Dryden's style. The noble blank verse of All for Love confesses a double influence : the inspiration of the organic meter of Shakspere's ripest period, when meaning and movement are in perfect harmony ; and the restraint imposed upon Dryden by fourteen years of rime. Hence springs a rhythm full free and yet severe, contrasting loftily with the loose unrimed verse of his own comedies and the blank iambics of the weaker romantic dramatists. Dryden's language in his greatest play is sig- nally energetic and sonorous revealing a rotundity of utterance that is never more splendidly effective than in the opening speeches of Serapion. Here and often elsewhere we are reminded of Gray's description of Dryden's ethereal coursers, " with necks in thunder clothed and long-resounding pace." Sometimes significant phrasings smack of invasions into Shakspere's plays other than the immediate model. " I hope I may affirm and without vanity, that by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play." Perhaps the chief distinction of All for Love is its illustrious stage- history. It crowded from the boards its nobler original for#iftore than a century. During this period Antony was presented by such actors as Hart, Betterton, Booth, and Kemble, and Cleopatra by Mrs. Barry, Nance Oldfield, Peg Woffington, and Mrs. Siddons. Dryden's drama was played in \Phila- delphia in 1767 and in New York in 1768. Since its revival at Bath by Conway in 1818, All for Love has disappeared from the stage. 42 ALL FOR LOVE ALL FOR LOVE OR THE WORLD WELL LOST A Tragedy PROLOGUE What flocks of critics hover here to-day, As vultures wait on armies for their prey, All gaping for the carcase of a play! With croaking notes they bode some dire event, And follow dying poets by the scent. Ours gives himself for gone; y' have watched your time: He fights this day unarmed, without his rhyme; And brings a tale which often has been told ; As sad as Dido's ; and almost as old. His hero, whom you wits his bully call, Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all : He's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind; Weeps much ; fights little ; but is wondrous kind. In short, a pattern, and companion fit, For all the keeping Tonics of the pit. I could name more: a wife, and mistress too; Both (to be plain) too good for most of you: The wife well-natured, and the mistress true. Now, poets, if your fame has been his care, Allow him all the candor you can spare. A brave man scorns to quarrel once a-day; Like Hectors in at every petty fray. Let those find fault whose wit's so very small, They've need to show that they can think at all; Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow ; He who would search for pearls, must dive below. Fops may have leave to level all they can ; As pigmies would be glad to lop a man. Half-wits are fleas ; so little and so light, We scarce could know they live, but that they bite. But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts, For change, become their next poor tenant's guests; 43 ACT 1, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls, And snatch the homely rasher from the coals : So you, retiring from much better cheer, For once, may venture to do penance here. And since that plenteous autumn now is past, Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste, Take in good part, from our poor poet's board, Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford. DRAMATIS PERSONS MARK ANTONY. VENTIDIUS, his General. DOLABELLA, his Friend. ALEXAS, the Queen's Eunuch. SERAPION, Priest of Isis. MYRIS, another Priest. Servants to Antony. CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt. OCTAVIA, Antony's Wife. CHARMION, I .~, . . , ,, . , , ' > Cleopatra s Maids. Antony's two little Daughters. SCENE. ALEXANDRIA. ACT I SCENE I. The Temple of Isis. Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis. Serap. Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruit- ful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Even of the hinds that watched it; men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew On the utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocae panted on the shore; Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails, Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by 'em, Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud, Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about 'em. Enter ALEXAS behind them. Myr. Avert these omens, Heaven ! Serap. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, " Egypt is no more ! " My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene. Alex, [showing himself}. And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train 'em up, betimes, in fear of priest- hood? Serap. My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what I uttered was most true. Alex. A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury. Serap. I know my duty: This goes no farther. Alex. 'Tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. AH southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening, like a storm Just breaking on our heads. Serap. Our faint Egyptians pray for An- tony; 44 ALL FOR LOVE ACT I, Sc. I. But in their servile hearts they own Octa- vius. Myr. Why then does Antony dream out his hours, And tempts not fortune for a noble day, Which might redeem what Actium lost? Alex. He thinks 'tis past recovery. Serap. Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege. Alex. Oh, there's the wonder. Maecenas and Agrippa, who can most With Caesar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: Yet still war seems on either side to sleep. Serap. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis' temple, lives retired, And makes his heart a prey to black de- spair. Alex. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence To cure his mind of love. Serap. If he be vanquished, Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be A Roman province; and our plenteous har- vests Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat), And Fortune striding, like a vast Colossus, Could fix an equal foot of empire here. Alex. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature, Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish, perish, Each by the other's sword; but, since our will Is lamely followed by our power, we must Depend on one; with him to rise or fall. Serap. How stands the queen affected? Alex. O, she dotes, She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man, And winds herself about his mighty ruins; Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, She might preserve us all; but 'tis in vain This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, And makes me use all means to keep him here, Whom I could wish divided from her arms, Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know The state of things; no more of your ill omens And black prognostics; labor to confirm The people's hearts. Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentle- man of ANTONY'S. Serap. These Romans will o'erhear us. But, who's that stranger? By his warlike port, His fierce demeanor, and erected look, He's of no vulgar note. Alex. Oh 'tis Ventidius, Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East, Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered. When Antony returned from Syria last, He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers. Serap. You seem to know him well. Alex. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony: A mortal foe he was to us, and Egypt. But, let me witness to the worth I hate, A braver Roman never drew a sword; Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave. He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides O'er all his cooler hours, and morning coun- sels: In short the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him. His coming bodes I know not what of ill To our affairs. Withdraw, to mark him bet- ter; And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work. [They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS, with the other, comes forward to the front. Vent. Not see him, say you? I say, I must, and will. Gent. He has commanded, On pain of death, none should approach his presence. Vent. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits* Give him new ife. Gent. He sees not Cleopatra. Vent. Would he had never seen her! Gent. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use Of anything, but thought; or, if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pass; Sometimes he gnaws his lip, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth Into a scornful smile, and cries, " Take all, The world's not worth my care." Vent. Just, just his nature. Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide. And bounds into a vice, that bears him far From his first course, and plunges him in ills: 45 ACT I, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE But, when his danger makes him find his fault, Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, He censures eagerly his own misdeeds, Judging himself with malice to himself, And not forgiving what as man he did, Because his other parts are more than man. He must not thus be lost. [.\LEXAS and the Priests come forward. Alex. You have your full instructions, now advance; Proclaim your orders loudly. Serap. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command. Thus Cleopatra bids: " Let labor cease; To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's." Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live! Be this the general voice sent up to heaven, And every public place repeat this echo. Vent, [aside]. Fine pageantry! Serap. Set out before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreathe your posts, And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, And call the gods to join with you in glad- ness. Vent. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! Can they be friends of Antony, who revel When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame, You Romans, your great grandsires' images, For fear their souls should animate their marbles, To blush at their degenerate progeny. Alex. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony, Would mark the day with honors, when all heaven Labored for him, when each propitious star Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour, And shed his better influence. Her own birthday Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate, That passed obscurely by. Vent. Would it had slept, Divided far from his; till some remote And future age had called it out, to ruin Some other prince, not him ! Alex. Your emperor. Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well. Vent. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest? He knows him not his executioner. Oh, she has decked his ruin with her love, Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, And made perdition pleasing; she has left him The blank of what he was. I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him. Can any Roman see, and know him now, Thus altered from the lord of half mankind, Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honors, And crampt within a corner of the world? O Antony! Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends ! Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God! Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give 'em, As bounty were thy being: rough in battle, As the first Romans when they went to war; Yet, after victory, more pitiful Than all their praying virgins left at home! Alex. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues, His truth to her who loves him. Vent. Would I could not! But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee! Thou art her darling mischief, her chief en- gine, Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets. You dare not fight for Antony; go pray And keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION. Enter a second Gentleman of M. ANTONY. 2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay, i Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other. Vent. Well, I dare. But I'll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humor drives: the rest I'll venture. [ With draws. Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks. Ant. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Caesar? Vent, [aside]. On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful! A tit. Count thy gains. Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this? ALL FOR LOVE ACT I, Sc. I. Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starved thy wanting age. Vent, [aside]. How sorrow shakes him! So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, And on the ground extends the noble ruin. Ant. [having thrown himself down]. Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place thou pressest on thy mother earth Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar; Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. Give me some music: look that it be sad: I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell, And burst myself with sighing. [Soft music. 'Tis somewhat to my humor: stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature, Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece as I grew from it; My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot. Vent. Methinks I fancy Myself there too. Ant. The herd come jumping by me, And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen. More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [Soft music again. Vent. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. [Stands before him. Ant. [starting up}. Art thou Ventidius? Vent. Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last. Ant. I'm angry. Vent. So am I. Ant. I would be private: leave me. Vent. Sir, I love you, And therefore will not leave you. Ant. Will not leave me! Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I? Vent. My emperor; the man I love next heaven ; If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin; You're all that's good, and god-like. Ant. All that's wretched. You will not leave me then? Vent. 'Twas too presuming To say I would not; but I dare not leave you: And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you. Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; And, if a foe, too much. Vent, [weeping]. Look, emperor, this is no common dew. I have not wept this forty year; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes; I cannot help her softness. Ant. By heaven, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ven- tidius, Or I shall blush to death; they set my shame, That caused 'em, full before me. Vent. I'll do my best. Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine. Nay, father! Vent. Emperor. Ant. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory; The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so: but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. Vent. I warrant you. Ant. Actium, Actium! Oh! Vent. It sits too near you. Ant. Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slum- bers, The hag that rides my dreams. Vent. Out with it; give it vent. Ant. Urge not my shame. I lost a battle, Vent. So has Julius done. ,/;,'/. Thou favor'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly: But Antony Vent. Nay, stop not. Ant. Antony, Well, thou wilt have it, like a coward, fled, Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius. Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave. I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. Vent. I did. 47 ACT I. Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Ant. I'll help thee. I have been a man, Ventidius. Vent. Ye*, and a brave one; but Ant. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. In the full vintage of my flowing honors, Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, And purple greatness met my ripened years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs; The wish of nations, and the willing world Received me as its pledge of future peace; I was so great, so happy, so beloved, Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains, And worked against my fortune, chid her from me, And turned her loose; yet still she came again. My careless days, and my luxurious nights, At length have wearied her, and now she's gone, Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who labored to be wretched: pr'ythee, curse me. Vent. Ant. Vent. No. Why? You are too sensible already Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings ; And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. Ant. I know thou would'st. Vent. I will. Ant. Vent. Ant. You laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I do, to see officious love Give cordials to the dead. Vent. You would be lost, then ? Ant. I am. Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune. Ant. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate, Without just cause? No, when I found all lost Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, And learnt to scorn it her ; which now I do So heartily, I think it is not worth The cost of keeping. Vent. Caesar thinks not so; He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. You would be killed like Tully, would you? Do, Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely. Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. Vent. I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, To fight, to conquer. Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius. Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honor's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief; by painful journeys I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces, Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in 'em. They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring 'em hither; There may be life in these. Vent. They will not come. Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. Vent. Most firm and loyal. Ant. Yet they will not march To succor me. O trifler! Vent. They petition You would make haste to head them. Ant. I'm besieged. Vent. There's but one way shut up: how came I hither? Ant. I will not stir. Vent. They would perhaps desire A better reason. Ant. I have never used My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Ant. What was't they said? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province. Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license On all my other faults; but, on your life, 48 ALL FOR LOVE ACT I, Sc. I. No word of Cleopatra; she deserves More worlds than I can lose. Vent. Behold, you Powers, To whom you have intrusted humankind! See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance, And all weighed down by one light, worth- less woman ! I think the gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this netheY world away To none but wasteful hands. Ant. You grow presumptuous. Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence ! Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall. that thou wert my equal; great in arms As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee Without a stain to honor! Vent. You may kill me; You have done more already, called me traitor. Ant. Art thou not one? Vent. For showing you yourself, Which none else durst have done? but had I been That name, which I disdain to speak again, 1 needed not have sought your abject for- tunes, Come to partake your fate, to die with you. What hindered me to have led my conquer- ing eagles To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor, And not have been so called. Ant. Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate. Vent. You thought me false; Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir, Pray, kill me; yet you need not, your un- kindness Has left your sword no work. Ant. I did not think so; I said it in my rage: pr'ythee, forgive me. Why didst thou tempt my anger, by dis- covery Of what I would not hear? Vent. No prince but you Could merit that sincerity I used, Nor durst another man have ventured it; But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, Were sure the chief and best of human race, Framed in the very pride and boast of nature; So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered At their own skill, and cried, " A lucky hit Has mended our design." Their envy hin- dered, Else you had been immortal, and a pattern, When Heaven would work for ostentation sake To copy out again. Ant. But Cleopatra- Go on; for I can bear it now. Vent. No more. Ant. Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st; Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word! May I believe you love me? Speak again. Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. [Hugging him. Thy praises were unjust; but, I'll deserve 'em, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory! thou know'st the way. Vent. And, will you leave this Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her, And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I love Beyond life, conquest, empire, all but honor; But I will leave her. Vent. That's my royal master; And, shall we fight? Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier, Thou shalt behold me once again in iron; And at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud, " Come, follow me! " Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor! in that word Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day, And, if I have ten years behind, take all: I'll thank you for the exchange. Ant. O Cleopatra! Vent. Again ? -'"'. I've done: In that last sigh she went. Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear. Vent. Methinks, you breathe Another soul: your looks are more divine; You speak a hero, and you move a god. //;//. Oh, thou hast fired me: my soul's up in arms, And mans each part about me. Once again, That noble eagerness of fight has seized me; That eagerness with which I darted up- ward To Cassius' camp: in vain the steepy hill Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears Sung round my head, and planted on my shield; I won the trenches, while my foremost men Lagged on the plain below. Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honor! Ant. Come on, my soldier! 49 ACT II, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Our hearts and arms are still the same: I long Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I, Like Time and Death, marching before our mow 'em out a pas- troops, May taste fate to sage, And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield, Begin the noble harvest of the field. [Exeunt. ACT II SCENE I Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS. Clco. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn? Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go. Alex. He goes to fight for you. Cleo. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight: Flatter me not; if once he goes, he's lost, And all my hopes destroyed. Alex. Does this weak passion Become a mighty queen? Cleo. I am no queen: Is this to be a queen, to be besieged By yon insulting Roman, and to wait Each hour the victor's chain ? These ills are small: For Antony is lost, and I can mourn For nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius, I have no more to lose! prepare thy bands; I'm fit to be a captive; Antony Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave. Iras. Call reason to assist you. Cleo. I have none, And none would have; my love's a noble madness, Which shows the cause deserved it. Mod- erate sorrow Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man: But I have loved with such transcendent passion, I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view, And now am lost above it. No, I'm proud 'Tis thus: would Antony could see me now! Think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me? Sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured, And bears a tender heart: I know him well. Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once, But now 'tis past. Iras. Let it be past with you: Forget him, madam. Cleo. Never, never, Iras. He once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone, Leaves a faint image of possession still. Alex. Think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful. Cleo. I cannot: if I could, those thoughts were vain. Faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be, I still must love him. Enter CHARMION. Now, what news, my Charmion? Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? Am I to live, or die? nay, do I live? Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer, Fate took the word, and then I lived or died. Char. I found him, madam Cleo. A long speech preparing? If thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me, For never was more need. Iras. I know he loves you. Clco. Had he been kind, her eyes had told me so, Before her tongue could speak it; now she studies, To soften what he said; but give me death, Just as he sent it, Charmion, undisguised, And in the words he spoke. Char. I found him, then, Encompassed round, I think, with iron statues; So mute, so motionless his soldiers stood, While awfully he cast his eyes about, And every leader's hopes or fears surveyed; Methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased. When he beheld me struggling in the crowd, He blushed, and bade make way. Alex. There's comfort yet. Char. Ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage Severely, as he meant to frown me back, And sullenly gave place; I told my message, Just as you gave it, broken and disordered; I numbered in it all your sighs and tears, And while I moved your pitiful request, That you but only begged a last farewell, He fetched an inward groan; and every time I named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking, But, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down; He seemed not now that awful Antony, Who shook an armed assembly with his nod; But, making show as he would rub his eyes, Disguised and blotted out a falling tear. Cleo. Did he then weep? And was I worth a tear? If what thou hast to say be not as pleasing, Tell me no more, but let me die contented. Char. He bid me say, he knew himself so well, He could deny you nothing, if he saw you; And therefore Clco. Thou wouldst say, he would not see me? 50 ALL FOR LOVE ACT II, Sc. I. Char. And therefore begged you not to use a power, Which he could ill resist; yet he should ever Respect you, as he ought. Cleo. Is that a word For Antony to use to Cleopatra? that faint word, respect! how I disdain it! Disdain myself, for loving after it! He should have kept that word for cold Octavia. Respect is for a wife; am I that thing, That dull, insipid lump, without desires, And without power to give 'em? Alex. You misjudge; You see through love, and that deludes your sight; As, what is straight, seems crooked through the water; But I, who bear my reason undisturbed, Can see this Antony, this dreaded man, A fearful slave, who fain wouid turn away, And shuns his master's eyes: if you pur- sue him, My life on't, he still drags a chain along. That needs must clog his flight. Cleo. Could I believe thee! Alex. By every circumstance I know he loves. True, he's hard prest, by interest and by honor; Yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out Many a long look for succor. Cleo. He sends word, He fears to see my face. Alex. And would you more? He shows his weakness who declines the combat, And you must urge your fortune. Could he speak More plainly? To my ears, the message sounds " Come to my rescue, Cleopatra, come; Come, free me from Ventidius; from my tyrant: See me, and give me a pretence to leave him ! " 1 hear his trumpets. This way he must pass. Please you, retire a while; I'll work him first, That he may bend more easy. Cleo. You shall rule me; But all, I fear, in vain. [Exit with CHARM ION and IRAS. Alex. I fear so too; Though I concealed my thoughts, to make her bold; But 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it! [Withdraws. [Enter Lictors with Fasces; one bearing the Eagle; then enter ANTONY with VEN- TIDIUS, followed by other Com- manders. Ant. Octavius is the minion of blind chance, But holds from virtue nothing. Vent. Has he courage? Ant. But just enough to season him from coward. Oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge, The most deliberate fighter! if he ventures (As in Illyria once, they say, he did, To storm a town), 'tis when he cannot choose; When all the world have fixt their eyes upon him; And then he lives on that for seven years after; But, at a close revenge he never fails. Vent. I heard you challenged him. Ant. I did, Ventidius. What think'st thou was his answer? 'Twas so tame ! He said, he had more ways than one to die; I had not. Vent. Poor! Ant. He has more ways than one; But he would choose them all before that one. Vent. He first would choose an ague, or a fever. Ant. No; it must be an ague, not a fever; He has not warmth enough to die by that. Vent. Or old age and a bed. Ant. Ay, there's his choice, He would live, like a lamp, to the last wink, And crawl upon the utmost verge of life. Hercules! Why should a man like this, Who dares not trust his fate for one great action, Be all the care of Heaven? Why should he lord it O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one Is braver than himself? Vent. You conquered for him: Philippi knows it; there you shared with him That empire, which your sword made all your own. Ant. Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings 1 bore this wren, till I was tired with soar- ing, And now he mounts above me. Good heavens, is this, is this the man who braves me ? Who bids my age make way? Drives me before him, To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish ? Vent. Sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all. Ant. Then give the word to march: I long to leave this prison of a town, To join thy legions; and, in open field, 51 ACT II, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Once more to show my face. Lead, my deliverer. Enter ALEXAS. Alex. Great emperor, In mighty arms renowned above mankind, But, in soft pity to the opprest, a god; This message sends the mournful Cleopatra To her departing lord. Vent. Smooth sycophant! Alex. A thousand wishes, and ten thou- sand prayers, Millions of blessings wait you to the wars; Millions of sighs and tears she sends you too, And would have sent As many dear embraces to your arms, As many parting kisses to your lips; But those, she fears, have wearied you al- ready. Vent, [aside]. False crocodile! Alex. And yet she begs not now, you would not leave her; That were a wish too mighty for her hopes, Too presuming For her low fortune, and your ebbing love; That were a wish for her more prosperous days, Her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness. Ant. [aside]. Well, I must man it out: what would the queen? Alex. First, to these noble warriors, who attend Your daring courage in the chase of fame, Too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet, She humbly recommends all she holds dear, All her own cares and fears, the care of you. Vent. Yes, witness Actium. Ant. Let him speak, Ventidius. Alex. You, when his matchless valor bears him forward, With ardor too heroic, on his foes, Fall down, as she would do, before his feet; Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death: Tell him, this god is not invulnerable; That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him; And, that you may remember her petition, She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn, Which, at your wished return, she will re- deem [Gives jewels to the Commanders. With all the wealth of Egypt; This to the great Ventidius she presents, Whom she can never count her enemy, Because he loves her lord. Vent. Tell her, I'll none on't; I'm not ashamed of honest poverty; Not all the diamonds of the East can bribe Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see These and the rest of all her sparkling store, Where they shall more deservingly be placed. Ant. And who must wear 'em then? Vent. The wronged Octavia. Ant. You might have spared that word. Vent. And he that bribe. Ant. But have I no remembrance? Alex. Yes, a dear one; Your slave the queen Ant. My mistress. Alex. Then your mistress; Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul, But that you had long since; she humbly begs This ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts, (The emblems of her own), may bind your arm. [Presenting a bracelet. Vent. Now, my best lord, in honor's name, I ask you, For manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety, Touch not these poisoned gifts, Infected by the sender; touch 'em not; Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath 'em, And more than aconite has dipt the silk. Ant. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius: A lady's favors may be worn with honor. What, to refuse her bracelet! On my soul, When I lie pensive in my tent alone, 'Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights, To tell these pretty beads upon my arm, To count for every one a soft embrace, A melting kiss at such and such a time, And now and then the fury of her love, When And what harm's in this? Alex. None, none, my lord, But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever. Ant. [going to tie it]. We soldiers are so awkward help me tie it. Alex. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward In these affairs; so are all men indeed: Even I, who am not one. But shall I speak ? Ant. Yes, freely. Alex. Then, my lord, fair hands alone Are fit to tie it; she, who sent it can. Vent. Hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you. You will not see her? [ALEXAS whispers an Attendant, who goes out. Ant. But to take my leave. I'cnt. Then I have washed an /Ethiop. You're undone; You're in the toils; you're taken; you're destroyed: Her eyes do Caesar's work. Ant. You fear too soon. I'm constant to myself: I know my strength; And yet she shall not think me barbarous neither, Born in the depths of Afric; I'm a Roman, Bred in the rules of soft humanity. 52 ALL FOR LOVE ACT II, Sc. I. A guest, and kindly used, should bid fare- well. Vent. You do not know How weak you are to her, how much an infant; You are not proof against a smile, or glance; A sigh will quite disarm you. Ant. See, she comes! Now you shall find your error. Gods, I thank you: I formed the danger greater than it was, And now 'tis near, 'tis lessened. Vent. Mark the end yet. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS. Ant. Well, madam, we are met. Clco. Is this a meeting? Then, we must part? Ant. We must. Cleo. Who says we must? A nt. Our own hard fates. Cleo. We make those fates ourselves. Ant. Yes, we have made 'em; we have loved each other, Into our mutual ruin. Cleo. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes; I have no friends in heaven; and all the world, (As 'twere the business of mankind to part us), Is armed against my love; even you your- self Join with the rest; you, you are armed against me. Ant. I will be justified in all I do To late posterity, and therefore hear me. If I mix a lie With any truth, reproach me freely with it; Else, favor me with silence. Cleo. You command me, And I am dumb. Vent. I like this well; he shows authority. Ant. That I derive my ruin From you alone Cleo. O heavens! I ruin you! Ant. You promised me your silence, and you break it Ere I have scarce begun. Cleo. Well, I obey you. Ant. When I beheld you first, it was in Egypt, Ere Caesar saw your eyes; you gave me love, And were too young to know it; that I settled Your father in his throne, was for your sake; I left the acknowledgment for time to ripen. Cassar stept in, and, with a greedy hand, Plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red, Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my lord, And was, beside, too great for me to rival; But, I deserved you first, though he en- joyed you. When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia, An enemy to Rome, I pardoned you. Cleo. I cleared myself Ant. Again you break your promise. I loved you still, and took your weak ex- cuses, Took you into my bosom, stained by Caesar, And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you, And hid me from the business of the world, Shut out inquiring nations from my sight, To give whole years to you. Vent, [aside]. Yes, to your shame be't spoken. Ant. How I loved, Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours, That danced away with down upon your feet, As all your business were to count my pas- sion! One day passed by, and nothing saw but love; Another came, and still 'twas only love: The suns were wearied out with looking on, And I untired with loving. I saw you every day, and all the day; And every day was still but as the first, So eager was I still to see you more. Vent. 'Tis all too true. .Int. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous, As she indeed had reason, raised a war In Italy, to call me back. Vent. But yet You went not. Ant. While within your arms I lay, The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, And left me scarce a grasp I thank your love for't. Vent. Well pushed: that last was home. Cleo. Yet may I speak? Ant. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died, (Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died) ; To set the world at peace, I took Octavia, This Caesar's sister; in her pride of youth, And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady, Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her. You called; my love obeyed the fatal sum- mons: This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours. I would have fought by land, where I was stronger; You hindered it; yet, when I fought at sea, Forsook me fighting; and (O stain to honor! O lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled; But fled to follow you. 53 ACT II, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE /,-'.,'. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails ! And, to appear magnificent in flight, Drew half our strength away. Ant. All this you caused. And, would you multiply more ruins on me? This honest man, my best, my only friend, Has gathered up the shipwreck of my for- tunes; Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits. And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes To seize them too. If you have aught to answer, Now speak, you have free leave. Alex, [aside]. She stands confounded: Despair is in her eyes. Vent. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage: Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; 'Tis like they shall be sold. Clco. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge, Already have condemned me? Shall I bring The love you bore me for my advocate? That now is turned against me, that de- stroys me; For ' love, once past, is, at the best, for- gotten; But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty. But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you, That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes, Into my faults, severe to my destruction, And watching all advantages with care, That serve to make me wretched? Speak, my lord, For I end here. Though I deserved this usage, Was it like you to give it? Ant. O, you wrong me, To think I sought this parting, or desired To accuse you more than what will clear myself, And justify this breach. Cleo. Thus low I thank you; And, since my innocence will not offend, I shall not blush to own it. Vent. After this, I think she'll blush at nothing. Cleo. You seemed grieved (And therein you are kind), that Caesar first Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better; I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you; For, had I first been yours, it would have saved My second choice: I never had been his, And ne'er had been but yours. But Caesar first, You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord: He first possessed my person; you, my love: Cesar loved me; but I loved Antony. If I endured him after, 'twas because I judged it due to the first name of men; And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant, What he would take by force. Vent. O Siren! Siren! Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, Has she not ruined you? I still urge that, The fatal consequence. Clco. The consequence indeed, For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe, To say it was designed; 'tis true, I loved you, And kept you far from an uneasy wife, Such Fulvia was. Yes, but he'll say, me; you left Octavia for And, can you blame me to receive that love, Which quitted such desert, for worthless me? How often have I wished some other Caesar, Great as the first, and as the second young, Would court my love, to be refused for you! Vent. Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium. Clco. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not. I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear; Would I had been a man, not to have feared! For none would then have envied me your friendship, Who envy me your love. Ant. We're both unhappy : If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. Speak; would you have me perish by my stay? Clco. If, as a friend, you ask my judg- ment, go; If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish 'Tis a hard word but stay. Vent. See now boasted love! the effects of her so She strives to drag you down to ruin with her; But, could she scape without you, oh, how soon Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, And never look behind! Cleo. Then judge my love by this. [.Giving ANTONY a writing. Could I have borne A life or death, a happiness or woe, From yours divided, this had given me means. Ant. By Hercules, the writing of Oc- tavius ! I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, Young as it was, that led the way to mine, 54 ALL FOR LOVE ACT III, Sc. I. And left me but the second place in mur- der. See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt, And joins all Syria to it, as a present; So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, And join her arms with his. Clco. And yet you leave me! You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you, Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom; That's a trifle; For I could part with life, with anything, But only you. Oh, let me die but with you! Is that a hard request? Ant. ' Next living with you, 'Tis all that heaven can give. Alex, [aside]. He melts;, we conquer. Clco. No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these Weak arms to hold you here. [Takes his hand, Go; leave me, soldier (For you're no more a lover): leave me dying: Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, And, when your march begins, let one run after, Breathless almost for joy, and cry, " She's dead." The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, And muster all your Roman gravity: Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up, As I had never been. Ant. Gods, 'tis too much; Too. much for man to bear. Cleo. ' What is't for me then, A weak, forsaken woman, and a lover? Here let me breathe my last: envy me not This minute in your arms: I'll die apace, As fast as e'er I can, and end your trouble. Ant. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, And fall the skies, to crush the nether world! My eyes, my soul, my all ! [Embraces her. Vent. And what's this toy, In balance with your fortune, honor, fame? Ant. What is't, Ventidius ? it outweighs them all; Why, we have more than conquered Caesar now: My queen's not only innocent, but loves me. This, this ruin! " But, could she what haste she, who drags me down to scape without me, with Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, And never look behind ! " Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence. Vent. I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go? Ant. Go! whither? Go from all that's ex- cellent ? Faith, honor, virtue, all good things forbid, That I should go from her, who sets my love Above the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Caesar, This rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra. ('/,,). She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love, in public; and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. Vent. O women ! women ! women ! all the gods Have not such power of doing good to man, As you of doing harm. [Exit. Ant. Our men are armed. Unbar the gate that looks to Caesar's camp; I would revenge the treachery he meant me; And long security makes conquest easy. I'm eager to return before I go; For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick On my remembrance. How I long for night! That both the sweets of mutual love may try, And once triumph o'er Caesar ere we die. [Exeunt. ACT III SCENE I At one door enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS, a Train of Egyptians: at the other ANTONY and Romans. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on ANTONY'S part: then answered by timbrels, etc., on CLEO- PATRA'S. CHARMION and IRAS hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of Egyp- tians. After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY. Ant. I thought how those white arms would fold me in, And strain me close, and melt me into love; So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards, And added all my strength to every blow. Clco. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms! You've been too long away from my em- braces; But, when I have you fast, and all my own, With broken sighs, murmurs, and with amorous 55 ACT III, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you, And mark you red with many an eager kiss. Ant. My brighter Venus! Cleo. O my greater Mars! Ant. Thou join'st us well, my love! Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains, Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, And mountain-tops pared off each other blow, To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess ! Let Cesar spread his subtle nets; like Vul- can, In thy embraces I would be beheld By heaven and earth at once; And make their envy what they meant their sport. Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on, With awful state, regardless of their frowns, As their superior gods. There's no satiety of love in thee: Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls, And blossoms rise to fill its empty place; And I grow rich by giving. Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart. Alex. Oh, now the danger's past, your general comes! He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs ; But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on, As envying your success. Ant. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me: He never flattered me in any vice, But awes me with his virtue: even this min- ute, Methinks, he has a right of chiding me. Lead to the temple; I'll avoid his presence; It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest. [As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe. Vent. Emperor ! Ant. [looking back"]. 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me. Vent. But this one hearing, emperor. Ant. Let go My robe; or, by my father Hercules Vent. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater, I bring you somewhat you would wish to know. Ant. Thou see'st we are observed; at- tend me here, And I'll return. [Exit. Vent. I'm waning in his favor, yet I love him; I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him: His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other. Enter ANTONY. <4f We can conquer, You see, without your aid. We have dislodged their troops; They look on us at distance, and, like curs Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. Five thousand Romans, with their faces up- ward, Lie breathless on the plain. Vent. 'Tis well; and he, Who lost 'em, could have spared ten thou- sand more. Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain An easier peace, while Caesar doubts the chance Of arms Ant. Oh, think not on't, Ventidius! The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; His malice is considerate in advantage. Oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, He kills, and keeps his temper. Vent. Have you no friend In all his army, who has power to move him? Maecenas, or Agrippa, might do much. Ant. They're both too deep in Caesar's interests. We'll work it out by dint of sword, or per- ish. Vent. Fain I would find some other. Ant. Thank thy love. Some four or five such victories as this Will save thy further pains. Vent. Expect no more; Caesar is on his guard: I know, sir, you have conquered against odds; But still you draw supplies from one poor town, And of Egyptians; he has all the world, And, at his beck, nations come pouring in, To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again. Ant. Why dost thou drive me from my- self, to search For foreign aids? to hunt my memory, And range all o'er a waste and barren place, To find a friend? - The wretched have no friends. Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome, Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women : He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax, From that hard rugged image melt him down, And mould him in what softer form he pleased. 56 ALL FOR LOVE ACT III, Sc. I. Vent. Him would I see; that man of all the world; Just such a one we want. Ant. He loved me too; I was his soul; he lived not but in me: We were so closed within each other's breasts, The rivets were not found, that joined us first. That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt, As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; We were one mass; we could not give or take, But from the same; for he was I, I he. Vent, [aside]. He moves as I would wish him. Ant. After this, I need not tell his name; 'twas Dolabella. Vent. He's now in Caesar's camp. Ant. No matter where, Since he's no longer mine. He took un- kindly, That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight, Because I feared he loved her: he confessed, He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled; For 'twere impossible that two, so one, Should not have loved the same. When he departed, He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts. Vent. It argues, that he loved you more than her, Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous, And would not grieve his friend; I know he loves you. Ant. I should have seen him, then, ere now. Vent. Perhaps He has thus long been laboring for your peace. Ant. Would he were here! Vent. Would you believe he loved you? I read your answer in your eyes, you would. Not to conceal it longer, he has sent A messenger from Caesar's camp, with let- ters. A tit. Let him appear. Vent. I'll bring him instantly. [Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters imme- diately with DOLABELLA. Ant. Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship ! [Runs to embrace him. Art thou returned at last, my better half? Come, give me all myself! Let me not live, If the young bridegroom, longing for his night, Was ever half so fond. Dola. I must be silent, for my soul is busy About a nobler work: she's new come home, Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er Each room, a stranger to her own, to look If all be safe. Ant. Thou hast what's left of me; For I am now so sunk from what I was, Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. The rivers that ran in, and raised my for- tunes, Are all dried up, or take another course: What I have left is from my native spring; I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks. Dola.' Still you are lord of all the world to me. Ant. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. If I had any joy when thou wert absent, I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella! Thou hast beheld me other than I am. Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me? With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, To worship my uprising? Menial kings Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, And, at my least command, all started out, Like racers to the goal. Dola. Slaves to your fortune. A tit. Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I? I' cut. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter. Ant. Is this friendly done? Dola. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him; Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide; Why am I else your friend? Ant. Take heed, young man, How thou upbraid'st my love; the queen has eyes, And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou re- member, When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first, As accessary to thy brother's death? Dola. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, And still the blush hangs here. Ant. To clear herself For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt. Her galley down the silver Cydnos rowed. The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails; 57 ACT III, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay. Dola. No more; I would not hear it. An!. Oh, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, Neglecting, she could take 'em: boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning with their painted wings the winds That played about her face. But if she smiled, A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object. To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more: For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with won- der? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes And whisper in my ear, " Oh, tell her not That I accused her with my brother's death?" Dola. And should my weakness be a plea for yours? Mine was an age when love might be ex- cused, When kindly warmth, and when my spring- ing youth Made it a debt to nature. Yours Vent. Speak boldly. Yours, he would say, in your declining age, When no more heat was left but what you forced, When all the sap was needful for the trunk, When it went down, then you constrained the course, And robbed from nature, to supply desire; In you (I would not use so harsh a word) "Tis but plain dotage. Ant. Ha! Dola. 'Twas urged too home. But yet the loss was private, that I made; 'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions; I had no world to lose, no people's love. Ant. This from a friend? Dola. Yes, Antony, a true one; A friend so tender, that each word I speak Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide! To Caesar I excuse you. Ant. O ye gods! Have I then lived to be excused to Caesar? Dola. As to your equal. Ant. Well, he's but my equal: While I wear this, he never shall be more. Dola. I bring conditions from him. Ant. Are they noble? Methinks thou shouldst not bring 'em else; yet he Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honor Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him; For nature meant him for an usurer: He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms. Vent. Then, granting this, What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper To honorable terms? Ant. It was my Dolabella, or some god. Dola. Nor I, nor yet Maecenas, nor Agrippa: They were your enemies; and I, a friend, Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed. Ant. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man, Who has preserved my life, my love, my honor; Let me but see his face. Vent. That task is mine, And, Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [Exit VENTIDIUS. Dola. You'll remember To whom you stand obliged? Ant. When I forget it, Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. My queen shall thank him too. Dola. I fear she will not. . Ant. But she shall do it. The queen, my Dolabella! Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever ? Dola. I would not see her lost. Ant. When I forsake her, Leave me, my better stars! for she has truth Beyond her beauty. Caesar tempted her, At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; But she resisted all: and yet thou chid'st me For loving her too well. Could I do so? Dola. Yes; there's my reason. Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leading ANTONY'S two little Daughters. Ant. [starting back]. Where ? Octavia there ! I'cnt. What, is she poison to you? a disease? Look on her, view her well, and those she brings: 58 ALL FOR LOVE ACT III, So. I. Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature No secret call, no whisper they are yours? Dola. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive 'em With kinder eyes. If you confess a man, Meet 'em, embrace 'em, bid 'em welcome to you. Your arms should open, even without your knowledge, To clasp 'em in; your feet should turn to wings, To bear you to 'em; and your eyes dart out And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips. Ant. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither. Vent. I sent for 'em; I brought 'em in unknown To Cleopatra's guards. Dola. Yet, are you cold? Octav. Thus long I have attended for my welcome ; Which, as -a stranger, sure I might expect. Who am I? Ant. Caesar's sister. Octal'. That's unkind. Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sis- ter, Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp: But your Octavia, your much injured wife, Though banished from your bed, driven from your house, In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours. 'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your cold- ness, And prompts me not to seek what you should offer; But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. I come to claim you as my own; to show My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kind- ness. Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. [Taking liis hand. Vent. Do, take it; thou deserv'st it. Dola. On my soul, And so she does: she's neither too submis- sive, Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too. ./;:/. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life. Octav. Begged it, my lord? Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother. Octav. Poorly and basely I could never beg: Nor could my brother grant. Ant. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, "Rise up, and be a king;" shall I fall down And cry, " Forgive me, Caesar ! " Shall I set A man, my equal, in the place of Jove, As he could give me being? No; that word, " Forgive," would choke me up, And die upon my tongue. Dola. You shall not need it. Ant. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me, My friend too! to receive some vile condi- tions. My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears ; And now I must become her branded slave. In every peevish mood, she will upbraid The life she gave: if I but look awry, She cries, " I'll tell my brother." Octav. My hard fortune Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. But the conditions I have brought are such You need not blush to take; I love your honor, Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, Octavia's husband was her brother's slave. Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe; For, though my brother bargains for your love, Makes me the price and cement of your peace, I have a soul like yours; I cannot take Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve. I'll tell my brother we are reconciled; He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march To rule the East; I may be dropt at Athens; No matter where. I never will complain, But only keep the barren name of wife, And rid you of the trouble. Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen honor ! Both scorn to be obliged. /'./.;. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part; See how he reddens with despite and shame, To be outdone in generosity ! Vent. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear, That fain would fall! Ant. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise The greatness of your soul; But cannot yield to what you have proposed: For I can ne'er be conquered but by love; And you do all for duty. You would free me, And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so? Octav. It was, my lord. Ant. Then I must be obliged To one who loves me not; who, to herself, May call me thankless and ungrateful man: I'll not endure it; no. Vent, [aside}. I am glad it pinches there. Octav. Would you triumph o'er poor Oc- tavia's virtue? 59 ACT III, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE That pride was all I had to bear me up; That you might think you owed me for your life, And owed it to my duty, not my love. I have been injured, and my haughty soul Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed. Ant. Therefore you love me not. Octal-. Therefore, my lord, I should not love you. Ant. Therefore you would leave me? Octav. And therefore I should leave you if I could. Dola. Her soul's too great, after such injuries, To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it. Her modesty and silence plead her cause. A nt. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn? I find a secret yielding in my soul; But Cleopatra, who would die with me, Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia; But does it not plead more for Cleopatra? Vent. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia; For Cleopatra, neither. One would be ruined with you; but she first Had ruined you: the other, you have ruined, And yet she would preserve you. In everything their merits are unequal. Ant. O my distracted soul! Octav. Sweet heaven compose it! Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you, Methinks you should accept it. Look on these; Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, As they are mine? Go to him, children, go; Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him ; For you may speak, and he may own you too, Without a blush; and so he cannot all His children: go, I say, and pull him to me, And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms; And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist: If he will shake you off, if he will dash you Against the pavement, you must bear it, children ; For you are mine, and I was born to suffer. [Here the Children go to him, etc. Vent. Was ever sight so moving? Em- peror ! Dola. Friend ! Octav. Husband ! Both Child. Father! Ant. I am vanquished: take me, Octavia; take me, children; share me all. [Embracing them. I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves, And run out much, in riot, from your stock; But all shall be amended. Octav. O blest hour! /'.'/.:. O happy change! Vent. My joy stops at my tongue; But it has found two channels here for one, And bubbles out above. Ant. [to OCTAV.]. This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt; Even to thy brother's camp. Octav. All there are yours. Enter ALEXAS hastily. Alex. The queen, my mistress, sir, and yours Ant. 'Tis past. Octavia, you shall stay this night; to- morrow, Caesar and we are one. [Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the Children follow. Vent. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch, Be sure to be the first; haste forward: Haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [Exit. Alex. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero, This blunt, unthinking instrument of death, With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit. Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy; The luxury of others robbed my cradle, And ravished thence the promise of a man. Cast out from nature, disinherited Of what her meanest children claim by kind, Yet greatness kept me from contempt; that's gone. Had Cleopatra followed my advice, Then he had been betrayed who now for- sakes. She dies for love; but she has known its joys: Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys, Must die, because she loves? Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, Train. madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes! Octavia's here. Cleo. Peace with that raven's note. 1 know it too; and now am in The pangs of death. Alex. You are no more a queen; Egypt is lost. Cleo. What tell'st thou me of Egypt? My life, my soul is lost ! Octavia has him ! O fatal name to Cleopatra's love! My kisses, my embraces now are hers; While I But thou hast seen my rival; speak, Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair? Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished, The gods threw by for rubbish. Alex. She's indeed a very miracle. Cleo. Death to my hopes, a miracle! 60 ALL FOR LOVE ACT III, Sc. I. Alex, [bowing]. A miracle; I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam, You make all wonders cease. Clco. I was too rash: Take this in part of recompense. But, oh! [Giving a ring. I fear thou flatterest me. Char. She comes! she's here! Iras. Fly, madam, Cesar's sister! Cleo. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove, And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes, Thus would I face my rival. [Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA bears up to her. Their Trains come up on either side. Octav. I need not ask if you are Cleo- patra; Your haughty carriagi Cleo. Shows I am a queen; Nor need I ask you, who you are. Octav. A Roman; A name, that makes and can unmake a queen. Cleo. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman. Octav. He was a Roman, till he lost that name, To be a slave in Egypt; but I come To free him thence. Cleo. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno. When he grew weary of that household clog, He chose my easier bonds. Octav. I wonder not Your bonds are easy; you have long been practised In that lascivious art. He's not the first For whom you spread your snares: let Caesar witness. Cleo. I loved not Caesar; 'twas but grati- tude I paid his love. The worst your malice can, Is but to say the greatest of mankind Has been my slave. The next, but far above him In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours, But whom his love made mine. Octav. [coming up close to her]. I would view nearer That face, which has so long usurped my right, To find the inevitable charms, that catch Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord. ('/((/. Oh, you do well to search; for had you known But half these charms, you had not lost his heart. Octav. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady, Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex, Dost thou not blush to own those black en- dearments, That make sin pleasing? Cleo. You may blush, who want 'em. If bounteous nature, if indulgent heaven Have given me charms to please the bravest man, Should I not thank 'em? Should I be ashamed, And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me; And, when I love not him, heaven change this face For one like that. Octav. Thou lov'st him not so well. Cleo. I love him better, and deserve him more. Octav. You do not; cannot: you have been his ruin. Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleo- patra? Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleo- patra? At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra. Who made his children orphans, and poor me A wretched widow? only Cleopatra. Cleo. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra. If you have suffered, I have, suffered more. You bear the specious title of a wife, To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world To favor it; the world contemns poor me, For I have lost my honor, lost my fame, And stained the glory of my royal house, And all to bear the branded name of mis- tress. There wants but life, and that too I would lose For him I love. Octav. Be't so, then; take thy wish. [Exit cum suis. Cleo. And 'tis my wish, Now he is lost for whom alone I lived. My sight grows dim, and every object dances, And swims before me, in the maze of death. My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn! But now she's gone, they faint. Alex. Mine have had leisure To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel, To ruin her, who else must ruin you. Cleo. Vain promiser! Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras. My grief has weight enough to sink you both. Conduct me to some solitary chamber, And draw the curtains round; Then leave me to myself, to take alone My fill of grief: There I till death will his unkindness weep; 61 ACT IV, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE As harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [Exeunt. ACT IV SCENE I Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA. Dola. Why would you shift it from your- self on me? Can you not tell her, you must part? Ant. I cannot. I could pull out an eye, and bid it go, And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella, How many deaths are in this word, " De- part ! " I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: One look of hers would thaw me into tears, And I should melt, till I were lost again. Dola. Then let Ventidius; He's rough by nature. Ant. O, he'll speak too harshly; He'll kill her with the news: thou, only thou. Dola. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleas- ure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood. I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest. Ant. Therefore, therefore Thou only, thou art fit. Think thyself me; And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long), Take off the edge from every sharper sound, And let our parting be as gently made, As other loves begin; wilt thou do this? Dola. What you have said so sinks into my soul, That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so. Ant. I leave you then to your sad task: farewell. I sent her word to meet you. [Goes to the door, and comes back. I forgot; Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine: Her crown and dignity shall be preserved, If I have power with Caesar. O, be sure To think on that. Dola. Fear not, I will remember. [ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back. Ant. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained; I did not this, but with extremest force: Desire her not to hate my memory, For I still cherish hers; insist on that. Dola. Trust me, I'll not forget it. Ant. Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again. Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? Tell her, though we shall never meet again, If I should hear she took another love, The news would break my heart. Now I must go; Fcr every time I have returned, I feel My soul more tender; and my next com- mand Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit. Dola. Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees noth- ing; But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it out- ward To the world's open view; thus I discovered, And blamed the love of ruined Antony; Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined. Enter VENTIDIUS above. Vent. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, And may pursue it still. Dola. O friendship! friendship! Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; And if I win, undone: mere madness all. And yet the occasion's fair. What injury To him, to wear the robe which he throws by! Vent. None, none at all. This happens as I wish, To ruin her yet more with Antony. Enter CLEOPATRA, talking with ALEXAS; CHAR- MION, IRAS, on the other side. Dola. She comes! What charms have sor- row on that face ! Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, And shows a moment's day. Vent. If she should love him too! her eunuch there ? That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer, Sweet devil, that I may hear. Alex. Believe me; try [DOLABELLA goes over to CHARM ION and IRAS; seems to talk with them. To make him jealous; jealousy is like 62 ALL FOR LOVE ACT IV, Sc. I. A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it. Cleo. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease, and makes it show, But has no power to cure. Alex. Tis your last remedy, and strong- est too: And then this Dolabella, who so fit To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young, And looks as he were laid for nature's bait, To catch weak women's eyes. He stands already more than half suspected Of loving you; the least kind word or glance, You give this youth, will kindle him with love: Then, like a burning vessel set adrift, You'll send him down amain before the wind, To fire the heart of jealous Antony. Cleo. Can I do this? Ah, no; my love's so true, That I can neither hide it where it is, Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wide world, un- furnished Of falsehood to be happy. Alex. Force yourself. The event will be, your lover will return, Doubly desirous to possess the good Which once he feared to lose. Cleo. I must attempt it; But oh, with what regret! [Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLA- BELLA. Vent. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach. Cleo. \to Do LA.]. Discoursing with my women! might not I Share in your entertainment? Char. You have been The subject of it, madam. Cleo. How! and how? Iras. Such praises of your beauty! Cleo. Mere poetry. Your Roman wits, your Callus and Tibul- lus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia. Dola. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt; Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: I, who have seen had I been born a poet, Should choose a nobler name. Cleo. You flatter me. But, 'tis your country nation's vice: all of your Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you. I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words. Dola. No, madam; yet he sent me Cleo. Well, he sent you Dola. Of a less pleasing errand. Cleo. How less pleasing? Less to yourself, or me? Dola. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it. Cleo. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance. [Aside] Hold up, my spirits. Well, now your mournful matter; For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too. Dola. I wish you would; for 'tis a thank- less office, To tell ill news: and I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you. Cleo. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should. Vent. Most delicate advances! Women! Women ! Dear, damned, inconstant sex ! Cleo. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is't not so? DoLi. I wish I could not answer to that question. Cleo. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: I should have been more grieved another time. Next, I'm to lose my kingdom Farewell, Egypt! Yet, is there any more? Dola. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason. Cleo. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune: And love may be expelled by other love, As poisons are by poisons. Dola. You o'erjoy me, madam, Tc find your griefs so moderately borne. You've heard the worst; all are not false like him. Cleo. No; Heaven forbid they should. Dola. Some men are constant. Cleo. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain. Dola. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope. Vent. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough: But how to manage this! Well, I'll con- sider. [Exit. Dola. I came prepared To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought 63 ACT IV, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: But you have met it with a cheerfulness, That makes my task more easy; and my tongue, Which on another's message was employed, Would gladly speak its own. Cleo. Hold, Dolabella. First tell me, were you chosen by my lord? Or sought you this employment? Dola. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend, He charged me with his words. Cleo. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, " Depart." Dola. Oh, you mistake; he chose the harshest words; With fiery eyes, and with, contracted brows, He coined his face in the severest stamp; And fury shook his fabric, like an earth- quake; He heaved for vent, and burst like bellow- ing /Etna, In sounds scarce human " Hence away for ever, Let her begone, the blot of my renown; And bane of all my hopes! [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down. Let her be driven, as far as men can think, From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre." Cleo. Oh, I can bear no more! Dola. Help, help! O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch! What have I done! Char. Help, chafe her temples, Iras. Iras. Bend, bend her forward quickly. Char. Heaven be praised, She comes again. Cleo. O, let him not approach me. Why have you brought me back to this loathed being, The abode of falsehood, violated vows, And injured love? For pity, let me go; For, if there be a place of long repose, I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord Can never break that quiet; nor awake The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb Such words as fright her hence. Unkind, unkind ! Dola. [kneeling]. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak; That sure desires belief; I injured him: My friend ne'er spoke those words. O, had you seen How often he came back, and every time With something more obliging and more kind, To add to what he said; what dear fare- wells; How almost vanquished by his love he parted, And leaned to what unwillingly he left! I, traitor as I was, for love of you (But what can you not do, who made me false?) I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished criminal. Cleo. With how much ease believe we what we wish! Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty, I have contributed, and too much love Has made me guilty too. The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned, To call back fleeting love by jealousy; But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose, Than so ignobly trifle with his heart. Dola. I find your breast fenced round from human reach, Transparent as a rock of solid crystal; Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend, What endless treasure hast thou thrown away; And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence ! Cleo. Could you not beg An hour's admittance to his private ear? Like one, who wanders through long bar- ren wilds And yet foreknows no hospitable inn Is near to succor hunger, eats his fill, Before his painful march; So would I feed a while my famished eyes Before we part; for I have far to go, If death be far, and never must return. VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind. Vent. From hence you may discover oh, sweet, sweet! Would you indeed? The pretty hand in earnest ? Dola. [takes her hand]. I will, for this re- ward. Draw it not back. Tis all I e'er will beg. Vent. They turn upon us. Octav. What quick eyes has guilt! Vent. Seem not to have observed 'em, and go on. They enter. Dola. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius? Vent. No. I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freed- man. Dola. Know you his business? Vent. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar. 64 ALL FOR LOVE ACT IV, Sc. I. Dola. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA. Octal-. Most glorious impudence! Vent. She looked, methought, As she would say, " Take your old man, Octavia; Thank you, I'm better here.' Make we of this discovery? Octav. Well, but what use Let it die. Vent. I pity Dolabella; but she's danger- ous: Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms, To draw the moon from heaven; for elo- quence, The sea-green Sirens taught her voice their flattery; And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, Unmarked of those that hear. Then she's so charming, Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, They bless her wanton eyes: even I, who hate her, With a malignant joy behold such beauty; And, while I curse, desire it. Antony Must needs have some remains of passion still, Which may ferment into a worse relapse, If now not fully cured. I know, this minute, With Caesar he's endeavoring her peace. Octav. You have prevailed: but for a further purpose. [Walks off. I'll prove how he will relish this discovery. What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: It must not, shall not be. Vent. His guards appear. Let me begin, and you shall second me. Enter ANTONY. Ant. Octavia, I was looking you, my love: What, are your letters ready? I have given My last instructions. Octav. Mine, my lord, are written. Ant. Ventidius. [Drawing him aside. Vent. My lord? Ant. A word in private. When saw you Dolabella? Vent. Now, my lord, He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him. Ant. Speak softly. 'Twas by my com- mand he went, To bear my last farewell. Vent, [aloud}. It looked indeed Like your farewell. Ant. More softly. My farewell? What secret meaning have you in those words Of" My farewell ? " He did it by my order. Vent, [aloud]. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose You bid him do it with all gentleness, Al! kindness, and all - love. Ant. How she mourned, The poor forsaken creature! Vent. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting As she did Caesar's, as she would another's, Were a new love to come. Ant. [aloud]. Thou dost belie her; Most basely, and maliciously belie her. Vent. I thought not to displease you; I have done. Octav. [coming up]. You seemed disturbed, my lord. Ant. A very trifle. Retire, my love. Vent. It was indeed a trifle. He sent Ant. [angrily]. No more. Look how thou disobey 'st me; Thy life shall answer it. Octav. Then 'tis no trifle. Vent, [to OCTAV.]. 'Tis less; a very noth- ing: you too saw it, As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret. Ant. She saw it! Vent. Yes: she saw young Dolabella Ant. Young Dolabella! Vent. Young, I think him young, And handsome too; and so do others think him. But what of that? He went by your com- mand, Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind mes- sage; For she received it graciously; she smiled; And then he grew familiar with her hand, Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; At last she took occasion to talk softly, And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; At which, he whispered kisses back on hers; And then she cried aloud that constancy Should be rewarded. Octav. This I saw and heard. Ant. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw So playful with my friend? Not Cleopatra? Vent. Even she, my lord. Ant. My Cleopatra? Vent. Your Cleopatra; Dolabella's Cleopatra; every man's Cleopatra. Ant. Thou liest. Vent. I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, 65 ACT IV, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE And not provide against a time of change? You know she's not much used to lonely nights. Ant. I'll think no more on't. I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you. You needed not have gone this way, Octavia. What harms it you that Cleopatra's just? She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive: Urge it no farther, love. Octar. Are you concerned, That she's found false? Ant. I should be, were it so; For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world Should tax my former choice, that I loved one Of so light note; but I forgive you both. Vent. What has my age deserved, that you should think I would abuse your ears with perjury? If heaven be true, she's false. Ant. Though heaven and earth Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted. Vent. I'll bring you, then, a witness From hell, to prove her so. Nay, go not back; [Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and start- ing back. For stay you must and shall. Alex. What means my lord? Vent. To make you do what most you hate, speak truth. You are of Cleopatra's private counsel, Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; Are conscious of each nightly change she makes, And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon, Can tell what signs she passes through, what day. Alex. My noble lord! Vent. My most illustrious pander, No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, But a plain homespun truth, is what I ask: I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know, By your confession, what more passed be- twixt 'em ; How near the business draws to your em- ployment; And when the happy hour. Ant. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it of- fend Or please Ventidius, care not. Justify Thy injured queen from malice; dare his worst. Octav. [aside]. See how he gives him cour- age! how he fears To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, Willing to be misled! Alex. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty, Urged by desert and greatness of the lover, So far, divine Octavia, may my queen Stand even excused to you for loving him Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ven- tidius, May her past actions hope a fair report. Ant. Tis well, and truly spoken: mark, Ventidius. Alex. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion Stands not excused, but wholly justified. Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, To choose where she would reign: She thought a Roman only could deserve her, And, of all Romans, only Antony; And, to be less than wife to you, disdained Their lawful passion. Ant. 'Tis but truth. Alex. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, Have drawn her from the due regard of honor, At last heaven opened her unwilling eyes To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia, Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. The sad effects of this improsperous war Confirmed those pious thoughts. Vent, [aside}. Oh, wheel you there? Observe him now; the man begins to mend, And talk substantial reason. Fear not, eunuch ; The emperor has given thee leave to speak. Alex. Else had I never dared to offend his ears With what the last necessity has urged On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered. Ant. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not Pronounce that fatal word! Octav. [aside}. Must I bear this? Good heaven, afford me patience. Vent. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half- man, proceed. Alex. Yet Dolabella Has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord, Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, Rejected, as she is, by him she loved Ant. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more: Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes; Then join thou too, and help to torture her! [Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY. Octav. 'Tis not well, Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, 66 ALL FOR LOVE ACT IV, Sc. I. To show this passion, this extreme con- cernment, For an abandoned, faithless prostitute. Ant. Octavia, leave me; I am much dis- ordered: Leave me, I say. Octav. My lord! Ant. I bid you leave me. Vent. Obey him, madam; best withdraw a while, And see how this will work. Octav. Wherein have I offended you, my lord, That I am bid to leave you? Am I false, Or infamous? Am I a Cleopatra? Were I she, Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you; But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses, And fawn upon my falsehood. Ant. 'Tis too much. Too much, Octavia; I am pressed with sor- rows Too heavy to be borne; and you add more: I would retire, and recollect what's left Of man within, to aid me. Octal'. You would mourn, In private, for your love, who has betrayed you. You did but half return to me; your kind- ness Lingered behind with her. I hear, my lord, You make conditions for her, And would include her treaty. Wondrous proofs Of love to me! Ant. Are you my friend, Ventidius? Or are you turned a Dolabella too, And let this Fury loose? Vent. O, be advised, Sweet madam, and retire. Octav. Yes, I will go; but never to return. You shall no more be haunted with this Fury. My lord, my lord, love will not always last, When urged with long unkindness and dis- dain: Take her again, whom you prefer to me; She stays but to be called. Poor cozened man! Let a feigned parting give her back your heart, Which a feigned love first got; for injured me, Though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay, My duty shall be yours. To the dear pledges of our former love My tenderness and care shall be transferred, And they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights: So, take my last farewell; for I despair To have you whole, and scorn to take you half. [Exit. Vent. I combat heaven, which blasts my best designs: My last attempt must be to win her back; But O ! I fear in vain. [Exit. Ant. Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart, Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness, But bears its workings outward to the world? I should have kept the mighty anguish in, And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood; Octavia had believed it, and had stayed. But I am made a shallow-forded stream, Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned, And all my faults exposed. See where he comes, Enter DOLABELLA. Who has profaned the sacred name of friend, And worn it into vileness! With how secure a brow, and specious form, He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face Was meant for honesty; but heaven mis- matched it, And furnished treason out with nature's pomp, To make its work more easy. Dola. O my friend! Ant. Well, Dolabella, you performed my message? Dola. I did, unwillingly. Ant. Unwillingly? Was it so hard for you to bear our parting? You should have wished it. Dola. Why ? Ant. Because you love me. And she received my message with as true, With as unfeigned a sorrow as you brought it? Dola. She loves you, even to madness. Ant. O, 1 know it. You, Dolabella, do not better know How much she loves me. And should I Forsake this beauty, this all-perfect crea- ture? Dola. I could not, were she mine. Ant. And yet you first Persuaded me: how come you altered since? Dola. I said at first I was not fit to go; I could not hear her sighs, and see her tears, But pity must prevail; and so, perhaps, It may again with you; for I have promised, That she should take her last farewell; and, see, She comes to claim my word. Enter CLEOPATRA. Ant. False Dolabella! Dola. What's false, my lord? Ant. Why, Dolabella's false, 67 ACT IV, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE And Cleopatra's false; both false and faith- less. Draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents, Whom I have in my kindly bosom warmed, Till I am stung to death. Dola. My lord, have I Deserved to be thus used? Cleo. Can heaven prepare A newer torment? Can it find a curse Beyond our separation? Ant. Yes, if fate Be just, much greater: heaven should be ingenious In punishing such crimes. The rolling stone, And gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented When Jove was young, and no examples known Of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin, To such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods To find an equal torture. Two, two such! O, there's no further name, two such! to me, To me, who locked my soul within your breasts, Had no desires, no joys, no life, but you; When half the globe was mine, I gave it you In dowry with my heart; I had no use, No fruit of all, but you; a friend and mis- tress Was what the world could give. O Cleo- patra ! O Dolabella! how could you betray This tender heart, which with an infant fondness Lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept, Secure of injured faith? Dola. If she has wronged you, Heaven, hell, and you revenge it. Ant. If she has wronged me! Thou wouldst evade thy part of guilt; but swear Thou lov'st not her. Dola. Not so as I love you. Ant. Not so? Swear, swear, I say, thou dost not love her. I /"lit. No more than friendship will al- low. Ant. No more? Friendship allows thee nothing; thou art perjured And yet thou didst not swear thou lov'st her not; But not so much, no more. O trifling hypo- crite, Who dar'st not own to her, thou dost not love, Nor own to me, thou dost! Ventidius heard it; Octavia saw it. Cleo. They are enemies. Ant. Alexas is not so: he, he confessed it; He, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it. [To DOLA.] Why do I seek a proof beyond yourself ? You, whom I sent to bear my last farewell, Returned, to plead her stay. Dola. What shall I answer? If to have loved be guilt, then I have sinned; But if to have repented of that love Can wash away my crime, I have repented. Yet, if I have offended past forgiveness, Let not her suffer; she is innocent. Cleo. Ah, what will not a woman do, who loves? What means will she refuse, to keep that heart, Where all her joys are placed? 'Twas I en- couraged, 'Twas I blew up the fire that scorched his soul, To make you jealous, and by that regain you. But all in vain; I could not counterfeit: In spite of all the dams my love broke o'er And drowned my heart again: fate took the occasion; And thus one minute's feigning has de- stroyed My whole life's truth. Ant. Thin cobweb arts of falsehood; Seen, and broke through at first. Dola. Forgive your mistress. Cleo. Forgive your friend. Ant. You have convinced yourselves. You plead each other's cause: what witness have you, That you but meant to raise my jealousy? Cleo. Ourselves, and heaven. Ant. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship! You have no longer place in human breasts, These two have driven you out. Avoid my sight! I would not kill the man whom I have loved, And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: I do not know how long I can be tame; For, if I stay one minute more, to think How I am wronged, my justice and re- venge Will cry so loud within me, that my pity Will not be heard for either. Dola. Heaven has but Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights To pardon erring man: sweet mercy seems Its darling attribute, which limits justice; As if there were degrees in infinite, And infinite would rather want perfection) Than punish to extent. Ant. I can forgive A foe; but not a mistress and a friend. Treason is there in its most horrid shape, 68 ALL FOR LOVE ACT V, Sc. I. Where trust is greatest; and the soul re- signed, Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more; Hence from my sight for ever! Cleo. How? for ever! I cannot go one moment from your sight, And must I go for ever? My joys, my only joys, are centered here: What place have I to go to? My own king- dom? That I have lost for you. Or to the Rom- ans? They hate me for your sake. Or must I wander The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, Banished for love of you; banished from you? Ay, there's the banishment! O, hear me; hear me, With strictest justice; for I beg no favor; And if I have offended you, then kill me, But do not banish me. Ant. I must not hear you. I have a fool within me takes your part; But honor stops my ears. Cleo. For pity hear me! Would you cast off a slave who followed you? Who crouched beneath your spurn? He has no pity ! See, if he gives one tear to my departure; One look, one kind farewell: O iron heart! Let all the gods look down, and judge be- twixt us, If he did ever love! Ant. No more; Alexas! Dola. A perjured villain! Ant. [to CLEO.]. Your Alexas; yours. Cleo. Oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous de- sign, To engage you in my love by jealousy. Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak. Ant. I have; I have. Cleo. And if he clear me not Ant. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! Watches your eye, to say or to unsay, Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved. Cleo. Then must we part? Farewell, my cruel lord! The appearance is against me; and I go, Unjustified, for ever from your sight. How I have loved, you know; how yet I love, My only comfort is, I know myself: I love you more, even now you are unkind, Than when you loved me most; so well, so truly I'll never strive against it; but die pleased, To think you once were mine. Ant. Good heaven, they weep at part- ing! Must I weep too? that calls 'em innocent. I must not weep; and yet I must, to think That I must not forgive. Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, Who made me so; live from each other's sight; Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth, And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves ; View nothing common but the sun and skies. Now, all take several ways; And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore ; That you were false, and I could trust no more. [Exeunt severally. ACT V SCENE I Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS. Char. Be juster, heaven; such virtue pun- ished thus, Will make us think that chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the lots, Which man is forced to draw. Cleo. I could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart, And had not power to keep it. O the curse Of doting on, even when I find it dotage! Bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go; You, whom he mocked with imprecating vows Of promised faith! I'll die; I will not bear it. You may hold me [She pulls out her dagger, and they hold her. But I can keep my breath; I can die inward, And choke this love. Enter ALEXAS. Iras. Help, O Alexas, help! The queen grows desperate; her soul strug- gles in her With all the agonies of love and rage, And strives to force its passage. Cleo. Let me go. Art thou there, traitor! O, O for a little breath, to vent my rage, Give, give me way, and let me loose upon him. Alex. Yes, I deserve it, for my ill-timed truth. Was it for me to prop The ruins of a falling majesty? To place myself beneath the mighty flaw, Thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms, ACT V, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE By its o'erwhelming weight? 'Tis too pre- suming For subjects to preserve that wilful power, Which courts its own destruction. Clco. I would reason More calmly with you. Did not you o'crrule, And force my plain, direct, and open love, Into these crooked paths of jealousy? Now, what's the event? Octavia is removed; But Cleopatra's banished. Thou, thou vil- lain, Hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove, At my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back. It cannot be; I'm lost too far; I'm ruined: Hence, thou ' impostor, traitor, monster, devil ! I can no more: thou, and my griefs, have sunk Me down so low, that I want voice to curse thee. Alex. Suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore, Dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff, If, from above, some charitable hand Pull him to safety, hazarding himself, To draw the other's weight; would he look back, And curse him for his pains? The case is yours; But one step more, and you have gained the height. Cleo. Sunk, never more to rise. Ale jr. Octavia's gone, and Dolabella banished. Believe me, madam, Antony is yours. His heart was never lost, but started off To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert; Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in si- lence, And listening for the sound that calls it back. Some other, any man ('tis so advanced), May perfect this unfinished work, which I (Unhappy only to myself) have left So easy to his hand. Cleo. Look well thou do't; else Alex. Else, what your silence threatens. Antony Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose tur- ret. He stands surveying our Egyptian galleys, Engaged with Caesar's fleet. Now death or conquest ! If the first happen, fate acquits my promise; If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours. [A distant shout within. Char. Have comfort, madam: did you mark that shout? [Second shout nearer. Iras. Hark! they redouble it. Alex. 'Tis from the port. The loudness shows it near: good news, kind heavens ! Cleo. Osiris make it so! Enter SERAPION. Scrap. Where, where's the queen ? Alex. How frightfully the holy coward stares As if not yet recovered of the assault. When all his gods, and, what's more dear to him, His offerings, were at stake. Scrap. O horror, horror! Egypt has been; our latest hour has come: The queen of nations, from her ancient seat, Is sunk for ever in the dark abyss; Time has unrolled her glories to the last, And now closed up the volume. Cleo. Be more plain: Say, whence thou corn's t; though fate is in thy face, Which from thy haggard eyes looks wildly out, And threatens ere thou speakest. Serap. I came from Pharos; From viewing (spare me, and imagine it) Our land's last hope, your navy Cleo. Vanquished? Serap. No: They fought not. Cleo. Then they fled. Serap. Nor that. I saw, With Antony, your well-appointed fleet Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high, And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back: 'Twas then false Fortune, like a fawning strumpet, About to leave the bankrupt prodigal, With a dissembled smile would kiss at part- ing, And flatter to the last; the well-timed oars, Now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run To meet the foe; and soon indeed they met, But not as foes. In few, we saw their caps On either side thrown up; the Egyptian gal- leys, Received like friends, passed through, and fell behind The Roman rear; and now, they all come forward, And ride within the port. Cleo. Enough, Serapion: I've heard my doom. This needed not, you gods: When I lost Antony, your work was done; 'Tis but superfluous malice. Where's my lord? How bears he this last blow? Serap. His fury cannot be expressed by words: Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen Full on his foes, and aimed at Caesar's gal- ley: Withheld, he raves on you; cries, he's be- trayed. 70 ALL FOR LOVE ACT V, Sc. I. Should he now find you Alex. Shun him; seek your safety, Till you can clear your innocence. Cleo. I'll stay. Alex. You must not; haste you to your monument, While I make speed to Caesar. Cleo. Caesar ! No, I have no business with him. Alex. I can work him To spare your life, and let this madman perish. Cleo. Base fawning wretch! wouldst thou betray him too? Hence from my sight! I will not hear a traitor; "Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us. Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me: But haste, each moment's precious. Serap. Retire; you must not yet see An- tony. He who began this mischief, 'Tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you: And, since he offered you his servile tongue, To gain a poor precarious life from Caesar, Let him expose that fawning eloquence, And speak to Antony. Alex. O heavens! I dare not; I meet my certain death. Cleo. Slave, thou deserv'st it. Not that I fear my lord, will I avoid him; I know him noble: when he banished me, And thought me false, he scorned to take my life; But I'll be justified, and then die with him. Alex. O pity me, and let me follow you. Cleo. To death, if thou stir hence. Speak, if thou canst, Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save; While mine I prize at this! Come, good Serapion. [Exeunt CLEOPATRA, SERAPION, CHARM ION, IRAS. Alex. O that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snowball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. Poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou! For still, in spite of thee, These two long lovers, soul and body, dread Their final separation. Let me think: What can I say, to save myself from death? No matter what becomes of Cleopatra. Ant. [within}. Which way? where? Vent, [within]. This leads to the monu- ment. Alex. Ah me! I hear him; yet I'm unpre- pared: My gift of lying's gone; And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised, Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay; Yet cannot far go hence. [Exit. Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS. Ant. O happy Caesar! thou hast men to lead: Think not 'tis thou hast conquered Antony; But Rome has conquered Egypt. I'm be- trayed. Vent. Curse on this treacherous train ! Their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness: And their young souls come tainted to the world With the first breath they draw. Ant. The original villain sure no god created; He was a bastard of the sun, by Nile, Aped into man; with all his mother's mud Crusted about his soul. Vent. The nation is One universal traitor; and their queen The very spirit and extract of them all. Ant. Is there yet left A possibility of aid from valor? Is there one god unsworn to my destruc- tion? The least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be, Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate Of such a boy as Caesar. The world's one half is yet in Antony; And from each limb of it that's hewed away, The soul comes back to me. Vent. There yet remain Three legions in the town. The last assault Lopt off the rest; if death be your design, As I must wish it now these are sufficient To make a heap about us of dead foes, An honest pile for burial. Ant. They're enough. We'll not divide our stars; but, side by side, Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes Survey each other's acts. So every death Thou giv'st, I'll take on me, as a just debt, And pay thee back a soul. Vent. Now you shall see I love you. Not a word Of chiding more. By my few hours of life, I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate, That I would not be Caesar, to outlive you. When we put off this flesh, and mount to- gether, I shall be shown to all the ethereal crowd, " Lo, this is he who died with Antony ! " Ant. Who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops, And reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the 'tempting, To o'erleap this gulf of fate, And leave our wandering destinies behind. Enter ALEXAS, trembling. Vent. See, see, that villain! 71 ACT V, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE See Cleopatra stamped upon that face, With all her cunning, all her arts of false- hood! How she looks out through those dissembling eyes! How he has set his countenance for deceit, And promises a lie, before he speaks! Let me despatch him first. [Drawing. Alex. O spare me, spare me! Ant. Hold; he's not worth your killing. On thy life (Which thou may'st keep, because I scorn to take it), No syllable to justify thy queen; Save thy base tongue its office. Alc.tr. Sir, she is gone, Where she shall never be molested more By love, or you. Ant. Fled to her Dolabella! Die, traitor! I revoke my promise! die! [Going to kill him. Alex. O hold! she is not fled. Ant. She is: my eyes Are open to her falsehood; my whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friend- ship; But, now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking, And all his wealth cast over. Ingrateful woman ! Who followed me, but as the swallow sum- mer, Hatching her young ones in my kindly beams. Singing her flatteries to my morning wake: But, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings, And seeks the spring of Cesar. Alex. Think not so: Her fortunes have, in all things, mixed with yours. Had she betrayed her naval force to Rome, How easily might she have gone to Caesar, Secure by such a bribe! Vent. She sent it first, To be more welcome after. Ant. Tis too plain; Else would she have appeared, to clear her- self. Alex. Too fatally she has: she could not bear To be accused by you; but shut herself Within her monument; looked down and sighed; While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting. Some undistinguished words she inly mur- mured ; At last, she raised her eyes; and, with such looks As dying Lucrece cast Ant. My heart forebodes Vent. All for the best; go on. Alex. She snatched her poniard, And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow, Plunged it within her breast; then turned to me: " Go, bear my lord," said she, " my last farewell ; And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith." More she was saying, but death rushed be- twixt. She half pronounced your name with her last breath, And buried half within her. Vent. Heaven be praised! Ant. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love, And art thou dead? O those two words! their sound should be divided: Hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived, And hadst been true. But innocence and death! This shows not well above. Then what am I, The murderer of this truth, this innocence! Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid As can express my guilt! Vent. Is't come to this? The gods have been too gracious; And thus you thank 'em for't! Ant. [to ALEX.]. Why stayest thou here? Is it for thee to spy upon my soul, And see its inward mourning? Get thee hence; Thou art not worthy to behold, what now Becomes a Roman emperor to perform. Alex, [aside]. He loves her still: His grief betrays it. Good! the joy to find She's yet alive, completes the reconcile- ment. I've saved myself, and her. But, oh! the Romans ! Fate comes too fast upon my wit, Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [Exit. Vent. Would she had died a little sooner, though, Before Octavia went! you might have treated: Now 'twill look tame, and would not be re- ceived. Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm to- gether. Ant. I will not fight: there's no more work for war. The business of my angry hours is done. Vent. Caesar is at your gates. Ant. Why, let him enter; He's welcome now. Vent. What lethargy has crept into your soul? 72 ALL FOR LOVE ACT V, Sc. I. Ant. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just de- sire To free myself from bondage. Vent. Do it bravely. Ant. I will; but not by fighting. O Ven- tidius! What should I fight for now? My queen is dead. I was but great for her; my power, my em- pire, Were but my merchandise to buy her love; And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead, Let Caesar take the world, An empty circle, since the jewel's gone Which mace it worth my strife: my being's nauseous; For all the bribes of life are gone away. Vent. Would you be taken? Ant. Yes, I would be taken; But, as a Roman ought, dead, my Ven- tidius: For I'll convey my soul from Cesar's reach, And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world Should have a lord, and know whom to obey. We two have kept its homage in suspense, And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod, Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part. My torch is out; and the world stands be- fore me, Like a black desert at the approach of night: I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on. Vent. I could be grieved, But that I'll not outlive you: choose your death; For, I have seen him in such various shapes, I care not which I take; I'm only troubled, The life I bear is worn to such a rag, 'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, in- deed, We threw it from us with a better grace; That, like two lions taken in the toils, We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound The hunters that inclose us. Ant. I have thought on't. Ventidius, you must live. Vent, I must not, sir. Ant. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches From the ill tongues of men? Vent. Who shall guard mine, For living after you? Ant. Say, I command it. Vent. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves And need no living witness. Ant. Thou hast loved me, And fain I would reward thee. I must die; Kill me, and take the merit of my death, To make thee friends with Caesar. Vent. Thank your kindness. You said I loved you; and in recompense, You bid me turn a traitor. Did I think You would have used me thus? that I should die With a hard thought of you? Ant. Forgive me, Roman. Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death, My reason bears no rule upon my tongue, But lets my thoughts break all at random out. I've thought better; do not deny me twice. Vent. By Heaven I will not. Let it not be to outlive you. Ant. Kill me first, And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve Thy friend, before thyself. Vent. Give me your hand. We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor ! [Embrace. Methinks that word's too cold to be my last: Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend! That's all I will not make a business of a trifle; And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you; Pray turn your face. Ant. I do: strike home, be sure. Vent. Home as my sword will reach. [Kills himself. Ant. O, thou mistak'st; That wound was none of thine; give it me back: Thou robb'st me of my death. Vent. I do indeed; But think 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you, If that may plead my pardon. And you, gods, Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured, Rather than kill my friend. [Dies. Ant. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death! My queen and thou have got the start of me, And I'm the lag of honor. Gone so soon? Is Death no more? he used him carelessly, With a familiar kindness; ere he knocked, Ran to the door, and took him in his arms, As who should say, " You're welcome at all hours, A friend need give no warning." Books had spoiled him; For all the learned are cowards by profes- sion. 'Tis not worth My farther thought; for death, for aught I know, Is but to think no more. Here's to be satis- fied. [Falls on his sword. I've missed my heart. O unperforming hand! 73 ACT V, Sc. I. ALL FOR LOVE Thou never couldst have erred in a worse time. My fortune jades me to the last; and death, Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait For my admittance. [Trampling within. Some, perhaps, from Caesar: If he should find me living, and suspect That I played booty with my life! I'll mend My work, ere they can reach me. [Rises upon his knees. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS. I Cleo. Where is my lord? where is he? Char. There he lies, And dead Ventidius by him. Cleo. My fears were prophets; I am come too late. that accursed Alexas! [Runs to him. Ant. Art thou living? Or am I dead before I knew, and thou The first kind ghost that meets me? Cleo. Help me seat him. Send quickly, send for help! [They place him in a chair. Ant. I am answered. We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra: I'll make the most I can of life, to stay A moment more with thee. Cleo. How is it with you? Ant. 'Tis as with a man Removing in a hurry; all packed up, But one dear jewel that his haste forgot; And he, for that, returns upon the spur: So I come back for thee. Cleo. Too long, you heavens, you have been cruel to me: Now show your mended faith, and give me back His fleeting life! Ant. It will not be, my love; 1 keep my soul by force. Say but, thou art not false. Cleo. Tis now too late To say I'm true: I'll prove it, and die with you. Unknown to me, Alexas feigned my death; Which, when I knew, I hasted to prevent This fatal consequence. My fleet betrayed Both you and me. Ant. And Dolabella Cleo. Scarce Esteemed before he loved; but hated now. Ant. Enough: my life's not long enough for more. Thou say'st, thou wilt come after: I believe thee; For I can now believe whate'er thou sayest, That we may part more kindly. Cleo. I will come: Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too: Cesar shall triumph o'er no part of thee. Ant. But grieve not, while thou stay'st, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day And heaven did kindly to delay the storm. Just till our close of evening. Ten years' love, And not a moment lost, but all improved To the utmost joys, what ages have we lived! And now to die each other's; and, so dying. While hand in hand we walk in groves be- low, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours. Cleo. Your words are like the notes of dying swans, Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours For your unkindness, and not one for love? Ant. No, not a minute. This one kiss more worth Than all I leave to Caesar. [Dies. Cleo. O tell me so again, And take ten thousand kisses for that word. My lord, my lord ! speak, if you yet have being; Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast One look! Do anything that shows you live. Iras. He's gone too far to hear you; And this you see, a lump of senseless clay, The leavings of a soul. Char. Remember, madam, He charged you not to grieve. Cleo. And I'll obey him. I have not loved a Roman, not to know What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion ! For 'tis to that high title I aspire; And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia Survive, to mourn him dead; my nobler fate Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong For Roman laws to break. Iras. Will you then die? Cleo. Why shouldst thou make that ques- tion? Iras. Caesar is merciful. Cleo. Let him be so To those that want his mercy; my poor lord Made no such covenant with him, to spare me When he was dead. Yield me to Caesar's pride ? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; While some dejected friend of Antony's, Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mut- ters A secret curse on her who ruined him! I'll none of that. Char. Whatever you resolve, I'll follow, even to death. Iras. I only feared 74 ALL FOR LOVE ACT V, So. I. For you; but more should fear to live with- out you. Cleo. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends, Dispatch; ere this, the town's in Caesar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, Lest I should be surprised; Keep him not waiting for his love too long. You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; With them, the wreath of victory I made (Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills. Iras. The aspics, madam? Cleo. Must I bid you twice? [Exeunt CHARMION and IRAS. 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, To rush into the dark abode of death, And seize him first; if he be like my love, He is not frightful, sure. We're now alone, in secrecy and silence; And is not this like lovers? I may kiss These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me: And, oh ! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms. O, welcome, wel- come! Enter CHARMION and IRAS. Char. What must be done? Cleo. Short ceremony, friends; But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, Nor left his shield behind him. Only thou Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone Wert worthy so to triumph. Char. To what end These ensigns of your pomp and royalty? Cleo. Dull that thou art! why, 'tis to meet my love; As when I saw him first, on Cydnos' bank, All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned, I'll find him once again; my second spousals Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both, And dress the bride of Antony. Char. Tis done. (/('). Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place; For I must conquer Caesar too, like him, And win my share of the world. Hail, you dear relics Of my immortal love! O let no impious hand remove you hence: But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give His death that peace, which it denied his life. Reach me the casket. Iras. Underneath the fruit The aspic lies. Cleo. [putting aside the leaves]. Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so Death's dreadful office, better than himself; Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That Death stands by, deceived by his own image, And thinks himself but Sleep. Serap. [within]. The queen, where is she? The town is yielded, Caesar's at the gates. Cleo. He comes too late to invade the rights of death Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [Holds out her arm and draws it back. Coward flesh, Wouldst thou conspire with Caesar to betray me, As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it, And not be sent by him, But bring, myself, my soul to Antony. [Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody. Take hence; the work is done. Serap. [within]. Break ope the door, And guard the traitor well. Char. The next is ours. Iras. Now, Charmion, to be worthy Of our great queen and mistress. [They apply the aspics. Cleo. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins: I go with such a will to find my lord, That we shall quickly meet. A heavy numbness creeps through every limb, And now 'tis at my head; my eyelids fall, And my dear love is vanished in a mist. Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him, And lay me on his breast! Caesar, thy worst; Now part us, if thou canst. [Dies. [IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head. Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, Egyptians. Priest. Behold, Serapion, What havoc death has made! Serap. 'Twas what I feared. Charmion, is this well done? Char. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last Of her great race: I follow her. [Sinks down: dies. Alex. 'Tis true, She has done well: much better thus to die, 75 EPILOGUE Than live to make a holiday in Rome. Strap. See, see, how the lovers sit in state together, As they were giving laws to half mankind! The impression of a smile, left in her face, Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived, And went to charm him in another world. Caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, To grace the imperial triumph. Sleep, blest pair, Secure from human chance, long ages out, While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; And fame to late posterity shall tell, No lovers lived so great, or died so well. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit. We wonder how the devil this difference grows, Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: For 'tis observed of every scribbling man, He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, If pink or purple best become his face. For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; He has not yet so much of Mr. Bayes. He does his best; and if he cannot please, Would quietly sue out his writ of ease. Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. Let Cesar's power the men's ambition move, But grace you him who lost the world for love! Yet if some antiquated lady say, The last age is not copied in his play; Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. Let not the young and beauteous join with those; For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all. THOMAS OTWAY VENICE PRESERVED VERY striking is the contrast between the first Restoration tragedian and the second, between Dryden and Otway : the one boasting no great work in his youth and only " faintly distinguished in his thirtieth year " ; the other, among the unhappy youths of literature whose knell was knolled before they had reached the middle of the way. The energy, versatility, and breadth of view of the poet who could do all things better than another seem worlds above his younger contemporary's narrow intensity. The life of Thomas Otway begins in gladness. A country clergyman's son, born in a Sussex parish on March 3, 1652, he is educated at Winchester, which long hallows his memory, and then, as a gentleman commoner in the company of gilded youth at Christ Church, Oxford. His comeliness and charm win him many friends, who are rather a curse than a blessing, and his love of pleasure leads him, always feeble of purpose, into wild ways in London when his college days are over. He fails as an actor, stagestruck in his only attempt, and whistles other chances in life down the wind. There is soon no money in his purse, for his father has left him " nought but his loyalty." He turns playwright, receiving hearty greetings at the Duke's Theatre, now dominated by that best of actor-managers before Garrick, Thomas Betterton. The heroic play is near the end of its vogue, and Ot- way's first tragedy, Alcibiades (1675), is one of the dullest of that barren sort; but it is piloted to undeserved success by the talents of Betterton, his wife, and Mrs. Barry in the chief roles. Other dramas follow in quick suc- cession. In the next year (1676) the rimed Don Carlos wins as high favor from Restoration audiences as from many modern critics. In 1677 adapta- tions of Racine and Moliere, floated by Betterton and Barry, gain applause and long hold the stage. An appalling lack of humor does not restrain Otway from comedy, and the rubbishy Friendship in Fashion, " full of nau- seous doings," closes his first period in 1678 with a cheaply won triumph. Externally all seems well with the man, but the demon of frenzied love for that frail beauty, Mrs. Barry, who smiles upon his rival, the outrageous Earl of Rochester, grants the distracted wretch no mercy. To escape his tyrant so he addresses the actress in the first of six despairing epistles this creature of impulse snatches at a commission in the army and hurries 77 VENICE PRESERVED off on an ill-fated campaign in the Low Countries. At the end of 1679 he comes creeping back, a sorry figure at which scoffers point, but with fresh resources of head and heart. His first gift to the stage is the great tragedy of The Orphan (1680), displaying the tragic mistakes of a night and afford- ing his tyrant large scope for her splendid art in the interpretation of the wronged Monimia, over whose character, says Mr. Gosse, " probably more tears have been shed than over that of any other stage heroine." His next things are poor enough : the unhappy transference of Romeo and Juliet to an" ancient Roman background in The History and Fall of Caius Marius (1680), and the comedy of highly flavored personal reminiscence, The Sol- dier's Fortune (1681). Then in 1682 Otway reaches his high-water mark in the play which is our chief concern, Venice Preserved to some " the best tragedy out of Shakspere," to others " the greatest tragic drama between Shakspere and Shelley." Otway's ending rivals in wretchedness that of any of his ill-starred heroes. Seven years' service for his Rachel had been all in vain. The little money gained from his plays had been quickly squandered. The Atheist, a sequel to his military comedy, had miserably failed in 1684. Apparently, it was not " enough for one age to have neglected Mr. Cowley and to have starved Mr. Butler." However conflicting the accounts of Otway's death, a tradition of days of debauch, sponging-houses, and semi-starvation places him, too, among " mighty poets in their misery dead." At the age of thirty-three, a little older than Marlowe and Shelley, a little younger than Burns and Byron, he was laid to rest on April 16, 1685, in the churchyard of St. Clement Danes. The source of Otway's Venice Preserved was an historical novel, Con- juration des Espagnols contre la Venise en 1618 by the same author that had, in another work, furnished the dramatist with the theme of Don Carlos, the Abbe Saint-Real. This inner history of a famous conspiracy, which was doubtless known to Otway in an English translation of 1675, now provided him not only with an admirably effective situation, but with such eminently dramatic characters as Jaffeir and Pierre. Then, too, as has been often sug- gested, this story of a plot might well be fashioned by a Tory of 1682 into a covert allegory of the great " Popish Plot," fresh in all Englishmen's minds, and might thus, through obvious implications, awaken as ready a response from partisans as Dryden's timely political satires of similar significance. That Otway availed himself of this opportunity to the full is seen not only in the indirect assault of prologue and epilogue upon the Whig leader, An- thony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, but in the beastly caricature of that statesman, the thinly disguised Antonio of the unfortunate sub-plot, who possesses no vestige of the virtues of even Dryden's Achitophel. These dis- gusting scenes, defended by Taine alone on the score of relief to the serious action, repel both by their grossness and their lack-wit and were wisely barred from later stage-versions of the play. Of the two notable figures of Venice Preserved, one was well found, 78 VENICE PRESERVED the other well invented. By a happy coincidence Saint-Real's story offered just that type of hero which Otway could best portray, which indeed he had already so clearly bodied forth both in the Prince of Don Carlos and in Castalio of The Orphan, and which he saw mirrored whenever he looked into his own heart. " Nature is there," said Dryden finely of Venice Pre- served, and, with Jaffeir in mind, he might have added, " Otway's nature." The intense sensibility of Saint-Real's unhappy conspirator that dwells upon " the cries of children trodden under feet, the groans of old men murdered, and the shrieks of women dishonored, palaces falling, temples on fire, and holy places covered with blood " blends with a weakness of will that this way and that divides the mind in an ecstasy of torture. The irresponsible impressionable youth, half-crazed by passionate affection and enslaved by romantic impulses, was a stranger to the conventional " heroic " drama, but was no stranger to the little circle of actors at the Duke's Theatre, observers of the infatuation that wrecked Otway's life. But neither to tragic fiction nor to his tragic experience was the dramatist indebted for that most tri- umphant of all his creations, the exquisite Belvidera. It is true that this sensitive figure is of the sisterhood of the Queen in Don Carlos and Monimia in The Orphan, for Otway may be charged not unjustly with drawing but one man and one woman ; but in the blending of tenderness and tragic power, she rises far above these other selves into the lofty company of those supreme in suffering, Desdemona, the Duchess of Malfi, and Beatrice Cenci. From the moment when she comes weeping forth, " shining through tears like April suns in showers," she is all compact of brightness and sweetness, purity and truth, unshaken dignity and unfaltering love. ' If she does not release with her own hands all the raging winds of passion that shake the hearts and souls of these Venetians, she seems the centre of every whirling storm of grief and anger. It is indeed her situation that, often without her knowledge and desire, gives impulse to action. Her rejection by her father reduces the husband, whose lust of revenge she vainly seeks to allay in a scene unrivalled for clinging devotion, to a desperate abandonment which is quick to welcome Pierre's fatal suggestion. Again she stands in pathetic futility without help or hope between the ill-starred Jaffeir and the friend whose ruin he has effected. Once, however, she touches wittingly all the springs of action in that splendid appeal to Jaffeir which awakens his sus- ceptibility to the mixed motives of personal revenge upon the old lecher and imaginative sympathy with the innocent victims of impending doom. Thus it is she who preserves Venice. Her touching intercession with her father wins the old senator to her side and seems to check the final catastrophe but only for a moment. In the last scene, so steeped in the drowsiness of woe, her shattered sense and breaking heart succumb to fearful visions, and Belvidera perishes amid the pitiful wreckage. To the irresolute Jaffeir there could be no better antitype than the intrepid Pierre with his steadfastness of purpose and unshrinking loyalty to honor even when rooted in dis- 79 VENICE PRESERVED honor a gallant specimen of that militant sort which views life as a straight line. To the gravity of Belvidera, the levity of Aquilina, laughing- eyed and open-armed, might serve as a like foil, if the comic scenes in which the courtesan appears were not degraded by buffoonery into wretched ex- crescences upon the guiding motives of dramatic action. This leads us to a brief consideration of the plot, so varied in its move- ment, so intense in its interest. Hazlitt with true discernment finds both charm and power in " the awful suspense of the situations, the conflict of duty and passions, the intimate bonds that unite the characters together and that are violently rent asunder like the parting of soul and body, the solemn march of the tragical events to the fatal catastrophe that winds up and closes over all." Though the drama strictly regards classical limitations of time and place one critical day in Venice the action is attended by many romantic accessories : wealth of actors and of incidents, low buffoonery de- signed perhaps as relief, the visible horrors of on-stage deaths, the heroine's madness, and the two ghostly apparitions. The tolling of the bell in the fifth act has been likened, in " its genuine melodramatic thrill," to the trumpet in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouch and to the horn of Hernani. Otway was too close a student of Elizabethan language and stage-effects to stand with the classicists. Moreover, artificial rules and conventional traditions impose few fetters upon a master of passion swaying it to his needs. Organic harmony and emotional intensity (Noel) are here sovereign traits. Otway has been charged with small attention to local color. But in this tragedy the background is far more clearly defined than in Shakspere's plays of Venice. Mention of the Rialto, St. Mark's, the Ducal Palace, and " the Adriatic wedded by our Duke " gives the requisite sense of locality. What is much more to the purpose, the seventeenth century imagination, alive to every hint of Spanish intrigue and Venetian mystery, must have responded quickly to the spirited portrayal of the brewing of conspiracy and of the corruption and decay of the great Republic. For much of this atmosphere Otway was indebted to Saint-Real, who had not a little of the artist in him ; but the dramatist everywhere displays a full sense of the literary values of historical associations and popular conceptions. Otway's art has stamped the image of Venice on others than on Byron. The style of the play is simple how simple and restrained anyone will recognize who compares it with the fret and fury of heroic drama. But Otway's effortless simplicity never thins to meagreness, nor does his reserve ever congeal to icy formality. If his lines lack the sonorous energy of Dryden's full tones in All for Love, they possess a nervous strength be- gotten by the union of specific, almost Saxon, diction with uninvolved sen- tence-structure. He is often monosyllabic for many lines together; and he achieves a compactness of phrase admirably adapted to passionate utterance. Though there are in Otway few or no lines that flash upon the inward eye with penetrating truth and wisdom universal in its application, there is every- 80 VENICE PKESERVED where transparent lucidity of expression. There is little glamor in him, but his imagery is apt, unlabored, natural, and familiar. The full ear of corn, the snare of the fowler, owls with heavy wings, the tender infant in its cradle, the beggar brat under a hedge, the grumbling of the winds, wrecks in the rough tide these are his effective similes. Otway's blank verse, like that of Dryden and other contemporaries who first wrought in rime, confesses the influence of the heroic couplet; hence we must not look here for that unchecked flow of thought from line to line, that rapturous harmony of meaning and measure, of which the Elizabethans knew the secret. This is a self-contained metre, incapable perhaps of flexible rhythm and haunting melodies, but responsive in its latent vigor to the vehement demands of passionate action. " There was a time when Otway charmed the stage." And the time was of long duration. For over a hundred and fifty years from its suc- cessful presentation early in 1682, Venice Preserved held English audiences, and in many adaptations and translations pleased the Continent. Indeed in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries it seems to have been acted more frequently than any play outside of Shakspere. English stage history records no less than twenty-one revivals before 1845. And the greatest actors have filled the leading roles : Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Seymour, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O'Neill, and Mrs. Warner appearing as Belvidera ; and Betterton, Quin, Garrick, Kemble, Macready, Young, and Phelps as Jaffeir or Pierre. VENICE PRESERVED OR A PLOT DISCOVERED PROLOGUE In these distracted times, when each man dreads The bloody stratagems of busy heads ; When we have feared three years we know not what, Till witnesses began to die o' th' rot, What made our poet meddle with a plot? Was't that he fancied, for the very sake And name of plot, his trifling play might take? For there's not in't one inch-board evidence, But 'tis, he says, to reason plain and sense, And that he thinks a plausible defence. 81 VENICE PRESERVED Were truth by sense and reason to be tried, Sure all our swearers might be laid aside: No, of such tools our author has no need, To make his plot, or make his play succeed; He, of black bills, has no prodigious tales, Or Spanish pilgrims cast ashore in Wales; Here's not one murthered magistrate at least, Kept rank like ven'son for a city feast, Grown four days stiff, the better to prepare And fit his pliant limbs to ride in chair: Yet here's an army raised, though under ground, But no man seen, nor one commission found; Here is a traitor too, that's very old, Turbulent, subtle, mischievous, and bold, Bloody, revengeful, and to crown his part, Loves fumbling with a wench, with all his heart; Till after having many changes passed, In spite of age (thanks Heaven) is hanged at last; Next is a senator that keeps a whore, In Venice none a higher office bore; To lewdness every night the lecher ran, Show me, all London, such another man, Match him at Mother Creswold's if you can. O Poland, Poland! had it been thy lot, T' have heard in time of this Venetian plot, Thou surely chosen hadst one king from thence, And honored them, as thou hast England since. DRAMATIS PERSONS DUKE OF VENICE. PKIULI, Father to Belvidera, a Senator. ANTONIO, a Fine Speaker in the Senate. JAFFEIR, PIERRE, RENAULT, BECAMAR, SFINOSA, THEODORE, ELIOT, REVILLIDO, }. Conspirators. DURAND, MEZZANA, BRAIN VEIL, TtRNON, BRABE, RETROSI, BELVIDERA. AQUILINA. Two Women, Attendants on Belvidera, Two Women, Servants to Aquilina. The Council of Ten. Officer. Guards. Friar. Executioner and Rabble. SCENE. VENICE. 82 VENICE PRESERVED ACT I, Sc. I. ACT I SCENE I Enter PRIULI and JAFFEIR. Priu. No more! I'll hear no more; begone and leave. Jaff. Not hear me! by my sufferings but you shall ! My lord, my lord! I'm not that abject wretch You think me: patience! whore's the dis- tance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me! Priu. Have you not wronged me? Jaff. Could my nature e'er Have brooked injustice or the doing wrongs, I need not now thus low have bent myself To gain a hearing from a cruel father! Wronged you ? Priu. Yes! wronged me, in the nicest point: The honor of my house; you have done me wrong; You may remember (for I now will speak, And urge its baseness) : when you first came home From travel, with such hopes, as made you looked on By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation; Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you: Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits: My house, my table, nay my fortune too, My very self, was yours; you might have used me To your best service; like an open friend, I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine; When in requital of my best endeavors, You treacherously practised to undo me, Seduced the weakness of my age's darling, My only child, and stole her from my bosom: O Belvidera! Jaff. 'Tis to me you owe her, Childless you had been else, and in the grave, Your name extinct, nor no more I riuli heard of. You may remember, scarce five years are past, Since in your brigandine you sailed to see The Adriatic wedded by our Duke, And I was with you: your unskilful pilot Dashed us upon a rock; when to your boat You made for safety; entered first yourself; The affrighted Belvidera following next, As she stood trembling on the vessel side, Was by a wave washed off into the deep, When instantly I plunged into the sea, And buffeting the billows to her rescue, Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine; Like a rich conquest in one hand I bore her, And with the other dashed the saucy waves, That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize: I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms: Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler grati- tude Rose in her soul: for from that hour she loved me, Till for her life she paid me with herself. Priu. You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her, At dead of night; that cursed hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear. May all your joys in her prove false like mine; A sterile fortune, and a barren bed, Attend you both; continual discord make Your days and nights bitter and grievous: still May the hard hand of a vexatious need Oppress, and grind you; till at last you find The curse of disobedience all your portion. Jaff. Half of your curse you have be- stowed in vain ; Heaven has already crowned our faithful loves With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty. May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, And happier than his father! Priu. Rather live To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy mother Sits down and weeps in bitterness of want. Jaff. You talk as if 'twould please you. Priu. 'Twould, by Heaven. Once she was dear indeed; the drops that fell From my sad heart, when she forgot her duty, The fountain of my life was not so precious: But she is gone, and if I am a man I will forget her. Jaff. Would I were in my grave! Priu. And she too with thee; For, living here, you're but my curst re- membrancers I once was happy. ././;. You use me thus, because you know my soul Is fond of Belvidera: you perceive My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me; 83 ACT I, Sc. I. VENICE PRESERVED Oh! could my soul ever have known satiety, Were 1 that thief, the doer of such wrongs As you upbraid me with, what hinders me, But I might send her back to you with contumely, And court my fortune where she would be kinder! Priu. You dare not do't Jaff. Indeed, my lord, I dare not. My heart that awes me is too much my master: Three years are past since first our vows were plighted. During which time, the world must bear me witness, I have treated Belvidera like your daughter, The daughter of a senator of Venice; Distinction, place, attendance and observ- ance, Due to her birth, she always has com- manded ; Out of my little fortune I have done this; Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature) The world might see, I loved her for herself, Not as the heiress of the great Priuli Priu. No more! Jaff. Yes! all, and then adieu for ever. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity But's happier than me: for I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never waked but to a joyful morning; Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom scaped, yet's withered in the ripening. Priu. Home and be humble, study to re- trench ; Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, Those pageants of thy folly, Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state; Then to some suburb cottage both retire; Drudge, to feed loathsome life: get brats, an* 1 , starve Home, home, I say. [Exit PRIULI. Jaff, Yes, if my heart would let me This proud, this swelling heart: home I would go, But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Filled and dammed up with gaping creditors, Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring; I have now not fifty ducats in the world, Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin. O Belvidera! oh, she is my wife And we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more. Enter PIERRE. Pierr. My friend, good morrow! How fares the honest partner of my heart? What, melancholy! not a word to spare me? Jaff. I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damned starving quality, Called honesty, got footing in the world. Pierr. Why, powerful villainy first set it up, For its own ease and safety: honest men Are the soft easy cushions on which knaves Repose and fatten. Were all mankind vil- lains, They'd starve each other; lawyers would want practice, Cut-throats rewards; each man would kill his brother Himself, none would be paid or hanged for murder. Honesty was a cheat invented first To bind the hands of bold deserving rogues, That fools and cowards might sit safe in power, And lord it uncontrolled above their betters. Jaff. Then honesty is but a notion. Pierr. Nothing else, Like wit, much talked of, not to be defined: He that pretends to most, too, has least share in't; 'Tis a ragged virtue: honesty! no more on't. Jaff. Sure thou art honest? Pierr. So indeed men think me; But they're mistaken, Jaffeir: I am a rogue As well as they; A fine gay bold-faced villain, as thou seest me; 'Tis true, I pay my debts when they're con- tracted; I steal from no man; would not cut a throat To gain admission to a great man's purse, Or a whore's bed; I'd not betray my friend, place fortune: I scorn to the To get his flatter A blown-up fool above me, or crush wretch beneath me, Yet, Jaffeir, for all this, I am a villain! Jaff. A villain Pierr. Yes, a most notorious villain: To see the suff'rings of my fellow-creatures, And own myself a man: to see our senators Cheat the deluded people with a show Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of; They say, by them our hands are free from fetters, Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds; Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow; Drive us like wracks down the rough tide of power, Whilst no hold's left to save us from de- struction; All that bear this are villains; and I one, Not to rouse up at the great call of nature, And check the growth of these domestic spoilers, 84 VENICE PRESERVED ACT I, Sc. I. That makes us slaves and tells us 'tis our charter. Jaff. O Aquilina! friend, to lose such beauty, The dearest purchase of thy noble labors; She was thy right by conquest, as by love. Pierr. O Jaffeir! I'd so fixed my heart upon her, That wheresoe'er I framed a scheme of life For time to come, she was my only joy With which I wished to sweeten future cares; I fancied pleasures, none but one that loves And dotes as I did can imagine like 'em: When in the extremity of all these hopes, In the most charming hour of expectation, Then when our eager wishes soar the high- est, Ready to stoop and grasp the lovely game, A haggard owl, a worthless kite of prey, With his foul wings sailed in and spoiled my quarry. Jaff. I know the wretch, and scorn him as thou hat'st him. Pierr. Curse on the common good that's so protected, Where every slave that heaps up wealth enough To do much wrong, becomes a lord of right! I, who believed no ill could e'er come near me, Found in the embraces of my Aquilina A wretched, old but itching senator; A wealthy fool, that had bought out my title, A rogue, that uses beauty like a lambskin, Barely to keep him warm: that filthy cuckoo too Was in my absence crept into my nest, And spoiling all my brood of noble pleasure. Jaff. Didst thou not chase him thence? Pierr. 1 did; and drove The rank old bearded Hirco stinking home: The matter was complained of in the Senate, I summoned to appear, and censured basely, For violating something they call privilege This was the recompense of [all] my serv- ice: Would I'd been rather beaten by a coward! A soldier's mistress, Jaffeir, 's his religion, When that's profaned, all other ties are broken; That even dissolves all former bonds of service, And from that hour I think myself as free To be the foe as e'er the friend of Venice. Nay, dear Revenge, whene'er thou call'st I'm ready. Jaff. I think no safety can be here for virtue, And grieve, my friend, as much as thou to live In such a wretched state as this of Venice; Where all agree to spoil the public good, And villains fatten with the brave man's labors. Pierr. We have neither safety, unity, nor peace, For the foundation's lost of common good; Justice is lame as well as blind amongst us; to their ends that of some new O Jaffeir! then might'st The laws (corrupted make 'em) Serve but for instruments tyranny, That every day starts up to enslave us deeper: Now could this glorious cause but find out friends To do it right! thou Not wear these seals of woe upon thy face, The proud Priuli should be taught humanity, And learn to value such a son 'as thou art. I dare not speak ! But my heart bleeds this moment ! Jjfi. Curst be the cause, though I thy friend be part on't: Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom, For I am used to misery, and perhaps May find a way to sweeten 't to thy spirit. Pierr. Too soon it will reach thy knowl- edge Jaff. Then from thee Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friend- ship Would make the saddest tale of sorrow pleasing, Strengthen my constancy, and welcome ruin. Pierr. Then thou art ruined! Jaff. That I long since knew, I and ill-fortune have been long acquaint- ance. Pierr. I passed this very moment by thy doors, And found them guarded by a troop of villains; The sons of public rapine were destroying: They told me, by the sentence of the law They had commission to seize all thy for- tune, Nay more, Priuli's cruel hand hath signed it. Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate, Tumbled into a heap for public sale: There was another making villainous jests At thy undoing; he had ta'en possession Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments, Rich hangings, intermixed and wrought with gold; The very bed, which on thy wedding-night Received thee to the arms of Belvidera, The scene of all thy joys, was violated By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon vil- lains, And thrown amongst the common lumber. Jaff. Now, thank Heaven Pierr. Thank Heaven ! for what ? Jaff. That I am not worth a ducat. 85 ACT I. Sc. I. VENICE PRESERVED Pierr. Curse thy dull stars, and the worst fate of Venice, Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false ; Where there's no trust, no truth; where innocence Stoops under vile oppression, and vice lords it. Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch That's doomed to banishment, came weeping forth, Shining through tears, like April suns in showers That labor to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em, Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she leaned, Kindly looked up, and at her grief grew sad, As if they catched the sorrows that fell from her! Even the lewd rabble that were gathered round To see the sight, stood mute when they be- held her; Governed their roaring throats and grum- bled pity: I could have hugged the greasy rogues; they pleased me. Jaff. I thank thee for this story, from my soul, Since now I know the worst that can be- fall me: Ah, Pierre! I have a heart, that could have borne The roughest wrong my fortune could have done me; But when I think what Belvidera feels, The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, I own myself a coward: bear my weakness, If throwing thus my arms about thy neck, I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom. Oh ! I shall drown thee with my sorrows ! Pierr. Burn ! First burn, and level Venice to thy ruin. What! starve like beggars' brats in frosty weather, Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death! Thou, or thy cause, shall never want assist- ance, Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee; Command my heart: thou art every way its master. Jaff. No; there's a secret pride in bravely dying. Pierr. Rats die in holes and corners, dogs run mad; Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow: Revenge! the attribute of gods, they stamped it With their great image on our natures; die! Consider well the cause that calls upon thee, And if thou'rt base enough, die then. Re- member Thy Belvidera suffers; Belvidera! Die! damn first! what! be decently in- terred In a churchyard, and mingle thy brave dust With stinking rogues that rot in dirty winding-sheets, Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o' th* soil. Jaff. Oh! Pierr. Well said, out with it, swear a little Jaff. Swear! By sea and air! by earth, by heaven and hell, I will revenge my Belvidera's tears! Hark thee, my friend Priuli is a senator! Pierr. A dog! Jaff. Agreed. Pierr. Shoot him. Jaff. With all my heart. No more: where shall we meet at night? Pierr. I'll tell thee; On the Rialto every night at twelve I take my evening's walk of meditation, There we two will meet, and talk of precious Mischief Jaff. Farewell. Pierr. At twelve. Jaff. At any hour, my plagues Will keep me waking. [Exit PIERRE. Tell me why, good Heaven, Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, Aspiring thoughts and elegant desires That fill the happiest man ? Ah ! rather why Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate, Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens? Why have I sense to know the curse that's on me? Is this just dealing, Nature? Belvidera! Enter BELVIDERA. Poor Belvidera! Belv. Lead me, lead me, my virgins! To that kind voice. My lord, my love, my refuge ! Happy my eyes, when they behold thy face: My heavy heart will leave its doleful beat- ing At sight of thee, and bound with sprightful joys. O smile, as when our loves were in their spring, And cheer my fainting soul. Jaff. As when our loves Were in their spring? has then my fortune changed ? Art thou not Belvidera, still the same, Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee? 86 VENICE PRESERVED ACT II, Sc. I. If thou art altered, where shall I have harbor ? Where ease my loaded heart? Oh! where complain ? Belv. Does this appear like change, or love decaying? When thus I throw myself into thy bosom, With all the resolution of a strong truth: Beats not my heart, as 'twould alarum thine To a new charge of bliss? I joy more in thee, Than did thy mother when she hugged thee first, And blessed the gods for all her travail past. Jaff. Can there in women be such glorious faith ? Sure all ill stories of thy sex are false; woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee To temper man: we had been brutes with- out you; Angels are painted fair, to look like you; There's in you all that we believe of heaven, Amazing brightness, purity and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love. Belv. If love be treasure, we'll be won- drous rich; 1 have so much, my heart will surely break with't; Vows cannot express it; when I would de- clare How great's my joy, I am dumb with the big thought; I swell, and sigh, and labor with my longing. O lead me to some desert wide and wild, Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul May have its vent: where I may tell aloud To the high heavens, and ever listening planet, With what a boundless stock my bosom's fraught; Where I may throw my eager arms about thee, Give loose to love with kisses, kindling joy, And let off all the fire that's in my heart. Jaff. O Belvidera! double I am a beggar, Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee; Want! worldly want! that hungry meagre fiend Is at my heels, and chases me in view. Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can these limbs, Framed for the tender offices of love, Endure the bitter gripes of smarting pov- erty? When banished by our miseries abroad (As suddenly we shall be), to seek out (In some far climate where our names are strangers) For charitable succor; wilt thou then, When in a bed of straw we shrink to- gether, And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads, Wilt thou then talk thus to me? Wilt thou then Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love? Belv. Oh, I will love thee, even in mad- ness love thee. Though my distracted senses should forsake me, I'd find some intervals, when my poor heart Should suage itself and be let loose to thine. Though the bare earth be all our resting- place, Its roots our food, some clift our habitation, I'll make this arm a pillow for thy head; And as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sorrow, Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest; Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning. Jaff. Hear this, you Heavens, and wonder how you made her! Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world, Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know Tranquillity and happiness like mine; Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall And rise again, to lift you in your pride; They wait but for a storm and then devour you: I, in my private bark, already wrecked, Like a poor merchant driven on unknown land, That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure In one dear casket, and saved only that, Since I must wander further on the shore, Thus hug my little, but my precious store; Resolved to scorn, and trust my fate no more. [Exeunt. ACT II SCENE I Enter PIERRE and AQUILINA. Aquil. By all thy wrongs, thou'rt dearer to my arms Than all the wealth of Venice: prithee stay, And let us love to-night. Pierr. No: there's fool, There's fool about thee: when a woman sells Her flesh to fools, her beauty's lost to me; They leave a taint, a sully where they've past, There's such a baneful quality about 'em, E'en spoils complexions with their own nauseousness. They infect all they touch; I cannot think Of tasting anything a fool has palled. Aquil. I loathe and scorn that fool thou mean'st, as much 87 ACT II, Sc. II. VENICE PRESERVED Or more than thou canst; but the beast has gold That makes him necessary; power too, To qualify my character, and poise me Equal with peevish virtue, that beholds My liberty with envy; in their hearts Are loose as I am; but an ugly power Sits in their faces, and frights pleasures from 'em. Pierr. Much good may't do you, madam, with your senator. .Li nil. My senator! why, canst thou think that wretch E'er filled thy Aquilina's arms with pleas- ure? Think'st thou, because I sometimes give him leave To foil himself at what he is unfit for; Because I force myself to endure and suffer him, Think'st thou I love him? No, by all the joys Thou ever gav'st me, his presence is my penance; The worst thing an old man can be 's a lover, A mere memento mori to poor woman. I never lay by his decrepit side, But all that night I pondered on my grave. Pierr. Would he were well sent thither! Aquil. That's my wish too: For then, my Pierre, I might have cause with pleasure To play the hypocrite. Oh! how I could weep Over the dying dotard, and kiss him too, In hopes to smother him quite; then, when the time Was come to pay my sorrows at his funeral, For he has already made me heir to treas- ures, Would make me out-act a real widow's whining: How could I frame my face to fit my mourn- ing, With wringing hands attend him to his grave, Fall swooning on his hearse; take mad pos- session Even of the dismal vault where he lay buried; There like the Ephesian matron dwell, till thou, My lovely soldier, com'st to my deliverance; Then throwing up my veil, with open arms And laughing eyes, run to new dawning joy. Pierr. No more! I have friends to meet me here to-night, And must be private. As you prize my friendship, Keep up your coxcomb: let him not pry nor listen Nor fisk about the house as I have seen him, Like a tame mumping squirrel with a bell on; Curs will be abroad to bite him if you do. Aquil. What friends to meet? may I not be of your council ? Pierr. How! a woman ask questions out of bed? Go to your senator, ask him what passes Amongst his brethren, he'll hide nothing from you But pump not me for politics. No more! Give order that whoever in my name Comes here, receive admittance: so good- night. Aquil. Must we ne'er meet again! Em- brace no more ! Is love so soon and utterly forgotten ! Pierr. As you henceforward treat your fool, I'll think on't. Aquil. Curst be all fools, and doubly curst myself, The worst of fools I die if he forsakes me; And now to keep him, heaven or hell in- struct me. [Exeunt. SCENE II THE RIALTO Enter JAFFEIR. Jaff. I am here, and thus, the shades of night around me, I look as if all hell were in my heart, And I in hell. Nay, surely 'tis so with me; For every step I tread, methinks some fiend Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be quiet: I've heard, how desperate wretches, like myself, Have wandered out at this dead time of night To meet the foe of mankind in his walk: Sure I'm so curst, that, tho' of Heaven for- saken, No minister of darkness cares to tempt me. Hell! hell! why sleepest thou? Enter PIERRE. Pierr. Sure I have stayed too long: The clock has struck, and I may lose my proselyte. Speak, who goes there? Jaff. A dog, that comes to howl At yonder moon: what's he that asks the question ? Pierr. A friend to dogs, for they are honest creatures And ne'er betray their masters; never fawn On any that they love not. Well met, friend: Jaffeir! Jaff. The same. O Pierre! thou art come in season, I was just going to pray. 88 VENICE PRESERVED ACT II, Sc. II. Pierr. Ah, that's mechanic, Priests make a trade on't, and yet starve by it too: No praying, it spoils business, and time's precious; Where's Belvidera? Jaff. For a day or two I've lodged her privately till I see farther What fortune will do with me? Prithee, friend, If thou wouldst have me fit to hear good counsel, Speak not of Belvidera Pierr. Speak not of her? Jaff. Oh no! Pierr. Nor name her? May be I wish her well. Jaff. Who well? Pierr. Thy wife, thy lovely Belvidera; I hope a man may wish his friend's wife well, And no harm done! Jaff. Y' are merry, Pierre! Pierr. I am so: Thou shalt smile too, and Belvidera smile; We'll all rejoice; here's something to buy pins, Marriage is chargeable. Jaff. I but half wished To see the Devil, and he's here already. Well! What must this buy, rebellion, murder, treason? Tell me which way I must be damned for this. Pierr. When last we parted, we had no qualms like these, But entertained each other's thoughts like men Whose souls were well acquainted. Is the world Reformed since our last meeting? What new miracles Have happened? Has Priuli's heart re- lented? Can he be honest? Jaff. Kind Heaven! let heavy curses Gall his old age; cramps, aches, rack his bones; And bitterest disquiet wring his heart; Oh, let him live till life become his bur- den! Let him groan under't long, linger an age In the worst agonies- and pangs of death, And find its ease but late! Pierr. Nay, couldst thou not As well, my friend, have stretched the curse to all The Senate round, as to one single villain? Jaff. But curses stick not: could I kill with cursing, By Heaven, I know not thirty heads in Venice Should not be blasted; senators should rot Like dogs on dunghills; but their wives and daughters Die of their own diseases. Oh, for a curse To kill with! Pierr. Daggers, daggers, are much better! Jaff. Ha! Pierr. Daggers. Jaff. But where are they? Pierr. Oh, a thousand May be disposed in honest hands in Venice. Jaff. Thou talk'st in clouds. Pierr. But yet a heart half wronged As thine has been, would find the meaning, Jaffeir. Jaff. A thousand daggers, all in honest hands ; And have not I a friend will stick one here? Pierr. Yes, if I thought thou wert not to be cherished To a nobler purpose, I'd be that friend. But thou hast better friends, friends, whom thy wrongs Have made thy friends; friends worthy to be called so; I'll trust thee with a secret: there are spirits This hour at work. But as thou art a man, Whom I have picked and chosen from the world, Swear, that thou wilt be true to what I utter, And when I have told thee, that which only gods And men like gods are privy to, then swear, No chance or change shall wrest it from thy bosom. Jaff. When thou wouldst bind me, is there need of oaths? (Greensickness girls lose maidenheads with such counters) For thou'rt so near my heart, that thou mayst see Its bottom, sound its strength, and firmness to thee: Is coward, fool, or villain, in my face? If I seem none of these, I dare believe Thou wouldst not use me in a little cause, For I am fit for honor's toughest task; Nor ever yet found fooling was my province; And for a villainous inglorious enterprise, I know thy heart so well, I dare lay mine Before thee, set it to what point thou wilt. Pierr. Nay, it's a cause thou wilt be fond of, Jaffeir. For it is founded on the noblest basis, Our liberties, our natural inheritance; There's no religion, no hypocrisy in't; We'll do the business, and ne'er fast and pray for't: Openly act a deed, the world shall gaze With wonder at, and envy when it's done. Jaff. For liberty! Pierr. For liberty, my friend! Thou shalt be fre~d from base Priuli's tyranny, ACT II, Sc. III. VENICE PRESERVED And thy sequestered fortunes healed again. I shall be freed from opprobrious wrongs, That press me now, and bend my spirit downward : All Venice free, and every growing merit Succeed to its just right; fools shall be pulled From wisdom's seat; those baleful unclean birds, Those lazy owls, who (perched near For- tune's top) Sit only watchful with their heavy wings To cuff down new-fledged virtues, that< would rise To nobler heights, and make the grove harmonious. Jaff. What can I do? Pierr. Canst thou not kill a senator? Jaff. Were there one wise or honest, I could kill him For herding with that nest of fools and knaves. By all my wrongs, thou talk'st as if revenge Were to be had, and the brave story warms me. Pierr. Swear, then ! Jaff. I do, by all those glittering stars And yond great ruling planet of the night! By all good powers above, and ill below! By love and friendship, dearer than my life! No power or death shall make me false to thee. Pierr. Here we embrace, and I'll unlock my heart. A council's held hard by, where the destruc- tion Of this great empire's hatching: there I'll lead thee! But be a man, for thou art to mix with men Fit to disturb the peace of all the world, And rule it when it's wildest Jaff. I give thee thanks For this kind warning: yes, I will be a man, And charge thee, Pierre, whene'er thou seest my fears Betray me less, to rip this heart of mine Out of my breast, and show it for a coward's. Come, let's begone, for from this hour I chase All little thoughts, all tender human follies Out of my bosom: vengeance shall have room: Revenge ! Pierr. And liberty ! Jaff. Revenge ! revenge ! [Exeunt SCENE III The Scene changes to AQUILINA'S house, the Greek Courtesan. Enter RENAULT. Renault. Why was my choice ambition, the first ground A wretch can build on? It's indeed at dis- tance A good prospect, tempting to the view, The height delights us, and the mountain top Looks beautiful, because it's nigh to heaven, But we ne'er think how Sandy's the foun- dation, What storm will batter, and what tempest shake us ! Who's there? Enter SPINOSA. Spin. Renault, good morrow! for by this time I think the scale of night has turned the balance, And weighs up morning: has the clock struck twelve? Ren. Yes, clocks will go as they are set. But man, Irregular man's ne'er constant, never cer- tain: I've spent at least three precious hours of darkness In waiting dull attendance; 'tis the curse Of diligent virtue to be mixed like mine, With giddy tempers, souls but half resolved. Spin. Hell seize that soul amongst us it can frighten! Ren. What's then the cause that I am here alone? Why are we not together? Enter ELIOT. O sir, welcome! You are an Englishman: when treason's hatching One might have thought you'd not have been behindhand. In what whore's lap have you been lolling? Give but an Englishman his whore and ease, Beef and a sea-coal fire, he's yours for ever. Eliot. Frenchman, you are saucy. Ren. How! Enter BEDAMAR the Ambassador, THEODORE, BRAINVEIL, DURAND, BRABE, REVILLIDO, MEZZANA, TERNON, RETROSI, Conspirators. Beda. At difference, fie! Is this a time for quarrels? Thieves and rogues Fall out and brawl: should men of your high calling, Men separated by the choice of Providence From the gross heap of .mankind, and set here In this great assembly as in one great jewel, To adorn the bravest purpose it e'er smiled on, Should you like boys wrangle for trifles? 90 VENICE PRESERVED ACT H, Sc. III. Ren. Boys ! Beda. Renault, thy hand! Ren. I thought I'd given my heart Long since to every man that mingles here; But grieve to find it trusted with such tempers, That can't forgive my froward age its weak- ness. Beda. Eliot, thou once hadst virtue; I have seen Thy stubborn temper bend with godlike goodness, Not half thus courted: 'tis thy nation's glory, To hug the foe that offers brave alliance. Once more embrace, my friends we'll all embrace United thus, we are the mighty engine Must twist this rooted empire from its basis ! Totters it not already? Eliot. Would it were tumbling! Beda. Nay, it shall down: this night we seal its ruin. Enter PIERRE. Pierre! thou art welcome! Come to my breast, for by its hopes thou look'st Lovelily dreadful, and the fate of Venice Seems on thy sword already. O my Mars ! The poets that first feigned a god of war Sure prophesied of thee. Pierr. Friends! was not Brutus, (I mean that Brutus who in open senate Stabbed the first Caesar that usurped the world) A gallant man ? Ren. Yes, and Catiline too; Though story wrong his fame; for he con- spired To prop the reeling glory of his country: His cause was good. Beda. And ours as much above it, As, Renault, thou art superior to Cethegus, Or Pierre to Cassius. Pierr. Then to what we aim at, When do we start? or must we talk for ever? Beda. No, Pierre, the deed's near birth: fate seems to have set The business up, and given it to our care; 1 hope there's not a heart nor hand amongst us But is firm and ready. All. All! We'll die with Bedamar. Beda. O men, Matchless, as will your glory be hereafter. The game is for a matchless prize, if won; If lost, disgraceful ruin. Ren. What can lose it? The public stock's a beggar; one Venetian Trusts not another. Look into their stores Of general safety; empty magazines, A tattered fleet, a murmuring unpaid army, Bankrupt nobility, a harassed commonalty, A factious, giddy, and divided Senate, Is all the strength of Venice. Let's destroy Let's fill their magazines with arms to awe them, Man out their fleet, and make their trade maintain it; Let loose the murmuring army on their masters, To pay themselves with plunder; lop their nobles To the base roots, whence most of 'em first sprung; Enslave the rout, whom smarting will make humble; Turn out their droning Senate, and possess That seat of empire which our souls were framed for. Pierr. Ten thousand men are armed at ycur nod, Commanded all by leaders fit to guide A battle for the freedom of the world; This wretched state has starved them in its service, And by your bounty quickened, they're re- solved To serve your glory, and revenge their own! They've all their different quarters in this city, Watch for the alarm, and grumble 'tis so tardy. Beda. I doubt not, friend, but thy un- wearied diligence Has still kept waking, and it shall have ease. After this night it is resolved we meet No more, till Venice own us for her lords. Pierr. How lovelily the Adriatic whore, Dressed in her flames, will shine! devour- ing flames ! Such as shall burn her to the watery bot- tom And hiss in her foundation. Beda. Now if any Amongst us that owns this glorious cause, Have friends or interest, he'd wish to save, Let it be told; the general doom is sealed; But I'd forego the hopes of a world's em- pire, Rather than wound the bowels of my friend. Pierr. I must confess, you there have touched my weakness, I have a friend; hear it, such a friend! My heart was ne'er shut to him: nay, I'll tell you, He knows the very business of this hour; But he rejoices in the cause, and loves it; We've changed a vow to live and die to- gether, And he's at hand to ratify it here. Ren. How! all betrayed? Pierr. No I've dealt nobly with you; 91 ACT II, Sc. III. VENICE PRESERVED I've brought my all into the public stock; I had but one friend, and him I'll share amongst you ! Receive and cherish him: or if, when seen And searched, you find him worthless, as my tongue Has lodged this secret in his faithful breast, To ease your fears I wear a dagger here Shall rip it out again, and give you rest. Come forth, thou only good I e'er could boast of. Enter JAFFEIR with a dagger. Beila. His presence bears the show of manly virtue. /,!'. I know you'll wonder all, that thus uncalled, I dare approach this place of fatal counsels; But I'm amongst you, and by Heaven it glads me, To see so many virtues thus united, To restore justice and dethrone oppression. Command this sword, if you would have it quiet, Into this breast; but if you think it worthy To cut the throats of reverend rogues in robes, Send me into the curst assembled Senate; It shrinks not, though I meet a father there. Would you behold this city flaming? Here's A hand shall bear a lighted torch at noon To the arsenal, and set its gates on fire. Ren. You talk this well, sir. Jaff. Nay by Heaven I'll do this. Come, come, I read distrust in all your faces; You fear me a villain, and indeed it's odd To hear a stranger talk thus at first meet- ing, Of matters, that have been so well debated; But I come ripe with wrongs as you with counsels, I hate this Senate, am a foe to Venice; A friend to none, but men resolved like me, To push on mischief; oh, did you but know me, I need not talk thus! Beila. Pierre! I must embrace him, My heart beats to this man as if it knew him. Ren. I never loved these buggers. Jaff. Still I see The cause delights me not. Your friends survey me, As I were dangerous but I come armed Against all doubt, and to your trust will give A pledge, worth more than all the world can pay for. My Belvidera! Ho! My Belvidera! Bed a. What wonder next? Jaff. Let me entreat you, As I have henceforth hopes to call ye friends, That all but the ambassador, [and] this Grave guide of councils, with my friend that owns me, Withdraw a while to spare a woman's blushes. [Exeunt all but BEDAMAR, RENAULT, JAFFEIR, PIERRE. Beda. Pierre, whither will this ceremony lead us? Jaff. My Belvidera! Belvidera! Enter BELVIDERA. Belv. Who calls so loud at this late peaceful hour? Who? That voice was wont to come in gentler whispers, And fill my ears with the soft breath of love: Thou hourly image of my thoughts, where art thou? Jaff. Indeed 'tis late. Belv. Oh! I have slept and dreamt, And dreamt again. Where hast thou been, thou loiterer? Though my eyes closed, my arms have still been opened; Stretched every way betwixt my broken slumbers, To search if thou wert come to crown my rest; There's no repose without thee. Oh, the day Too soon will break, and wake us to our sorrow; Come, come to bed, and bid thy cares good night. Jaff. O Belvidera! we must change the scene In which the past delights of life were tasted: The poor sleep little, we must learn to watch Our labors late, and early every morn- ing, Midst winter frosts, thin clad and fed with sparing, Rise to our toils, and drudge away the day. Belv. Alas ! where am I ? whither is't you lead me? Methinks I read distraction in your face, Something less gentle than the fate you tell me: You shake and tremble too! your blood runs cold! Heavens guard my love, and bless his heart with patience ! Jaff. That I have patience, let our fate bear witness, Who has ordained it so, that thou and I, (Thou the divinest good man e'er possessed, And I the wretched'st of the race of man) This very hour, without one tear, must part. Beh\ Part! must we part? Oh! am I then forsaken? Will my love cast me off? have my mis- fortunes 92 VENICE PRESERVED ACT III, So. I. Offended him so highly, that he'll leave me? Why drag- you from me; whither are you going- ? My dear! my life! my love! Jaff. Oh. friends! Belv. Speak to me. Jaff. Take her from my heart; She'll gain such hold else, I shall ne'er get loose. I charge thee take her, but with tenderest care Relieve her troubles and assauge her sor- rows. Ren. Rise, madam! and command amongst your servants ! Jaff. To you, sirs, and your honors, I bequeath her, And with her this, when I prove unworthy [Gives a dagger. You know the rest then strike it to her heart; And tell her, he, who three whole happy years Lay in her arms, and each kind night re- peated The passionate vows of still-increasing love, Sent that reward for all her truth and suf- ferings. /;,-/:'. Nay, take my life, since he has sold it cheaply; Or send me to some distant clime your slave, But let it be far off, lest my complainings Should reach his guilty ears, and shake his peace. Jaff. No, Belvidera, I've contrived thy honor. Trust to my faith, and be but fortune kind To me, as I'll preserve that faith unbroken, When next we meet, I'll lift thee to a height, Shall gather all the gazing world about thee, To wonder what strange virtue placed thee there. But if we ne'er meet more Belv. O thou unkind one, Never meet more? have I deserved this from you? Look on me, tell me, speak, t'lou dear de- ceiver, Why am I separated from thy love? If I am false, accuse me; but if true, Don't, prithee, don't in poverty forsake me, But pity the sad heart, that's torn with parting. Yet hear me! yet recall me [Exeunt RENAULT, BEDAMAR, and BELVI- DERA. Jaff. O my eyes! Look not that way, but turn yourselves awhile Into my heart, and be weaned all together. My friend, where art thou? Pierr. Here, my honor's brother. Jaff. Is Belvidera gone? Pierr. Renault has led her Back to her own apartment; but, by Heaven! Thou must not see her more till our work's over. Jaff. No. Pierr. Not for your life. Jaff. O Pierre, wert thou but she, How I could pull thee down into my heart, Gaze on thee till my eye-strings cracked with love, Till all my sinews with its fire extended, Fixed me upon the rack of ardent longing; Then swelling, sighing, raging to be blest, Come like a panting turtle to thy breast, On thy soft bosom, hovering, bill and play, Confess the cause why last I fled away; Own 'twas a fault, but swear to give it o'er And never follow false ambition more. [Exeunt ambo. ACT III SCENE I Enter AQUILINA and her Maid. A quit. Tell him I am gone to bed: tell him I am not at home; tell him I've better com- pany with me, or any thing; tell him, in short, I will not see him, the eternal, trouble- some, vexatious fool: he's worse company than an ignorant physician I'll not be disturbed at these unseasonable hours. Maid. But madam! He's here already, just entered the doors. Aquil. Turn him out again, you unneces- sary, useless, giddy-brained ass! If he will not be gone, set the house a-fire and burn us both; I had rather meet a toad in my dish than that old hideous animal in my chamber to-night. Enter ANTONIO. Anto. Nacky, Nacky, Nacky how dost do, Nacky? Hurry durry. I am come, little Nacky; past eleven o'clock, a late hour; time in all conscience to go to bed, Nacky Nacky, did I say? Ay Nacky; Aquilina, lina, lina, quilina, quilina, quilina, Aquilina, Naquilina, Naquilina, Acky, Acky, Nacky, Nacky, Queen Nacky come let's to bed you fubbs, you pugg you you little puss purree tuzzey I am a senator. Aquil. You are a fool, I am sure. Anto. May be so too, sweetheart. Never the worse senator for all that. Come Nacky, Nacky, let's have a game at rump, Nacky. Aquil. You would do well, signior, to be troublesome here no longer, but leave me to myself; be sober and go home, sir. 93 ACT III, Sc. I. VENICE PRESERVED Anto. Home, Madonna! Aquil. Ay, home, sir. Who am I? Anto. Madonna, as I take it, you are my you are thou art my little Nicky Nacky that's all! Aquil. I find you are resolved to be troublesome, and so to make short of the matter in few words, I hate you, detest you, loathe you, I am weary of you, sick of you hang you, you are an old, silly, impertinent, impotent, solicitous, coxcomb, crazy in your head, and lazy in your body, love to be meddling with everything, and if you had not money, you are good for nothing. Anto. "Good for nothing!" Hurry durry, I'll try that presently. Sixty-one years old, and good for nothing: that's brave. [To the Maid.] Come come come, Mistress Fiddle- faddle, turn you out for a season; go turn out, I say, it is our will and pleasure to be private some moments out, out when you are bid to [Puts her out and locks the door.] " Good for nothing," you say. Aquil. Why, what are you good for? Anto. In the first place, madam, I am old, and consequently very wise, very wise, Madonna, d'ye mark that? in the second place, take notice, if you please, that I am a senator, and when I think fit can make speeches, Madonna. Hurry durry, I can make a speech in the Senate-house now and then would make your hair stand on end, Madonna. Aquil. What care I for your speeches in the Senate-house: if you would be silent here, I should thank you. Anto. Why, I can make speeches to thee too, my lovely Madonna; for example my cruel fair one, [takes out a purse of gold and at every pause shakes it], since it is my fate, that you should with your servant angry prove; tho* late at night I hope 'tis not too late with this to gain reception for my love there's for thee, my little Nicky Nacky take it, here take it I say take it, or I'll fling it at your head how now, rebel! Aquil. Truly, my illustrious Senator, I must confess your honor is at present most profoundly eloquent indeed. Anto. Very well; come, now let's sit down and think upon't a little come sit I say sit down by me a little, my Nicky Nacky, ha! [Sits down.] Hurry durry " good for nothing ! " Aquil. No, sir, if you please, I can know my distance and stand. Anto. Stand:' how? Nacky up and I down! Nay, then, let me exclaim with the poet, Show me a case more pitiful who can, A standing woman, and a falling man. Hurry durry not sit down see this, ye gods You won't sit down? Aquil. No, sir. Anto. Then look you now, suppose me a bull, a Basan-bull, the bull of bulls, or any bull. Thus up I get and with my brows thus bent I broo, I say I broo, I broo, I broo. You won't sit down, will you? I broo [Bellows like a bull, and drives her about. Aquil. Well, sir, I must endure this. [She sits down.] Now your honor has been a bull, pray what beast will your worship please to be next? Anto. Now I'll be a senator again, and thy lover, little Nicky Nacky! [He sits by her.] Ah toad, toad, toad, toad! spit in my face a little, Nacky spit in my face prithee, spit in my face, never so little: spit but a little bit spit, spit, spit, spit, when you are bid, I say; do prithee spit now, now, now, spit: what, you won't spit, will you? Then I'll be a dog. Aquil. A dog, my lord? Anto. Ay, a dog and I'll give thee this t'other purse to let me be a dog and to use me like a dog a little. Hurry durry I will here 'tis. [Gives the purse. Aquil. Well, with all my heart. But let me beseech your dogship to play your tricks over as fast as you can, that you may come to stinking the sooner, and be turned out of doors as you deserve. Anto. Ay, ay no matter for thatthat [he gets under the table'] shan't move me Now, bow wow wow, bow wow . . . [Barks like a dog. Aquil. Hold, hold, hold, sir, I beseech you: what is't you do? If curs bite, they must be kicked, sir. Do you see, kicked thus? Anto. Ay, with all my heart: do kick, kick on, now I am under the table, kick again kick harder harder yet, bow wow wow, wow, bow 'od, I'll have a snap at thy shins- bow wow wow, wow, bow 'od, she kicks bravely. Aquil. Nay, then I'll go another way to work with you; and I think here's an instru- ment fit for the purpose. [Fetches a whip and bell.] What, bite your mistress, sirrah! out, out of doors, you dog, to kennel and be hanged bite your mistress by the legs, you rogue [She whips him. Anto. Nay, prithee, Nacky, now thou art too loving: Hurry durry, 'od I'll be a dog no longer. Aquil. Nay, none of your fawning and grinning: but be gone, or here's the disci- pline: what, bite your mistress by the legs, you mongrel? out of doors hout bout, to kennel, sirrah! go. .tn to. This is very barbarous usage, Nacky, very barbarous: look you, I will not go I will not stir from the door, that I re- solve hurry durry, what, shut me out? [She whips him out. Aquil. Ay, and if you come here any more to-night I'll have my footmen lug you, you VENICE PRESERVED ACT III, Sc. II. cur: what, bite your poor mistress Nacky, sirrah ! Enter Maid. Maid. Heavens, madam! What's the mat- ter? [He howls at the door like a dog. A quit. Call my footmen hither presently. Enter two Footmen. Maid. They are here already, madam, the house is all alarmed with a strange noise, that nobody knows what to make of. Aqiiil. Go all of you and turn that trou- blesome beast in the next room out of my house if I ever see him within these wails again, without my leave for his admittance, you sneaking rogues, I'll have you poisoned all, poisoned like rats; every corner of the house shall stink of one of you; go, and learn hereafter to know my pleasure. So now for my Pierre: Thus when godlike lover was displeased, We sacrifice our fool and he's appeased. [Exeunt. SCENE II Enter BELVIDERA. Bck'. I'm sacrificed! I am sold! betrayed to shame ! Inevitable ruin has inclosed me! No sooner was I to my bed repaired To weigh, and (weeping) ponder my condi- tion, But the old hoary wretch, to whose false care My peace and honor was entrusted, came (Like Tarquin) ghastly with infernal lust. thou, Roman Lucrece! Thou couldst find friends To vindicate thy wrong; 1 never had but one, and he's proved false; He that should guard my virtue, has be- trayed it; Left me! undone me! O that I could hate him! Where shall I go? O whither, whither wander ? Enter JAFFEIR. Jaff. Can Belvidera want a resting place, When these poor arms are open to receive her? Oh, 'tis in vain to struggle with desires Strong as my love to thee; for every mo- ment I'm from thy sight, the heart within my bosom Moans like a tender infant in its cradle Whose nurse has left it; come, and with the songs Of gentle love persuade it to its peace. Belv. I fear the stubborn wanderer will not own me, 'Tis grown a rebel to be ruled no longer, Scorns the indulgent bosom that first lulled it, And like a disobedient child disdains The soft authority of Belvidera. Jaff. There was a time Belv. Yes, yes, there was a time When Belvidera's tears, her cries, and sor- rows, Were not despised; when if she chanced to sigh, Or look but sad there was indeed a time When Jaffeir would have ta'en her in his arms, Eased her declining head upon his breast, And never left her till he found the cause. But let her now weep seas, Cry, till she rend the earth; sigh till she burst Her heart asunder; still he bears it all; Deaf as the wind, and as the rocks un- shaken. Jaff. Have I been deaf? am I that rock unmoved, Against whose root tears beat and sighs are sent? In vain have I beheld thy sorrows calmly! Witness against me, Heavens, have I done this? Then bear me in a whirlwind back again, And let that angry dear one ne'er forgive me! thou too rashly censurest of my love! Couldst thou but think how I have spent this night, Dark and alone, no pillow to my head, Rest in my eyes, nor quiet in my heart, Thou wouldst not, Belvidera, sure thou wouldst not Talk to me thus, but like a pitying angel, Spreading thy wings, come settle on my breast, And hatch warm comfort there, ere sorrows freeze it. Belv. Why, then, poor mourner, in what baleful corner Hast thou been talking with that witch the Night? On what cold stone hast thou been stretched along, Gathering the grumbling winds about thy head, To mix with theirs the accents of thy woes! Oh, now I find the cause my love forsakes me! 1 am no longer fit to bear a share In his concernments: my weak female virtue Must not be trusted; 'tis too frail and ten- der. Jaff. O Portia! Portia! what a soul was thine ! /),'/:-. That Portia was a woman, and when Brutus, 95 ACT III, Sc. II. VENICE PRESERVED Big with the fate of Rome (Heaven guard thy safety!) Concealed from her the labors of his mind, She let him see her blood was great as his, Flowed from a spring as noble, and a heart Fit to partake his troubles, as his love: Fetch, fetch that dagger back, the dreadful dower Thou gavest last night in parting with me; strike it Here to my heart; and as the blood flows from it, Judge if it run not pure as Cato's daughter's. Jaff. Thou art too good, and I indeed un- worthy, Unworthy so much virtue: teach me how I may deserve such matchless love as thine, And see with what attention I'll obey thee. Bel-'. Do not despise me: that's the all I ask. Jaff. Despise thee! Hear me Beh'. Oh, thy charming tongue Is but too well acquainted with my weak- ness, Knows, let it name but love, my melting heart Dissolves within my breast; till with closed eyes I reel into thy arms, and all's forgotten. Jaff. What shall I do? Beh'. Tell me! be just, and tell me Why dwells that busy cloud upon thy face? Why am I made a stranger? why that sigh, And I not know the cause? Why, when the world Is wrapt in rest, why chooses then my love To wander up and down in horrid darkness, Loathing his bed, and these desiring arms? Why are these eyes bloodshot with tedious watching ? Why starts he now? and looks as if he wished His fate were finished? Tell me, ease my fears; Lest, when we next time meet, I want the power To search into the sickness of thy mind, But talk as wildly then as thou look'st now. Jaff. O Belvidera! Beh: Why was I last night delivered to a villain? Jaff. Ha, a villain! Beh<. Yes! to a villain! Why at such an hour Meets that assembly all made up of wretches That look as hell had drawn 'em into league ? Why, I in this hand, and in that a dagger, Was I delivered with such dreadful cere- monies ? " To you, sirs, and to your honor I be- queath her, And with her this: whene'er I prove un- worthy You know the rest, then strike it to her heart ? " Oh ! why's that rest concealed from me ? Must I Be made the hostage of a hellish trust? For such I know I am; that's all my value! But by the love and loyalty I owe thee, I'll free thee from the bondage of these slaves; Straight to the Senate, tell 'em all I know, All that I think, all that my fears inform me! Jaff. Is this the Roman virtue! this the blood That boasts its purity with Cato's daugh- ter's! Would she have e'er betrayed her Brutus? Beh: No: For Brutus trusted her: wert thou so kind, What would not Belvidera suffer for thee? Jaff. I shall undo myself, and tell thee all. Beh: Look not upon me, as I am a woman, But as a bone, thy wife, thy friend, who long Has had admission to thy heart, and there Studied the virtues of thy gallant nature; Thy constancy, thy courage and thy truth, Have been my daily lesson: I have learnt them, Am bold as thou, can suffer or despise The worst of fates for thee, and with thee share them. Jaff. Oh you divinest powers! look down and hear My prayers! instruct me to reward this vir- tue! Yet think a little ere thou tempt me fur- ther: Think I have a tale to tell, will shake thy nature, Melt all this boasted constancy thou talk'st of Into vile tears and despicable sorrows: Then if thou shouldst betray me! Beh. Shall I swear? Jaff. No: do not swear: I would not vio- late Thy tender nature with so rude a bond: But as thou hopest to see me live my days, And love thee long, lock this within thy breast; I've bound myself by all the strictest sacra- ments Divine and human Beh. Jaff. Beh. Jaff. ate Shall bleed, my Belvidera: he amongst us That spares his father, brother, or his, friend, Speak! To kill thy father My father! Nay, the throats of the whole Sen- 96 VENICE PRESERVED ACT III, So. II. Is damned. How rich and beauteous will the face Of ruin look, when these wide streets run blood; I and the glorious partners of my fortune Shouting, and striding o'er the prostrate dead, Still to new waste; whilst thou, far off in safety Smiling, shalt see the wonders of our dar- ing; And when night conies, with praise and love receive me. Belv. Oh ! Jaff. Have a care, and shrink not even in thought ! For if thou dost Belv. I know it, thou wilt kill me. Do, strike thy sword into this bosom: lay me Dead on the earth, and then thou wilt be safe: Murder my father! though his cruel nature Has persecuted me to my undoing, Driven me to basest wants, can I behold him, With smiles of vengeance, butchered in his age? The sacred fountain of my life destroyed? And canst thou shed the blood that gave me being? Nay, be a traitor too, and sell thy country ? Can thy great heart descend so vilely low, Mix with hired slaves, bravos, and common slabbers, Nose-slitters, alley-lurking villains? join With such a crew and take a ruffian's wages To cut the throats of wretches as they sleep ? Jaff. Thou wrong'st me, Belvidera! I've engaged With men of souls, fit to reform the ills Of all mankind: there's not a heart amongst them, But 's stout as death, yet honest as the na- ture Of man first made, ere fraud and vice were fashions. Belv. What's he, to whose curst hands last night thou gav'st me? Was that well done? Oh! I could tell a story Would rouse thy lion-heart out of its den, And make it rage with terrifying fury. Jaff. Speak on, I charge thee! Belv. O my love! if e'er Thy Belvidera's peace deserved thy care, Remove me from this place: last night, last night Jaff. Distract me not, but give me all the truth. Belv. No sooner wert thou gone, and I alone, Left in the power of that old son of mis- chief; No sooner was I lain on my sad bed, But that vile wretch approached me, loose, unbuttoned, Ready for violation: then my heart Throbbed with its fears: oh, how I wept and sighed And shrunk and trembled; wished in vain for him That should protect me. Thou, alas ! wert gone! Jaff. Patience, sweet Heaven, till I make vengeance sure! Belv. He drew the hideous dagger forth thou gav'st him, And with upbraiding smiles, he said, " Be- hold it; This is the pledge of a false husband's love: " And in my arms then pressed, and would have clasped me; But with my cries I scared his coward heart, Till he withdrew, and muttered vows to hell. These are thy friends ! with these thy life, thy honor, Thy love, all's staked, and all will go to ruin. Jii ;'. No more: I charge thee keep this secret close; Clear up thy sorrows, look as if thy wrongs Were all forgot, and treat him like a friend, As no complaint were made. No more; re- tire, Retire, my life, and doubt not of my honor; I'll heal its failings, and deserve thy love. Belv. Oh, should I part with thee, I fear thou wilt In anger leave me, and return no more. Jaff. Return no more! I would not live . without thee Another night, to purchase the creation. Belv. When shall we meet again? Jaff. Anon at twelve! I'll steal myself to thy expecting arms, Come like a travelled dove and bring thee peace. Belv.' Indeed! Jaff. By all our loves! Belv. 'Tis hard to part: But sure no falsehood ever looked so fairly. Farewell remember twelve. [Exit BELVIDERA. Jaff. Let Heaven forget me When I remember not thy truth, thy love. How curst is my condition ! tossed and justled, From every corner; fortune's common fool, The jest of rogues, an instrumental ass For villains to lay loads of shame upon, And drive about just for their ease and scorn. Enter PIERRE. Pierr. Jaff eir ! 97 ACT III, Sc. II. VENICE PRESERVED Jaff. Who calls! Pierr. A friend, that could have wished To have found thee otherwise employed: what, hunt A wife on the dull foil! sure a staunch hus- band Of all hounds is the dullest! Wilt thou never, Never be weaned from caudles and confec- tions ? What feminine tale hast thou been listening to, Of unaired shirts; catarrhs and toothache got By thin-soled shoes? Damnation! that a fellow Chosen to be a sharer in the destruction Of a whole people, should sneak thus in corners To ease his fulsome lusts, and fool his mind. Jaff. May not a man then trifle out an hour With a kind woman and not wrong his call- ing? Pierr. Not in a cause like ours. Jaff. Then, friend, our cause Is in a damned condition: for I'll tell thee, That canker-worm called lechery has touched it; 'Tis tainted vilely: wouldst thou think it, Renault (That mortified, old, withered, winter rogue) Loves simple fornication like a priest; I found him out for watering at my wife: He visited her last night like a kind guard- ian: Faith, she has some temptations, that's the truth on't. Pierr. He durst not wrong his trust! Jaff. 'Twas something late, though, To take the freedom of a lady's chamber. Pierr. Was she in bed? Jaff. Yes, faith, in virgin sheets White as her bosom, Pierre, dished neatly up, Might tempt a weaker appetite to taste. Oh, how the old fox stunk, I warrant thee, When the rank fit was on him! Pierr. Patience guide me! He used no violence? Jaff. No, no! out on't, violence! Played with her neck, brushed her with his grey-beard, Struggled and towzed, tickled her till she squeaked a little, May be, or so but not a jot of violence Pierr. Damn him ! Jaff. Ay, so say I: but hush, no more on't; All hitherto is well, and I believe Myself no monster yet: though no man knows What fate he's born to: sure 'tis near the hour We all should meet for our concluding or- ders: Will the ambassador be here in person? Pierr. No; he has sent commission to that villain, Renault, to give the executing charge. I'd have thee be a man, if possible, And keep thy temper; for a brave revenge Ne'er comes too late. Jaff. Fear not, I'm cool as patience: Had he completed my dishonor, rather Than hazard the success our hopes are ripe for, I'd bear it all with mortifying virtue. Pierr. He's yonder coming this way through the hall; His thoughts seem full. Jaff. Prithee retire, and leave me With him alone: 111 put him to some trial, See how his rotten part will bear the touch- ing. Pierr. Be careful, then. [Exit PIERRE. Jaff. Nay, never doubt, but trust me. What, be a devil! take a damning oath For shedding native blood! can there be a sin In merciful repentance? O this villain! Enter RENAULT. Ren. Perverse! and peevish! what a slave is man! To let his itching flesh thus get the better of him ! Despatch the tool her husband that were well. Who's there? Jaff. A man. Ren. My friend, my near ally! The hostage of your faith, my beauteous charge, Is very well. Jaff. Sir, are you sure of that? Stands she in perfect health? beats her pulse even? Neither too hot nor cold? Ren. What means that question? Jaff. Oh, women have fantastic constitu- tions, Inconstant as their wishes, always wavering, And never fixed; was it not boldly done Even at first sight to trust the thing I loved (A tempting treasure too!) with youth so fierce And vigorous as thine? but thou art honest. Ren. Who dares accuse me? Jaff. Curst be him that doubts Thy virtue: I have tried it, and declare, Were I to choose a guardian of my honor, I'd put it into thy keeping; for I know thee. Ren. Know me! Jaff. Ay, know thee: there's no falsehood in thee. 98 ACT III, Sc. II. Thou look'st just as thou art: let us em- brace. Now wouldst thou cut my throat or I cut thine? Ren. You dare not do't. Jaff. You lie, sir. Ren. How! Jaff. No more. 'Tis a base world, and must reform, that's all. Enter SPINOSA, THEODORE, ELIOT, REVILLIDO, DURAND, BRAINVEIL, and the rest of the Conspirators. Ren. Spinosa, Theodore ! Spin. The same. Ren. You are welcome! Spin. You are trembling 1 , sir. Ren. 'Tis a cold night indeed, I am aged, Full of decay and natural infirmities; [PIERRE re-enters. We shall be warm, my friend, I hope, to- morrow. Pierr. [aside], 'Twas not well done, thou shouldst have stroked him And not have galled him. Jaff. [aside]. Damn him, let him chew on't. Heaven! where am I? beset with cursed fiends, That wait to damn me: what a devil's man, When he forgets his nature hush, my heart. Ren. My friends, 'tis late: are we as- sembled all? Where's Theodore? Theo. At hand. Ren. Spinosa. Spin. Here. Ren. Brainveil. Brain. I'm ready. Ren. Durand and Brabe. Dur. Command us, We are both prepared! Ren. Mezzana, Revillido, Ternon, Retrosi; oh, you are men, I find, Fit to behold your fate, and meet her sum- mons. To-morrow's rising 1 sun must see you all Decked in your honors! Are the soldiers ready ? Omn. All, all. Ren. You, Durand, with your thousand must possess St. Mark's; you, captain, know your charge already: 'Tis to secure the Ducal Palace: you, Brabe, with a hundred more must gain the Secque. With the like number Brainveil to the Procuralle. Be all this done with the least tumult pos- sible, Till in each place you post sufficient guards: Then sheathe your swords in every breast you meet. Jaff. [aside]. O reverend cruelty! damned bloody villain ! Ren. During this execution, Durand, you Must in the midst keep your battalia fast, And, Theodore, be sure to plant the can- non That may command the streets; whilst Revillido, Mezzana, Ternon, and Retrosi, guard you. This done, we'll give the general alarm, Apply petards, and force the arsenal gates; Then fire the city round in several places, Or with our cannon, if it dare resist, Batter it to ruin. But above all I charge you Shed blood enough, spare neither sex nor age, Name nor condition; if there live a senator After to-morrow, though the dullest rogue That e'er said nothing, we have lost our ends; If possible, let's kill the very name Of senator, and bury it in blood. Jaff. [aside]. Merciless, horrid slave! Ay, blood enough ! Shed blood enough, old Renault: how thou charm'st me ! Ren. But one thing more, and then fare- well till fate Join us again, or separate us ever: First, let's embrace. Heaven knows who next shall thus Wing ye together: but let's all remember We wear no common cause upon our swords; Let each man think that on his single virtue Depends the good and fame of all the rest, Eternal honor or perpetual infamy. Let's remember through what dreadful haz- ards Propitious fortune hitherto has led us, How often on the brink of some discovery Have we stood tottering, yet still kept our ground So well, the busiest searchers ne'er could follow Those subtle tracks which puzzled all sus- picion: You droop, sir. Jnff. No; with a most profound attention I've heard it all, and wonder at thy virtue. Ren. Though there be yet few hours 'twixt them and ruin, Are not the Senate lulled in full security, Quiet and satisfied, as fools are always! Never did so profound repose forerun Calamity so great: nay, our good fortune Has blinded the most piercing of mankind; Strengthened the fearful'st, charmed the most suspectful, Confounded the most subtle; for we live, 99 ACT III. So. II. VENICE PRESERVED We live, my friends, and quickly shall our life Prove fatal to these tyrants: let's consider That we destroy oppression, avarice, A people nursed up equally with vices And loathsome lusts, which nature most ab- hors, And such as without shame she cannot suffer. Jaff. [aside]. O Belvidera, take me to thy arms And show me where's my peace, for I have lost it. [Exit JAFFEIR. Ken. Without the least remorse then let's resolve With fire and sword to exterminate these tyrants, And when we shall behold those curst tribunals, Stained by the tears and sufferings of the innocent, Burning with flames rather from Heaven than ours, The raging, furious and unpitying soldier Pulling his reeking dagger from the bosoms Of gasping wretches; death in every quar- ter, With all that sad disorder can produce, To make a spectacle of horror: then, Then let us call to mind, my dearest friends, That there is nothing pure upon the earth, That the most valued things have most alloys, And that in change of all those vile enor- mities, Under whose weight this wretched country labors, The means are only in our hands, to crown them. Pierr. And may those powers above that are propitious To gallant minds record this cause, and bless it. Ren. Thus happy, thus secure of all we wish for, Should there, my friends, be found amongst us one False to this glorious enterprise, what fate, What vengeance were enough for such a villain ? Eliot. Death here without repentance, hell hereafter. Ren. Let that be my lot, if as here I stand Listed by fate amongst her darling sons, Though I'd one only brother, dear by all The strictest ties of nature; though one hour Had given us birth, one fortune fed our wants, One only love, and that but of each other, Still filled our minds: could I have such a friend Joined in this cause, and had but ground to fear Meant foul play; may this right hand drop from me, If I'd not hazard all my future peace, And stab him to the heart before you. Who Would not do less? Wouldst not thou, Pierre, the same? Pierr. You've singled me, sir, out for this hard question, As if 'twere started only for my sake! Am I the thing you fear? Here, here's my bosom, Search it with all your swords! Am I a traitor? Ren. No: but I fear your late commended friend Is little less. Come, sirs, 'tis now no time To trifle with our safety. Where's this Jaffeir? Spin. He left the room just now in strange disorder. Ren. Nay, there is danger in him: I ob- served him, During the time I took for explanation, He was transported from most deep atten- tion To a confusion which he could not smother. His looks grew full of sadness and surprise, All which betrayed a wavering spirit in him, That labored with reluctancy and sorrow. What's requisite for safety must be done With speedy execution: he remains Yet in our power: I for my own part wear A dagger. Pierr. Well. Ren. And I could wish it Pierr. Where? Ren. Buried in his heart. Pierr. Away! we're yet all friends; No more of this, 'twill breed ill blood amongst us. Spin. Let us all draw our swords, and search the house, Pull him from the dark hole where he sits brooding O'er his cold fears, and each man kill his share of him. Pierr. Who talks of killing? Who's he'll shed the blood That's dear to me! Is't you? or you? or you, sir ? What, not one speak? how you stand gap- ing all On your grave oracle, your wooden god there; Yet not a word: [to RENAULT] then, sir, I'll tell you a secret, Suspicion's but at best a coward's virtue! Ren. A coward [Handles his sword. Pierr. Put, put up the sword, old man, Thy hand shakes at it; come, let's heal this breach, I am too hot; we yet may live as friends. Spin. Till we are safe, our friendship cannot be so. 100 VENICE PRESERVED ACT IV, Sc. I. Pierr. Again: who's that? Spin. 'Twas I. Theo. And I. Revill. And I. Eliot. And all. Ren. Who are on my side? Spin. Every honest sword; Let's die like men and not be sold like slaves. Pierr. One such word more, by Heaven, I'll to the Senate And hang ye all, like dogs in clusters. Why peep your coward swords half out their shells? Why do you not all brandish them like mine? You fear to die, and yet dare talk of killing? Ren. Go to the Senate and betray us, hasten, Secure thy wretched life, we fear to die Less than thou dar'st be honest. Pierr. That's rank falsehood. Fear'st not thou death? Be, there's a knav- ish itch In that salt blood, an utter foe to smarting. Had Jaffeir's wife proved kind, he had still been true. Foh how that stinks ! Thou die! thou kill my friend, or thou, or thou, Or thou, with that lean, withered, wretched face! Away! disperse all to your several charges, And meet to-morrow where your honor calls you; I'll bring that man, whose blood you so much thirst for, And you shall see him venture for you fairly Hence, hence, I say. [Exit RENAULT angrily. Spin. I fear we've been to blame: And done too much. Theo. 'Twas too far urged against the man you loved. Revill. Here, take our swords and crush 'em with your feet. Spin. Forgive us, gallant friend. Pierr. Nay, now you've found The way to melt and cast me as you will: I'll fetch this friend and give him to your mercy: Nay, he shall die if you will take him from me; For your repose I'll quit my heart's jewel, But would not have him torn away by vil- lains And spiteful villainy. Spin. No; may you both For ever live and fill the world with fame! Pierr. Now you are too kind. Whence rose all this discord? Oh, what a dangerous precipice have we scaped ! How near a fall was all we had long been building ! What an eternal blot had stained our glories, If one, the bravest and the best of men, Had fallen a sacrifice to rash suspicion, Butchered by those whose cause he came to cherish! Oh, could you know him all as I have known him, How good he is, how just, how true, how brave, You would not leave this place till you had seen him; Humbled yourself before him, kissed his feet, And gained remission for the worst of follies; Come but to-morrow all your doubts shall end, And to your loves me better recommend, That I've preserved your fame, and saved my friend. [Exeunt omnes. ACT IV SCENE I Enter JAFFEIR and BELVIDERA. Jaff. Where dost thou lead me? Every step I move, Methinks I tread upon some mangled limb Of a racked friend. O my dear charming ruin! Where are we wandering? Belv. To eternal honor; To do a deed shall chronicle thy name, Among the glorious legends of those few That have saved sinking nations: thy re- nown Shall be the future song of all the virgins, Who by thy piety have been preserved From horrid violation: every street Shall be adorned with statues to thy honor, And at thy feet this great inscription writ- ten, Remember him that propped the fall of Venice. Jaff. Rather, remember him who after all The sacred bonds of oaths and holier friend- ship, In fond compassion to a woman's tears Forgot his manhood, virtue, truth and honor, To sacrifice the bosom that relieved him. Why wilt thou damn me? Belv. O inconstant man ! How will you promise? how will you de- ceive ? Do, return back, replace me in my bond- age, Tell all thy friends how dangerously thou lov'st me, And let thy dagger do its bloody office; O that kind dagger, Jaffeir, how 'twill look Stuck through my heart, drenched in my blood to the hilts! Whilst these poor dying eyes shall with their tears 101 ACT IV, Sc. I. VENICE PRESERVED No more torment thee, then thou wilt be free: Or if thou think'st it nobler, let me live Till I'm a victim to the hateful lust Of that infernal devil, that old fiend That's damned himself and would undo mankind: Last night, my love Jaff. Name, name it not again, It shows a beastly image to my fancy, Will wake me into madness. Oh, the villain! That durst approach such purity as thine On terms so vile: destruction, swift destruc- tion Fall on my coward-head, and make my name The common scorn of fools if I forgive him; If I forgive him, if I not revenge With utmost rage and most unstaying fury, Thy suffering, thou dear darling of my life, love! Belr. Delay no longer, then, but to the Senate; And tell the dismal'st story ever uttered, Tell them what bloodshed, rapines, desola- tions, Have been prepared, how near's the fatal hour! Save thy poor country, save the reverend blood Of all its nobles, which to-morrow's dawn Must else see shed: save the poor tender lives Of all those little infants which the swords Of murtherers are whetting for this mo- ment: Think thou already hear'st their dying screams, Think that thou seest their sad distracted mothers Kneeling before thy feet, and begging pity With torn dishevell'd hair and streaming eyes, Their naked mangled breasts besmeared with blood, And even the milk with which their fondled babes, Softly they hushed, dropping in anguish from 'em. Think thou seest this, and then consult thy heart. Jaff. Oh ! Belv. Think too, if [that] thou lose this present minute, What miseries the next day bring upon thee. Imagine all the horrors of that night, Murder and rapine, waste and desolation, Confusedly ranging. Think what then may prove My lot! the ravisher may then come safe, And midst the terror of the public ruin Do a damned deed; perhaps to lay a train May catch thy life; then where will be re- venge, The dear revenge that's due to such a wrong ? Jaff. By all Heaven's powers, prophetic truth dwells in thee, For every word thou speak'st strikes through my heart Like a new light, and shows it how it has wandered ; Just what thou'st made me, take me, Belvi- dera, And lead me to the place where I'm to say This bitter lesson, where I must betray My truth, my virtue, constancy and friends: Must I betray my friends? Ah, take me quickly, Secure me well before that thought's re- newed; If I relapse once more, all's lost for ever. Belv. Hast thou a friend more dear than Belvidera? Jaff. No, thou'rt my soul itself; wealth, friendship, honor, All present joys, and earnest of all future, Are summed in thee: methinks when in thy arms Thus leaning on thy breast, one minute's more Than a long thousand years of vulgar hours. Why was such happiness not given me pure? Why dashed with cruel wrongs, and bitter wantings ? Come, lead me forward now like a tame lamb To sacrifice, thus in his fatal garlands, Decked fine and pleased, the wanton skips and plays, Trots by the enticing flattering priestess' side, And much transported with his little pride, Forgets his dear companions of the plain Till, by her bound, he's on the altar lain, Yet then too hardly bleats, such pleasure's in the pain. Enter Officer and six Guards. OfRc. Stand; who goes there? Belv. Friends. Jaff. Friends, Belvidera! hide me from my friends: By Heaven, I'd rather see the face of hell, Than meet the man I love. OfKc. But what friends are you? Bch: Friends to the Senate and the State of Venice. OfRc. My orders are to seize on all I find At this late hour, and bring 'em to the Council, Who now are sitting. Jaff. Sir, you shall be obeyed. Hold, brutes, stand off, none of your paws upon me. Now the lot's cast, and fate, do what thou wilt! [Exeunt guarded. 102 VENICE PRESERVED ACT IV, So. II. SCENE II THE SENATE-HOUSE. Where appear sitting, the DUKE OF VENICE, PRIULI, ANTONIO, and eight other Senators. Duke. Antony, Priuli, senators of Venice, Speak; why are we assembled here this night? What have you to inform us of, concerns The State of Venice' honor, or its safety? Priu. Could words express the story I have to tell you, Fathers, these tears were useless, these sad tears That fall from my old eyes; but there is cause We all should weep; tear off these purple robes, And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting down On the sad earth, and cry aloud to Heaven. Heaven knows if yet there be an hour to come Ere Venice be no more. All Senators. How! Priu. Nay, we stand Upon the very brink of gaping ruin. Within this city's formed a dark conspiracy, To massacre us all, our wives and children, Kindred and friends, our palaces and temples To lay in ashes: nay, the hour, too, fixed; The swords, for aught I know, drawn e'en this moment, And the wild waste begun: from unknown hands I had this warning: but if we are men, Let's not be tamely butchered, but do some- thing That may inform the world in after ages, Our virtue was not ruined though we were. [A noise without. Room, room, make room for some prison- ers Second Senator. Let's raise the city. Enter Officer and Guard, Priu. Speak there, what disturbance? OfKc. Two prisoners have the guard seized in the streets, Who say they come to inform this reverend Senate About the present danger. Enter JAFFEIR and BELVIDERA guarded. All. Give 'em entrance Well, who are you? Jaff. A villain. Anto. Short and pithy. The man speaks well. Jaff. Would every man that hears me Would deal so honestly, and own his title. Duke. 'Tis rumored that a plot has been contrived Against this State; that you have a share in't too. If you're a villain, to redeem your honor, Unfold the truth and be restored with mercy. Jaff. Think not that I to save my life come hither, I know its value better; but in pity To all those wretches whose unhappy dooms Are fixed and sealed. You see me here be- fore you, The sworn and covenanted foe of Venice; But use me as my dealings may deserve And I may prove a friend. Duke. The slave capitulates; Give him the tortures. Jaff. That you dare not do, Your fears won't let you, nor the longing itch To hear a story which you dread the truth of, Truth which the fear of smart shall ne'er get from me. Cowards are scared with threafnings ; boys are whipp'd Into confessions: but a steady mind Acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel. " Give him the tortures ! " Name but such a thing Again, by Heaven I'll shut these lips for ever, Not all your racks, your engines, or your wheels Shall force a groan away that you may guess at. Anto. A bloody-minded fellow, I'll war- rant; A damned bloody-minded fellow. Duke. Name your conditions. Jaff. For myself full pardon, Besides the lives of two and twenty friends [Delivers a list. Whose names are here enrolled: nay, let their crimes Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the oaths And sacred promise of this reverend Coun- cil, That in a full assembly of the Senate The thing I ask be ratified. Swear this, And I'll unfold the secrets of your danger. All. We'll swear. Duke. Propose the oath. Jaff. By all the hopes Ye have of peace and happiness hereafter, Swear. All. We all swear, Jaff. To grant me what I've asked, Ye swear? A II. We swear. Jaff. And as ye keep the oath, May you and your posterity be blest Or curst for ever. 103 ACT IV, Sc. II. Else be curst for ever. Jaff. Then here's the list, and with it the full disclose Of all that threatens you. IDelii'ers another paper. Now, fate, thou hast caught me. Anto. Why, what a dreadful catalogue of cut-throats is here! I'll warrant you, not one of these fellows but has a face like a lion. I dare not so much as read their names over. Duke. Give orders that all diligent search be made To seize these men, their characters are public; The paper intimates their rendezvous To be at the house of a famed Grecian cour- tesan Called Aquilina; see that place secured. Anto. What, my Nicky Nacky, hurry durry, Nicky Nacky in the plot I'll make a speech. Most noble Senators, What headlong apprehension drives you on, Right noble, wise and truly solid senators, To violate the laws and rights of nations? The lady is a lady of renown. "Tis true, she holds a house of fair recep- tion, And though I say it myself, as many more Can say as well as I. Second Senator. My lord, long speeches Are frivolous here when dangers are so near us; We all know your interest in that lady, The world talks loud on't. Anto. Verily, I have done, I say no more. Duke. But since he has declared Himself concerned, pray, captain, take great caution To treat the fair one as becomes her char- acter, And let her bed-chamber be searched with decency. You, Jaffeir, must with patience bear till morning To be our prisoner. Jaff. Would the chains of death Had bound me fast ere I had known this minute. I've done a deed will make my story here- after Quoted in competition with all ill ones: The history of my wickedness shall run Down through the low traditions of the vulgar, And boys be taught to tell the tale of Jaf- feir. Duke. Captain, withdraw your prisoner. Jaff. Sir, if possible, Lead me where my own thoughts them- selves may lose me, Where I may doze out what I've left of life, Forget myself and this day's guilt and false- hood. Cruel remembrance, how shall I appease thee! [Exit guarded. Noise without: More traitors; room, room, make room there. Duke. How's this? guards! Where are our guards? Shut up the gates, the treason 's Already at our doors. Enter Officer. Offic. My lords, more traitors: Seized in the very act of consultation; Furnished with arms and instruments of mischief. Bring in the prisoners. Enter PIERRE, RENAULT, THEODORE, ELIOT, REVILLIDO, and other Conspirators, in fet- ters, guarded. Pierr. You, my lords and fathers (As you are pleased to call yourselves) of Venice; If you sit here to guide the course of justice, Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs That have so often labored in your service? Are these the wreaths of triumph ye be- stow On those that bring you conquests home and honors? Duke. Go on: you shall be heard, sir. Anto. And be hanged too, I hope. Pierr. Are these the trophies I've deserved for fighting Your battles with confederated powers? When winds and seas conspired to over- throw you, And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbors: When you, great Duke, shrunk trembling in your palace, And saw your wife, the Adriatic, ploughed Like a lewd whore by bolder prows than yours, Stepped not I forth, and taught your loose Venetians, The task of honor and the way to greatness, Rais'd you from your capitulating fears To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace? And this my recompense? If I'm a traitor Produce my charge; or show the wretch that's base enough And brave enough to tell me I'm a traitor. Duke. Know you one Jaffeir? [All the Conspirators murmur. Pierr. Yes, and know his virtue, His justice, truth; his general worth and sufferings From a hard father taught me first to love him. 104 VENICE PRESERVED ACT IV, Sc. II. Enter JAFFEIR guarded. Duke. See him brought forth. Pierr. My friend too bound! nay then Our fate has conquered us, and we must fall. Why droops the man whose welfare's so much mine They're but one thing:? These reverend tyrants, Jaffeir, Call us all traitors: art thou one, my brother? JatT. To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting friend, And gave up honor to be sure of ruin. All our fair hopes which morning was to have crowned Has this curst tongue o'erthrown. Pierr. So, then, all's over; Venice has lost her freedom; I my life; No more; farewell. Duke. Say, will you make confession Of your vile deeds and trust the Senate's mercy ? Pierr. Curst be your Senate; curst your constitution; The curse of growing factions and division Still vex your councils, shake your public safety, And make the robes of government you wear, Hateful to you, as these base chains to me! Duke. Pardon or death? Pierr. Death, honorable death! Ren. Death's the best thing we ask or you can give. All Conspir. No shameful bonds, but hon- orable death. Duke. Break up the council: captain, guard your prisoners. Jaffeir, you are free, but these must wait for judgment. [Exeunt all the Senators. Pierr. Come, where's my dungeon? lead me to my straw: It will not be the first time I've lodged hard To do your Senate service. Jaff. Hold one moment. Pierr. Who's he disputes the judgment of the Senate? Presumptuous rebel on [Strikes JAFFEIR. Jaff. By Heaven, you stir not. I must be heard, I must have leave to speak; Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile blow: Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice? But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not wrong me, For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries; Yet look upon me with -an eye of mercy, With pity and with charity behold me; Shut not thy heart against a friend's re- pentance, But as there dwells a god-like nature in thee Listen with mildness to my supplications. Pierr. What whining monk art thou? what holy cheat, That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears And cant'st thus vilely? Hence. I know thee not. Dissemble and be nasty: leave me, hypocrite. Jaff. Not know me, Pierre? Pierr. No, I know thee not: what art thou? Jaff. Jaffeir, thy friend, thy once loved, valued friend! Though now deservedly scorned, and used most hardly. Pierr. Thou Jaffeir! Thou my once loved valued friend ? By Heavens, thou liest; the man so-called, my friend, Was generous, honest, faithful, just and valiant, Noble in mind, and in his person lovely, Dear to my eyes and tender to my heart: But thou a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect, AH eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. Prithee avoid, nor longer cling thus round me, Like something baneful, that my nature's chilled at. Jaff. I have not wronged thee, by these tears I have not. But still am honest, true, and hope too, valiant; My mind still full of thee, therefore still noble ; Let not thy eyes then shun me, nor thy heart Detest me utterly: oh, look upon me, Look back and see my sad, sincere submis- sion! How my heart swells, as even 'twould burst my bosom; Fond of its goal, and laboring to be at thee ! What shall I do? what say to make thee hear me? Pierr. Hast thou not wronged me? dar'st thou call thyself Jaffeir, that once loved, valued friend of mine, And swear thou hast not wronged me? Whence these chains ? Whence the vile death which I may meet this moment? Whence this dishonor, but from thee, thou false one ? Jaff. All's true, yet grant one thing, and I've done asking. Pierr. What's that? 105 ACT IV, Sc. II. VENICE PRESERVED Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions The Council have proposed: thou and thy friends May yet live long, and to be better treated. Pierr. Life! ask my life! confess! record myself A villain for the privilege to breathe, And carry up and down this cursed city A discontented and repining spirit, Burthensome to itself a few years longer, To lose it, may be, at last in a lewd quarrel For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou art! No, this vile world and I have long been jangling, And cannot part on better terms than now, When only men like thee are fit to live in't. Jaff. By all that's just Pierr. Swear by some other powers, For thou hast broke that sacred oath too lately. Jaff. Then by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee, Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled, However thy resentment deal with me. Pierr. Not leave me! Jaff. No, thou shall not force me from thee. Use me reproachfully, and like a slave, Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head: I'll bear it all with pa- tience, Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty, Lie at thy feet and kiss 'em, though they spurn me, Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, And raise me to thy arms with dear for- giveness. Pierr. Art thou not Jaff. What? Pierr. A traitor? Jaff. Yes. Pierr. A villain? Jaff. Granted. Pierr. A coward, a most scandalous coward, Spiritless, void of honor, one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life? Jaff. All, all, and more, much more: my faults are numberless. Pierr. And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine ? Base as thou art false Jaff. No, 'tis to me that's granted. The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, In recompense for faith and trust so broken. Pierr. I scorn it more because preserved by thee. And as when first my foolish heart took pity On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy miseries, Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from thy state Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged thee, To rank thee in my list of noble friends; All I received in surety for thy truth, Were unregarded oaths; and this, this dag- ger, Given with a worthless pledge, thou since hast stol'n, So I restore it back to thee again, Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated, Never from this curst hour to hold com- munion, Friendship or interest with thee, though our years Were to exceed those limited the world. Take it farewell for now I owe thee noth- ing. Jaff. Say thou wilt live, then. Pierr. For my life, dispose it Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jaff. O Pierre! Pierr. No more. Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Pierr. Leave me nay, then, thus, thus, I throw thee from me, And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee. Jaff. Amen. He's gone, my father, friend, preserver, And here's the portion he has left me. [Holds the dagger up. This dagger, well remembered, with this dagger I gave a solemn vow of dire importance, Parted with this and Belvidera together; Have a care, memory, drive that thought no farther; No, I'll esteem it as a friend's last legacy, Treasure it up within this wretched bosom, Where it may grow acquainted with my heart, That when they meet, they start not from each other. So; now for thinking: a blow, called traitor, villain, Coward, dishonorable coward, faugh! O for a long sound sleep, and so forget it! Down, busy devil Enter BELVIDERA. Belv. Whither shall I fly? Where hide me and my miseries together? Where's now the Roman constancy I boasted ? Sunk into trembling fears and desperation! Not daring to look up to that dear face Which used to smile even on my faults, but down Bending these miserable eyes to earth, 106 VENICE PRESERVED ACT IV, Sc. II. Must move in penance, and implore much mercy. Jaff. " Mercy," kind Heaven has surely endless stores Hoarded for thee of blessings yet untasted; Let wretches loaded hard with guilt as I am, Bow [with] the weight and groan beneath the burthen, Creep with a remnant of that strength they've left, Before the footstool of that Heaven they've injured. Belvidera! I'm the wretched'st creature E'er crawled on earth; now if thou hast vir- tue, help me, Take me into thy arms, and speak the words of peace To my divided soul, that wars within me, And raises every sense to my confusion; By Heaven, I'm tottering on the very brink Of peace; and thou art all the hold I've left. Belv. Alas! I know thy sorrows are most mighty; 1 know thou'st cause to mourn; to mourn, my Jaff eir, With endless cries, and never-ceasing wail- ings, Thou'st lost Jaff. Oh, I have lost what can't be counted; My friend too, Belvidera, that dear friend, Who, next to thee, was all my health re- joiced in, Has used me like a slave; shamefully used me; 'Twould break thy pitying heart to hear the story. What shall I do? resentment, indignation, Love, pity, fear and memory, how I've wronged him, Distract my quiet with the very thought on't, And tear my heart to pieces in my bosom. Belv. What has he done? Jaff. Thou'dst hate me, should I tell thee. Belv. Why ? Jaff. Oh, he has used me! yet, by Heaven, I bear it: He has used me, Belvidera, but first swear That when I've told thee, thou'lt not loathe me utterly, Though vilest blots and stains appear upon me; But still at least with charitable goodness, Be near me in the pangs of my affliction, Not scorn me, Belvidera, as he has done. Belv. Have I then e'er been false that now I'm doubted? Speak, what's the cause I'm grown into dis- trust, Why thought unfit to hear my love's com- plaining? Jaff. Oh! Belv. Tell me. Jaff. Bear my failings, for they are many. O my dear angel! in that friend I've lost All my soul's peace; for every thought of him Strikes my sense hard, and deads it in my brains; Wouldst thou believe it? Belv. Speak. Jaff. Before we parted, Ere yet his guards had led him to his prison, Full of severest sorrows for his sufferings, With eyes o'erflowing and a bleeding heart, Humbling myself almost beneath my nature, As at his feet I kneeled, and sued for mercy, Forgetting all our friendship, all the dear- ness, In which we've lived so many years to- gether, With a reproachful hand, he dashed a blow, He struck me, Belvidera, by Heaven, he struck me, Buffeted, called me traitor, villain, coward. Am I a coward? am I a villain? tell me: Thou'rt the best judge, and mad'st me, if I am so. Damnation: coward! Belv. Oh! forgive him, Jaff eir. And if his sufferings wound thy heart al- ready, What will they do to-morrow? Jaff. Hah! Belv. To-morrow, When thou shalt see him stretched in all the agonies Of a tormenting and a shameful death, His bleeding bowels, and his broken limbs, Insulted o'er by a vile butchering villain; What will thy heart do then ? Oh, sure 'twill stream Like my eyes now. Jaff. What means thy dreadful story? Death, and to-morrow! broken limbs and bowels ! Insulted o'er by a vile butchering villain! By all my fears I shall start out to madness, With barely guessing, if the truth's hid longer. Belv. The faithless senators, 'tis they've decreed it: They say according to our friends' request, They shall have death, and not ignoble bond- age: Declare their promised mercy all as forfeited, False to their oaths, and deaf to interces- sion; Warrants are passed for public death to- morrow. Jaif. Death! doomed to die! condemned unheard! unpleaded! Belv, Nay, cruellest racks and torments are preparing, To force confessions from their dying pangs. Oh, do not look so terribly upon me, How your lips shake, and all your face dis- ordered ! 107 ACT V, Sc. I. VENICE PRESERVED What means my love? Jaff. Leave me, I charge thee, leave me strong temptations Wake in my heart. Beh: For what? Jaff. No more, but leave me. Beh: Why? Jaff. Oh! by Heaven, I love thee with that fondness I would not have thee stay a moment longer, Near these curst hands; are they not cold upon thee ? [Pulls the dagger half out of his bosom and puts it back again. Beh'. No, everlasting comfort's in thy arms. To lean thus on thy breast is softer ease Than downy pillows decked with leaves of roses. Jaff. Alas! thou think'st not of the thorns 'tis filled with: Fly ere they gall thee: there's a lurking serpent, Ready to leap and sting thee to thy heart; Art thou not terrified? Beh. No. Jaff. Call to mind, What thou hast done, and whither thou hast brought me. Beh. Hah! Jaff. Where's my friend? my friend, thou smiling mischief ? Nay, shrink not, now 'tis too late, thou shouldst have fled When thy guilt first had cause, for dire re- venge Is up and raging for my friend. He groans, Hark how he groans, his screams are in my ears Already; see, they've fixed him on the wheel, And now they tear him Murther! perjured Senate! Murther Oh! hark thee, traitress, thou hast done this: [Fumbling for his dagger. Thanks to thy tears and false persuading love. How her eyes speak ! O thou bewitching creature ! Madness cannot hurt thee: come, thou little trembler, Creep, even into my heart, and there lie safe: 'Tis thy own citadel ha! yet stand off, Heaven must have justice, and my broken vows Will sink me else beneath its reaching mercy; I'll wink and then 'tis done Belv. What means the lord Of me, my life and love? what's in thy bosom, [Draws the dagger, offers to stab her. Thou grasp's t at so? Nay, why am I thus treated? What wilt thou do? Ah! do not kill me, Jaffeir, Pity these panting breasts, and trembling limbs, That used to clasp thee when thy looks were milder, That yet hang heavy on my unpurged soul, And plunge it not into eternal darkness. Jaff. No, Belvidera, when we parted last, I gave this dagger with thee as in trust To be thy portion, if I e'er proved false. On such condition was my truth believed: But now 'tis forfeited and must be paid for. [Offers to stab her again. Bclv. [kneeling]. Oh, mercy! Jaff. Nay, no struggling. Belv . Now, then, kill me. [Leaps upon his neck and kisses him. While thus I cling about thy cruel neck, Kiss thy revengeful lips and die in joys Greater than any I can guess hereafter. Jaff. I am, I am a coward; witness it, Heaven, Witness it, earth, and every being witness; 'Tis but one blow; yet, by immortal love, I cannot longer bear a thought to harm thee; [He throws away the dagger and embraces her. The seal of Providence is sure upon thee, And thou wert born for yet unheard-of won- ders: Oh, thou wert either born to save or damn me! By all the power that's given thee o'er my soul, By thy resistless tears and conquering smiles, By the victorious love that still waits on thee, Fly to thy cruel father: save my friend, Or all our future quiet's lost for ever: Fall at his feet, cling round his reverend knees; Speak to him with thy eyes, and with thy tears Melt his hard heart, and wake dead nature in him ; Crush him in thy arms, and torture him with thy softness: Nor, till thy prayers are granted, set him free, But conquer him, as thou hast vanquished me. [Exeunt ambo. ACT V SCENE I Enter PRIULI, solus. Priu. Why, cruel Heaven, have my un- happy days Been lengthened to this sad one? Oh, dis- honor And deathless infamy is fall'n upon me! 103 VENICE PRESERVED ACT V, Sc. I. Was it my fault? Am I a traitor? No. But then, my only child, my daughter, wedded; There my best blood runs foul, and a disease Incurable has seized upon my memory, To make it rot and stink to after ages. Curst be the fatal minute when I got her; Or would that I'd been anything but man, And raised an issue which would ne'er have wronged me. The miserablest creatures (man excepted) Are not the less esteemed, though their pos- terity Degenerate from the virtues of their fathers; The vilest beasts are happy in their off- springs, While only man gets traitors, whores and villains. Curst be the names, and some swift blow from fate Lay his head deep, where mine may be for- gotten. Enter BELVIDERA in a long mourning veil. Bc!:\ He's there, my father, my inhuman father, That, for three years, has left an only child Exposed to all the outrages of fate, And cruel ruin oh! Prill. What child of sorrow Art thou that com'st thus wrapt in weeds of sadness, And mov'st as if thy steps were towards a grave ? Belv. A wretch, who from the very top of happiness Am fallen into the lowest depths of misery, And want your pitying hand to raise me up again. Priii. Indeed thou talk'st as thou hadst tasted sorrows; Would I could help thee! Belv. 'Tis greatly in your power. The world, too, speaks you charitable, and I, Who ne'er asked alms before, in that dear hope Am come a-begging to you, sir. Priu. For what? Belv. O well regard me, is this voice a strange one? Consider, too, when beggars once pretend A case like mine, no little will content 'em. Priu. What wouldst thou beg for? Belv. Pity and forgiveness. [Thows up her veil. By the kind tender names of child and father, Hear my complaints and take me to your love. Priu. My daughter? Belv. Yes, your daughter, by a mother Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honor, Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes, Dear to your arms: by all the joys she gave you, When in her blooming years she was your treasure, Look kindly on me; in my face behold The lineaments of hers you've kissed so often, Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child. Priu. Thou art my daughter? Belv. Yes and you've oft told me, With smiles of love and chaste paternal kisses, I'd much resemblance of my mother. Priu. Oh! Hadst thou inherited her matchless virtues, I'd been too bless'd. Belv. Nay, do not call to memory My disobedience, but let pity enter Into your heart, and quite deface the im- pression; For could you think how mine's perplexed, what sadness, Fears and despairs distract the peace with- in me, Oh, you would take me in your dear, dear arms, Hover with strong compassion o'er your young one, To shelter me with a protecting wing, From the black gathered storm, that's just, just breaking. Priu. Don't talk thus. Belv. Yes, I must, and you must hear too. I have a husband. Priu. Damn him! Belv. Oh, do not curse him! He would not speak so hard a word towards you On any terms, howe'er he deal with me. Priu. Ha! what means my child? Belv. Oh, there's but this short moment 'Twixt me and fate, yet send me not with curses Down to my grave, afford me one kind bless- ing Before we part: just take me in your arms, And recommend me with a prayer to Heaven, That I may die in peace, and when I'm dead Priu. How my soul's catched! Belv. Lay me, I beg you, lay me By the dear ashes of my tender mother. She would have pitied me, had fate yet spared her. Priu. By Heaven, my aching heart fore- bodes much mischief; Tell me thy story, for I'm still thy father. Belv. Priu. Belv. Priu. No, I'm contented. Speak. No matter. Tell me. 109 ACT V, Sc. I. VENICE PRESERVED By yon blest Heaven, my heart runs o'er with fondness. /',/;. Oh! Priit. Utter it. Belt: O my husband, my dear husband Carries a dagger in his once kind bosom, To pierce the heart of your poor Belvidera. Priu, Kill thee? /'./.-. Yes, kill me. When he passed his faith And convenant, against your state and Sen- ate, He gave me up as hostage for his truth, With me a dagger and a dire commission, Whene'er he failed, to plunge it through this bosom. I learnt the danger, chose the hour of love To attempt his heart, and bring it back to honor. Great love prevailed and blessed me with success: He came, confessed, betrayed his dearest friends For promised mercy; now they're doomed to suffer, Galled with remembrance of what then was sworn, If they are lost, he vows to appease the gods With this poor life, and make my blood the atonement. Priu. Heavens ! Beh. Think you saw what passed at our last parting; Think you beheld him like a raging lion, Pacing the earth and tearing up his steps, Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand Fixed on my throat, while the extended other Grasped a keen 'twas thus threatening dagger: oh, We last embraced, when, trembling with revenge, He dragged me to the ground, and at my bosom Presented horrid death, cried out: " My friends, Where are my friends ? " swore, wept, raged, threatened, loved, For he yet loved, and that dear love pre- served me, To this last trial of a father's pity. I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought That that dear hand should do the unfriendly office; If I was ever then your care, now hear me; Fly to the Senate, save the promised lives Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice. Priu. O my heart's comfort ! Beh-. Will you not, my father? Weep not, but answer me. Priu. By Heaven, I will. Not one of 'em but what shall be immortal. Canst thou forgive me all my follies past, I'll henceforth be indeed a father; never, Never more thus expose, but cherish thee, Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life, Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee. Peace to thy heart. Farewell. Belv. Go, and remember 'Tis Belvidera's life her father pleads for. [Exeunt severally. Enter ANTONIO. .Into. Hum, hum, ha, Signior Priuli, my lord Priuli, my lord, my lord, my lord: [how] we lords love to call one another by our titles! My lord, my lord, my lord pox on him, I am a lord as well as he; and so let him fiddle I'll warrant him he's gone to the Senate-house, and I'll be there too, soon enough for somebody. 'Od, here's a tickling speech about the plot, I'll prove there's a plot with a vengeance would I had it with- out book; let me see " Most reverend Senators, That there is a plot, surely by this time, no man that hath eyes or understanding in his head will presume to doubt, 'tis as plain as the light in the cucumber " no hold there cucumber does not come in yet " 'tis as plain as the light in the sun, or as the man in the moon, even at noon day; it is indeed a pumpkin-plot, which, just as it was mellow, we have gathered, and now we have gathered it, prepared and dressed it, shall we throw it like a pickled cucumber out at the window? no: that it is not only a bloody, horrid, execrable, damnable and audacious plot, but it is, as I may so say, a saucy plot: and we all know, most reverend fathers, that what is sauce for a goose is sauce for a gander: therefore, I say, as those bloodthirsty ganders of the conspiracy would have de- stroyed us geese of the Senate, let us make haste to destroy them, so I humbly move for hanging " ha ! hurry durry I think this will do; though I was something out, at first, about the sun and the cucumber. Enter AQUILINA. A quit. Good-morrow, senator. Anto. Nacky, my dear Nacky, morrow, Nacky, *od I am very brisk, very merry, very pert, very jovial ha-a-a-a-a kiss me, Nacky; how dost thou do, my little Tory, rory strumpet, kiss me, I say, hussy, kiss le. Aquil. Kiss me, Nacky, hang you, sir, coxcomb, hang you, sir. Anto. Hayty, tayty, is it so indeed, with all my heart, faith hey then up go we, faith hey then up go we, dum dum derum dump. [Sings. Aquil. Signior. 110 VENICE PRESERVED ACT V, Sc. II. .into. Madonna. Aquil. Do you intend to die in your bed? Anto. About threescore years hence, much may be done, my dear. Aquil. You'll be hanged, signior. Anto. Hanged, sweetheart, prithee be quiet, hanged quotha, that's a merry conceit, with all my heart, why thou jokest, Nacky, thou art given to joking, I'll swear; well, I protest, Nacky, nay, I must protest, and will protest that I love joking dearly, man. And I love thee for joking, and I'll kiss thee for joking, and towse thee for joking, and 'od, I have a devilish mind to take thee aside about that business for joking too, 'od I have, and Hey then up go we, dum dum derum dump. [Sings. Aquil. [draws a dagger]. See you this, sir? Anto. O laud, a dagger! O laud! it is naturally my aversion, I cannot endure the sight on't, hide it for Heaven's sake, I can- not look that way till it be gone hide it, hide it, oh, oh, hide it! Aquil. Yes, in your heart I'll hide it. Anto. My heart; what, hide a dagger in my heart's blood? Aquil. Yes, in thy heart, thy throat, thou pampered devil; Thou hast helped to spoil my peace, and I'll have vengeance On thy curst life, for all the bloody Senate, The perjured faithless Senate: where's my lord, My happiness, ray love, my god, my hero, Doomed by thy accursed tongue, amongst the rest, To a shameful wrack? By all the rage that's in me I'll be whole years in murthering thee. Anto. Why, Nacky, wherefore so passionate? what have I done? what's the matter, my dear Nacky? am not I thy love, thy happiness, thy lord, thy hero, thy senator, and everything in the world, Nacky? Aquil. Thou! think'st thou, thou art fit to meet my joys; To bear the eager clasps of my embraces? Give me my Pierre, or Anto. Why, he's to be hanged, little Nacky, Trussed up for treason, and so forth, child. Aquil. Thou liest: stop down thy throat that hellish sentence, Or 'tis thy last: swear that my love shall live, Or thou art dead. Anto. Ah-h-h-h. Aquil. Swear to recall his doom, Swear at my feet, and tremble at my fury. Anto. I do. Now if she would but kick a little bit, one kick now. Ah-h-h-h. Swear,' or I do, by these dear fragrant Aquil. Anto. foots And little toes sweet as, e-e-e-e my Nacky, Nacky, Nacky. Aquil. How! Anto. Nothing but untie thy shoe-string a little, faith and troth, That's all, that's all, as I hope to live, Nacky, that's all. Aquil. Nay, then Anto. Hold, hold, thy love, thy lord, thy hero Shall be preserved and safe. Aquil. Or may this poniard Rust in thy heart. Anto. With all my soul. Aquil. Farewell [Exit AQUILINA. Anto. Adieu. Why, what a bloody-minded, inveterate, termagant strumpet have I been plagued with! Oh-h-h yet more! nay then I die, I die I am dead already. [Stretches himself out. SCENE II Enter JAFFEIR. Jaff. Final destruction seize OR all the world: Bend down, ye Heavens, and shutting round this earth, Crush the vile globe into its first confusion; Scorch it, with elemental flames, to one curst cinder, And all us little creepers in't, called men, Burn, burn to nothing: but let Venice burn Hotter than all the rest: here kindle hell Ne'er to extinguish, and let souls hereafter Groan here, in all those pains which mine feels now! Enter BELVIDERA. Belv. [meeting him]. My life Jaff. [turning from her\. My plague Belv. Nay then I see my ruin, If I must die! Jaff. No, Death's this day too busy, Thy father's ill-timed mercy came too late. I .thank thee for thy labors though and him too, But all my poor betrayed unhappy friends Have summons to prepare for fate's black hour; And yet I live. Belv. Then be the next my doom. I see thou'st passed my sentence in thy heart, And I'll no longer weep or plead against it, But with the humblest, most obedient pa- tience Meet thy dear hands, and kiss 'em when they wound me; Indeed I'm willing, but I beg thee do it 111 ACT V, Sc. II. VENICE PRESERVED With some remorse, and where thou giv'st the blow, View me with eyes of a relenting love, And show me pity, for 'twill sweeten justice. /.:.v". Show pity to thee? Beh. Yes, and when thy hands, Charged with my fate, come trembling to the deed, As thou hast done a thousand thousand dear times, To this poor breast, when kinder rage has brought thee, When our stinged hearts have leaped to meet each other, And melting kisses sealed our lips together, When joys have left me gasping in thy arms, So let my death come now, and I'll not shrink from't. Jaff. Nay, Belvidera, do not fear my cruelty, Nor let the thoughts of death perplex thy fancy, But answer me to what I shall demand With a firm temper and unshaken spirit. Belv. I will when I've done weeping Jaff. Fie, no more on't How long is't since the miserable day We wedded first Belv. Oh-h-h! Jaff. Nay, keep in thy tears Lest they unman me too. Belv. Heaven knows I cannot; The words you utter sound so very sadly These streams will follow Jaff. Come, I'll kiss 'em dry, then. Bch-. But was't a miserable day? Jaff. A curst one. Beh'. I thought it otherwise, and you've oft sworn In the transporting hours of warmest love When sure you spoke the truth, you've sworn you blessed it. Jaff. 'Twas a rash oath. Belv. Then why am I not curst too? Jaff. No, Belvidera; by the eternal truth, I dote with too much fondness. Belv. Still so kind? Still then do you love me? Jaff. Nature, in her workings, Inclines not with more ardor to creation, Than I do now towards thee: man ne'er was blessed, Since the first pair first met, as I have been. Belv. Then sure you will not curse me. Jaff. No, I'll bless thee. I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless thee. Tis now, I think, three years we've lived together. Belv. And may no fatal minute ever part us, Till, reverend grown, for age and love, we go Down to one grave, as our last bed, together, There sleep in peace till an eternal morning. or have my eyes Jaff. [sighing]. When will that be? Belv. I hope long ages hence. Jaff. Have I not hitherto (I beg thee tell me Thy very fears) used thee with tenderest love? Did e'er my soul rise up in wrath against thee? Did e'er I frown when Belvidera smiled, Or, by the least unfriendly word, betray A bating passion? have I ever wronged thee? Beh: No. Jaff. Has my heart, e'er wandered To any other woman? Belv. Never, never I were the worst of false ones should I ac- cuse thee; I own I've been too happy, blessed above My sex's charter. Jaff. Did I not say I came to bless thee? Belv. Yes. Jaff. Then hear me, bounteous Heaven! Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head, Where everlasting sweets are always spring- ing. With a continual giving hand, let peace, Honor, and safety always hover round her: Feed her with plenty, let her eyes ne'er see A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourn- ing: Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest, Harmless as her own thoughts, and prop her virtue, To bear the loss of one that too much loved, And comfort her with patience in our part- ing. Belv. How, parting! parting! Jaff. Yes, for ever parting. I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon Heaven, That best can tell how much I lose to leave thee, We part this hour for ever. Belv. Oh, call back Your cruel blessings, stay with me and curse me! Jaff. No, 'tis resolved. Belv. Then hear me too, just Heaven ! Pour down your curses on this wretched head With never-ceasing vengeance: let despair, Danger or infamy, nay, all surround me; Starve me with wan tings; let my eyes ne'er see A sight of comfort, nor my heart know peace, But dash my days with sorrow, nights with horrors Wild as my own thoughts now, and let loose fury To make me mad enough for what I lose, If I must lose him. If I must! I will not. 112 ACT V, Sc. III. O turn and hear me! Jaff. Now hold, heart, or never! Belv. By all the tender days we've lived together, By all our charming nights, and joys that crowned 'em: Pity my sad condition, speak, but speak. Jaff. Oh-h-h ! Belv. By these arms that now cling round thy neck: By this dear kiss and by ten thousand more, By these poor streaming eyes Jaff. Murther! unhold me: [Draws his dagger. By the immortal destiny that doomed me To this curst minute, I'll not live one longer. Resolve to let me go or see me fall Belv. Hold, sir, be patient. Jaff. Hark, the dismal bell [Passing bell tolls. Tolls out for death; I must attend its call too, For my poor friend, my dying Pierre expects me: He sent a message to require I'd see him Before he died, and take his last forgiveness. Farewell for ever. [Going out looks back at her. Belv. Leave thy dagger with me. Bequeath me something. Not one kiss at parting ? my poor heart, when wilt thou break? Jaff. Yet stay, We have a child, as yet a tender infant. Be a kind mother to him when I am gone: Breed him in virtue and the paths of honor, But let him never know his father's story: 1 charge thee guard him from the wrongs my fate May do his future fortune or his name. Now nearer yet [Approaching each other. O that my arms were riveted Thus round thee ever! But my friends, my oath! This and no more. [Kisses her. Belv. Another, sure anotEer, For that poor little one you've ta'en care of, I'll give 't him truly. Jaff. So, now farewell. Belv. For ever? Jaff. Heaven knows for ever; all good angels guard thee. [Exit. Belv. All ill ones sure had charge of me this moment. Curst be my days, and doubly curst my nights, Which I must now mourn out in widowed tears ; Blasted be every herb and fruit and tree; Curst be the rain that falls upon the earth. And may the general curse reach man and beast; Oh, give me daggers, fire or water! How I could bleed, how burn, how drown, the waves Huzzing and booming round my sinking head, Till I descended to the peaceful bottom! Oh, there's all quiet, here all rage and fury: The air's too thin, and pierces my weak brain: I long for thick substantial sleep: hell, hell. Burst from the centre, rage and roar aloud, If thou art half so hot, so mad as I am. Enter PRIULI and Servants. Who's there? Priu. Run, seize and bring her safely home. [They seize her. Guard her as you would life: alas, poor creature ! Belv. What? to my husband then conduct me quickly. Are all things ready? shall we die most gloriously ? Say not a word of this to my old father. Murmuring streams, soft shades, and spring- ing flowers, Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber. [Exit. SCENE III Scene opening discovers a Scaffold and a Wheel prepared for the executing of PIERRE, then enter other Officers, PIERRE and Guards, a Friar, Executioner, and a great rabble. Offic. Room, room there stand all by, make room for the prisoner. Pierr. My friend not come yet? Father. Why are you so obstinate? Pierr. Why you so troublesome, that a poor wretch Can't die in peace, But you, like ravens, will be croaking round him? Path. Yet, Heaven Pierr. I tell thee Heaven and I are friends. I ne'er broke peace with it yet, by cruel murthers, Rapine or perjury, or vile deceiving, But lived in moral justice towards all men, Nor am a foe to the most strong believers, Howe'er my own short-sighted faith confine me. Path. But an all-seeing Judge Pierr. You say my conscience Must be mine accuser: I've searched that conscience, And find no records there of crimes that scare me. Path. 'Tis strange you should want faith. Pierr. You want to lead My reason blindfold, like a hampered lion, 113 ACT V, Sc. III. VENICE PRESERVED Checked of its nobler vigor; then, when baited Down to obedient lameness, make it couch, And show strange tricks, which you call signs of faith. So silly souls are gulled and you get money. Away, no more! Captain, I would here- after This fellow write no lies of my conversion, Because he has crept upon my troubled hour*. Enter JAFFEIR. Jaff. Hold: eyes, be dry! Heart, strengthen me to bear This hideous sight, and humble me, to take The last forgiveness of a dying friend, Betrayed by my vile falsehood, to his ruin. Pierre! Pierr. Yet nearer. Jaff. Crawling on my knees, And prostrate on the earth, let me approach thee. How shall I look up to thy injured face, That always used to smile, with friendship on me? It darts an air of so much manly virtue, That V I, methinks, look little in thy sight, And stripes are fitter for me than embraces. Pierr. Dear to my arms, though thou'st undone my fame, 1 cannot forget to love thee: prithee, Jaffeir, Forgive that filthy blow my passion dealt thee; I am now preparing for the land of peace, And fain would have the charitable wishes Of all good men, like thee, to bless my jour- ney. Jaff. Good! I am the vilest creature; worse than e'er Suffered the shameful fate thou'rt going to taste of. Why was I sent for to be used thus kindly? Call, call me villain, as I am, describe The foul complexion of my hateful deeds, Lead me to the rack, and stretch me in thy stead, I've crimes enough to give it its full load, And do it credit. Thou wilt but spoil the use on't, And honest men hereafter bear its figure About 'em, as a charm from treacherous friendship. Offic. The time grows short, your friends are dead already. Jaff. Dead! Pierr. Yes, dead, Jaffeir; they've all died like men too, Worthy their character. Jaff. And what must I do? Pierr. O Jaffeir! Jaff. Speak aloud thy burthened soul And tell thy troubles to thy tortured friend. Pierr. Couldst thou yet be a friend, a generous friend, I might hope comfort from thy noble sor- rows. Heaven knows I want a friend. Jaff. And I a kind one, That would not thus scorn my repenting vir- tue, Or think when he's to die, my thoughts are idle. Pierr. No! live, I charge thee, Jaffeir. Jaff. Yes, I'll live, But it shall be to see thy fall revenged At such a rate, as Venice long shall groan for. Pierr. Wilt thou? Jaff. I will, by Heav'n. Pierr. - Then still thou'rt noble, And I forgive thee, oh yet shall I trust thee? Jaff. No: I've been false already. Pierr. Dost thou love me? Jaff. Rip up my heart, and satisfy thy doubtings. Pierr. [he weeps]. Curse on this weakness. /(///'. Tears! Amazement! Tears! I never saw thee melted thus before, And know there's something laboring in thy bosom That must have vent: though I'm a villain, tell me. Pierr. [pointing to the wheel]. Seest thou that engine? Jaff. Why ? Pierr. Is't fit a soldier, who has lived with honor, Fought nations' quarrels, and been crowned with conquest, Be exposed a common carcase on a wheel ? Jaff. Ha! Pierr. Speak! is't fitting? Jaff. Fitting ? Pierr. Yes, is't fitting? Jaff. What's to be done? Pierr. I'd have thee undertake Something that's noble, to preserve my mem- ory From the disgrace that's ready to attaint it. Offic. The day grows late, sir. Pierr. I'll make haste! O Jaffeir, Though thou'st betrayed me, do me some way justice. Jaff. No more of that: thy wishes shall be satisfied. I have a wife, and she shall bleed, my child too Yield up his little throat, and all to appease thee [Going away, PIERRE holds him. Pierr. No this no more! f [He whispers JAFFEIR. Jaff. Ha! is't then so? Pierr. Most certainly. Jaff. I'll do't. Pierr. Remember. 114 VENICE' PRESERVED ACT V, Sc. IV. Offic. Sir. Pierr. Come, now I'm ready. [He and JAFFEIR ascend the scaffold. Captain, you should be a gentleman of honor. Keep off the rabble, that I may have room To entertain my fate and die with decency. Come! [Takes off his gown. Executioner prepares to bind him. Path. Son ! Pierr. Hence, tempter. Offic. Stand off, priest. Pierr. I thank you, sir. You'll think on't. [To JAFFEIR. Jaff. 'Twon't grow stale before to-morrow. Pierr. Now, Jaffeir! now I am going. Now; [Executioner having bound him. Jaff. Have at thee, Thou honest heart, then here [Stabs him. And this is well too. [Then stabs himself. Path. Damnable deed ! Pierr. Now thou hast indeed been faithful. This was done nobly we've deceived the Senate. Jaff. Bravely. Pierr. Ha! ha! ha! oh! oh! [Dies. Jaff. Now, ye curst rulers, Thus of the blood ye've shed I make libation. And sprinkle it mingling: may it rest upon you, And all your race: be henceforth peace a stranger Within your walls; let plagues and famine waste Your generations O poor Belvidera! Sir, I have a wife, bear this in safety to her, A token that with my dying breath I blessed her, And the dear little infant left behind me. I'm sick I'm quiet [JAFFEIR dies. OfKc. Bear this news to the Senate, And guard their bodies till there's farther order: Heaven grant I die so well! [Scene shuts upon them. SCENE IV Soft music. Enter BELVIDERA distracted, led by two of her Women, PRIULI and Servants. Priu. Strengthen her heart with patience, pitying Heaven. Belv. Come, come, come, come, come, nay, come to bed! Prithee, my love. The winds ! hark how they whistle ! And the rain beats: oh, how the weather shrinks me! You are angry now, who cares ? pish, no in- deed. Choose then; I say you shall not go, you shall not; Whip your ill nature; get you gone then! oh, [JAFFEIR'S Ghost rises. Are you return'd? See, father, here he's come again! Am I to blame to love him? O thou dear one! [Ghost sinks. Why do you fly me? Are you angry still, then? Jaffeir! where art thou? Father, why do you do thus? Stand off, don't hide him from me. He's here somewhere. Stand off, I say! what, gone? remember it, tyrant ! I may revenge myself for this trick one day. I'll do't I'll do't! Renault's a nasty fellow. Hang him, hang him, hang him. Enter Officer and others. Priu. News, what news? [Officer whispers PRIULI. OfKc. Most sad, sir. Jaffeir, upon the scaffold, to prevent A shameful death, stabbed Pierre, and next himself: Both fell together. [The ghosts of JAFFEIR and PIERRE rise together both bloody. Priu. Daughter. Belv. Ha, look there! My husband bloody, and his friend too! Murther! Who has done this? Speak to me, thou sad vision, [Ghosts sink. On these poor trembling knees I beg it. Vanished ! Here they went down; oh, I'll dig, dig the den up. You shan't delude me thus. Ho, Jaffeir, Jaffeir, Peep up and give me but a look. I have him! I've got him, father: oh, how I'll smuggle him! My love! my dear! my blessing! help me, help me ! They've hold on me, and drag me to the bottom. Nay now they pull so hard farewell [She dies. Maid. She's dead, Breathless and dead. Priu. Then guard me from the sight on't; Lead me into some place that's fit for mourn- ing; Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun May never enter: hang it round with black: Set up one taper that may last a day As long as I've to live: and there all leave me. Sparing no tears when you this tale relate, But bid all cruel fathers dread my fate. [Curtain falls. Exeunt omnes. 115 EPILOGUE VENICE PRESERVED EPILOGUE The text is done, and now for application, And when that's ended, pass your approba- tion. Though the conspiracy's prevented here, Me thinks I see another hatching there; And there's a certain faction fain would sway, If they had strength enough, and damn this play, But this the author bade me boldly say: If any take his plainness in ill part, He's glad on't from the bottom of his heart; Poets in honor of the truth should write, With the same spirit brave men for it fight; And though against him causeless hatreds rise, And daily where he goes of late, he spies The scowls of sullen and revengeful eyes; Tis what he knows with much contempt to bear, And serves a cause too good to let him fear: He fears no poison from an incensed drab, No ruffian's five-foot sword, nor rascal's tab; Nor any other snares of mischief laid, Not a Rose-alley cudgel-ambuscade, From any private cause where malice reigns, Or general pique all blockheads have to brains: Nothing shall daunt his pen when truth does call, No, not the picture-mangier at Guildhall. The rebel tribe, of which that vermin's one, Have now set forward and their course begun; And while that Prince's figure they deface, As they before had massacred his name, Durst their base fears but look him in the face, They'd use his person as they've used his fame; A face, in which such lineaments they read Of that great martyr's, whose rich blood they shed, That their rebellious hate they still retain, And in his son would murther him again. With indignation then, let each brave heart Rouse and unite to take his injured part; Till royal love and goodness call him home, And songs of triumph meet him as he come; Till Heaven his honor and our peace restore. And villains never wrong his virtue more. 116 WILLIAM CONGREVE THE WAY OF THE WORLD WILLIAM CONGREVE was born in the year in which The Conquest of Granada was finished (1670), and in that in which Dryden died Congreve wrote his last play (1700). When Dryden was thirty years old, he had not more than entered upon his literary career with two poems of no great promise, one in praise of the dead Cromwell, the other judiciously in wel- come to the restored Charles. When Congreve laid down his pen, he had written four comedies, rising to extraordinary brilliancy in The Way of the World, and one tragedy, of which it can at least be said that it held the boards for nearly a century. Dryden made the writing of literature in all its current forms a profession ; Congreve wished to live and be known as a gentleman rather than to be praised as an author. Though born in England, Congreve spent his boyhood days in Ireland, whither his father had been sent shortly after the boy's birth to command the garrison at Youghal. About 1681 William went to Kilkenny School, called the Eton of Ireland, and in 1685 he entered Trinity College, Dublin ; at both places Swift, though three years ahead of Congreve, was also a student. After the Revolution he crossed to England and in 1691 he was a law student at the Inner Temple. The next year he had abandoned all thoughts of law and had become instead the protege of Dryden, was hailed as the coming poet, and was associated with prominent men of letters in a translation of Persius and Juvenal. In January, 1693, his first play, The Old Bachelor, written when he was twenty-one, was produced at Drury Lane. The piece had been revised and polished by Southerne and Dryden, it was acted by Betterton and the fascinating Mrs. Bracegirdle, and with its won- derful dialogue that surpassed anything known to the contemporary stage it was an immediate and lasting success. Thus encouraged, Congreve in the November of the same year was ready with another play, The Double Dealer, which did not meet with quite so cordial a reception as the first, though in many respects it is superior. The anger he all too plainly showed at the "impotent objections" of his "illiterate critics" was greatly allayed by Dryden's magnificent praise in his " Commendatory Verses " prefixed to the published work : " Heaven that but once was prodigal before, To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more." 117 THE WAY OF THE WORLD When Betterton with his fellow-actors left the patent house, the Theatre Royal, he obtained a special license from the king and built the New Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. This theatre was opened in Easter week, 1695, with Congreve's next play, Love for Love, and the performance was an unqualified success. So pleased .was Congreve that he entered into a contract to deliver a new play a year, an agreement, which like Dryden in a similar case, he failed to keep. Two years later he furnished the company with his only tragedy, The Mourning Bride, a play of Websterian gloom without the Web- sterian power. Dr. Johnson gave it a kind of spurious immortality by char- acterizing the description of the temple in Act II as the "finest poetical passage he had ever read," of which Hazlitt justly remarks that Johnson "could have done nearly as well himself for a single passage, in the same vein of moralizing and sentimental description." The next year (1698) the Puritan conscience after nearly forty years of enforced silence found vig- orous expression in the -strident tones of Jeremy Collier's Short View of the Profaneness and Immorality of the English Stage. After some delay Con- greve replied with his unfortunate and ineffectual Amendments on Mr. Col- lier's False and Imperfect Citations. Even in the opinion of the friends of Congreve and the stage the parson had the better of the controversy. In 1700 he wrote his last and best comedy, The Way of the World, which was freer from reproach on the score of morals than the earlier plays, though none the less a just reflection of the times in which he lived. The reception of the play was not favorable, and through the remaining twenty-nine years of his life Congreve did not again risk public disapproval by writing any- thing for the theatre. He lived the life of one of his own gay heroes with London as his stage. He was made comfortable by government offices, that of commissioner for licensing hackney coaches till 1707 an employment only remotely suggestive of Pegasus and poetry, commissioner of wine licenses from 1705 to 1714, secretary for Jamaica from 1714 to the end, so that in his later days his income amounted to 1200, a goodly sum for an old bachelor. He was a friend of the great in the land, Swift, Addison, Steele, Gay, Pope, and Arbuthnot, and achieved the supreme distinction of having Pope's Iliad dedicated to him. He was visited by Voltaire and be- came the chosen friend of Henrietta, Duchess of Maryborough, the daughter of the great duke, seemingly preferring her to the far more admirable Mrs. Bracegirdle. A week after his death on January 19, 1729, he was buried in Westminster Abbey. As already noted, The Way of the World was not a success when first performed. Steele in his " Commendatory Verses " prefixed to the published work generously ascribes the cause to the dull minds of the audience: " No sense of wit when dull spectators know But in distorted gesture, farce, and show ; How could, great author, your aspiring mind Dare to write only to the few refined?" 118 THE WAY OF THE WORLD It is usually unwise to blame the rude spectators for the failure of a play, for its dramatic worth depends in large, measure upon its direct appeal to the groundlings as well as to the judicious. It is accordingly not at all difficult for the modern reader, as Mr. Archer has pointed out, to see that this play might fail on its first performances ; the comedy is by no means easy of comprehension even on reading; it is only when reread that it is recog- nized as one of the rarest productions of the comic spirit in our literature. There are several things that would contribute to the mystifying of an audience unfamiliar, with the play. There is an irritating embarrassment of relationships, legal and illegal, among the dramatis persona, husbands and wives, mistresses and ex-mistresses, lovers and followers, half-brothers and cousins, mother and daughter, nephew and niece, a very real aunt and a bogus uncle. Only frequent reference to the printed list will keep these relationships straight in the mind of the reader; the mere spectator would be hopelessly muddled, as, for instance, when Fainall says to Mirabell, " he [Sir Wilfull Witwoud] is half-brother to this Witwoud by a former wife, who was sister to my Lady Wishfort, my wife's mother. If you marry Millamant, you must call cousins too." Furthermore, dramatic unity is lacking in the conduct of the several actions and in their relations to one another. The main design by which Mirabell expects to win Millamant and which is based on a psychological improbability is never brought to an actual test; it vanishes amid the storm which Lady Wishfort raises between Acts IV and V, when she learns how she has been duped by her enemy and her servant. Early in Act III it was quite clear to the audience that the design would not live through the play, but it was kept alive by the will of the dramatist through Act IV for the sake of a genuinely comic situation. When now with an utter disregard for dramatic art Mirabell's scheme is eventually strangled off stage, there is nothing left for the dramatist but the equally inartistic device, the creation of an entirely new plan in Act V. No time remains for the development of anything plausible ; only the deus ex machina is possible. Fainall's blackmailing plot is succeeding, when Mirabell appears with convenient and hitherto unmentioned " papers," thwarts the villains, appeases Lady Wishfort, and wins Millamant. It is thus manifest that the course of the action is at times confusing and purposeless, and that the play might disappoint an audience concerned to follow the plots and not merely to luxuriate in the brilliancy of dialogue or in the clear-cut de- lineation of character. It is these two qualities along with what Meredith calls " a certain suc- cinctness of style " that give The Way of the World its abiding fascination. To the reader faults of construction seem a minor matter they may be recognized and then forgotten but the comic spirit that possessed England during the forty years following the Restoration may well appear to him to have found in this play its most exquisite embodiment. This comic spirit did not manifest itself so much in the manipulation of intrigue as in the 119 THE WAY OF THE WORLD clash of wit; in fact, Congreve was content to let his plot suffer for the sake of bright and sparkling dialogue. One has only to run through the play to see how few scenes really develop plot and how many have their intrinsic interest in brilliant characterization and racy dialogue. So in Act I there is the clever showing up of Petulant and Witwoud by Mirabell. In Act II we have the amusing colloquy between Millamant and Mirabell, which leaves the man exhausted, so swift and sure is the lady's wit. In Act III Lady Wishfort mercilessly bullies Peg and is as mercilessly duped by Foible; Millamant plays with Mrs. Marwood as cheerfully and as remorselessly as a cat with a mouse; Sir Wilfull turns the tables in his blunt and ludicrous fashion upon the city fops to the discomfiture especially of his half-brother, who has just entered upon the fop's estate. In Act IV Lady Wishfort is allowed to. continue in her delusion regarding Sir Rowland long after the plot demands that she should be freed from it, because it is too good a situ- ation to throw away; so also the interviews between Sir Wilfull and Millamant come to nothing in the action but are delightful in the clash of the vivacious beauty and the bashful country knight ; the wit of the contract scene between Mirabell and Millamant, the cleverest persons in the play, flashes like a rapier in the sunlight; Sir Wilfull drunk is even more diverting than Sir Wilfull sober and helps on the plot just as little. In Act V Lady Wishfort's temper finds its supreme expression in choice Billingsgate when she de- nounces Foible. It is part of Congreve's art to arouse curiosity about his leading char- acters by means of exposition. Mirabell through Act I keeps referring to Millamant so that the reader is on the qui vive for her appearance, which further to arouse curiosity is deferred to Act II. We learn something of Lady Wishfort from Mirabell's impolite remarks and from her important position in the " cabal nights." Fainall acts as a sort of announcer to Wit- woud and Sir Wilfull, and Witwoud does as much for Petulant. This in- direct vision affords an opportunity for the display of more or less malicious and always piquant wit, and it also furnishes a starting point for the com- prehension of a character. But it is dull by comparison with the perfect self- revelation of the personages themselves when they appear on the stage. There is no mystery, nothing inscrutable in the characters of a Congreve comedy. They appeal at once to the intellect and they are as clear cut as a diamond. And what great revealing power there is in the language they speak! Lady Wishfort is particularly skilful in her nice discrimination in epithets. Whether she is blazing her wrath upon the head of blundering Peg, or as a mere tool in the hands of " rare Foible " is venting her spleen against Mira- bell, her dearest foe, or indignant at her nephew's drunken behavior is hurling abuse at him while in the same breath trying to excuse him to Milla- mant, whom she would have him marry, or almost hysterical with rage at the discovery of the trick played upon her is screaming like a fishwife at 120 THE WAY OF THE WORLD the offending Foible, whom she " took from washing of old gauze and weaving of dead hair, with a bleak blue nose over a chafing dish of starved embers, and dining behind a traverse rag, in a shop no bigger than a bird- cage " at all times she has a vocabulary of vituperation both rich and rare. Very piquant without being disgusting, as they might easily be, are the scenes in which she is angling for the pretended Sir Rowland, wherein she is presented as the seasoned coquette of fifty-five years deliberating how she may charm him with " blushes and recomposing airs beyond com- parison." Almost as choice in his diction is the lubberly knight, Sir Wil- full ; he can reduce to temporary silence the mincer of fine words, the city fop; he is bashful and painfully repetitious when left alone to propose to Millamant, but when drunk he is splendidly loquacious and breaks out into joyous song, proclaiming his Christianity and his orthodoxy, " with a fig for your sultan and sophy " ; he is duly apologetic when sober again, and offers to make magnificent amends, " If I have broke anything I'll pay for 't, an' it cost a pound." But it is in the character of Millamant that Congreve has surpassed himself and his contemporaries. Perhaps he was inspired by the matchless Mrs. Bracegirdle, whom he greatly admired and for whom he wrote the part. How excellently and in what buoyant prose is the heroine introduced by the enraptured Mirabell : " Here she comes, i' faith, full sail, with her fan spread, and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders/' In Meredith's words she " is a perfect portrait of a coquette, both in her resistance to Mirabell and the manner of her surrender, and also in her tongue." (The Idea, of Comedy, p. 29.) The very spirit of laughter rings in her words, especially when she plays like lambent lightning around the disconcerted Mrs. Marwood, whose sinister threat brings out only a demand for a song to keep up her spirits. Mirabell, whom Meredith calls " the sprightliest male figure of English comedy" (op. cit, p. 23), is left in a whirl after he tried conclusions with her in Act II. In reply to his assertion that " beauty is the lover's gift," she retorts, "Lord, what is a lover that it can give? Why, one makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases ; and then, if one pleases, one makes more." Like Beatrice, she speaks poniards and every word stabs. Note her declaration of independence containing the terms on which she will be con- tent to " dwindle into a wife " : " Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together ; but let us be very strange and well-bred : let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while ; and as well-bred as if we were not married at all." And after these words of boisterous badinage she con- fesses to Mrs. Fainall very humbly and feelingly, "Well, if Mirabell should not make a good husband, I am a lost thing, for I find I love him vio- lently." She is of Congreve's characters about the only one that arouses any affection. She falls short of Rosalind and Beatrice, who possess in full measure that surpassing charm which compels unquestioning love. Only in 121 PROLOGUE THE WAY OP THE WORLD rare speeches, as in the one just quoted, do we get a glimpse of that side of her nature ; in this side Congreve was not primarily interested. It is in her intellectual keenness and her abounding vivacity that he showed his consummate skill and in these qualities he placed her not below the clever heroines of As You Like It and Much Ado About Nothing. It is such characterization, such flash of wit, such perfection of speech that give The Way of the World its enduring place in English literature. These qualities did not ensure it dramatic success in Congreve's time because they were obscured by ineffective plotting, but as manifestations of the comic spirit they will win among readers admiration for the " aspiring mind " of the author. THE WAY OF THE WORLD Audire est operse pretium, procedere recte Qui moechos non vultis, [ut omni parte laborent]. HORAT. Lib. i. Sat. 2. [37-38]. [Haec] metuat, doti deprensa. Ibid., Lib. i. Sat. 2. [131]. PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. Betterton Of those few fools who with ill stars are curst, Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst: For they're a sort of fools which Fortune makes, And after she has made 'em fools, forsakes. With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a different case, For Fortune favors all her idiot-race. In her own nest the cuckoo-eggs we find, O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling-kind. No portion for her own she has to spare, So much she dotes on her adopted care. Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in, Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win; But what unequal hazards do they run ! Each time they write they venture all they've won: The squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone. This author heretofore has found your favor; But pleads no merit from his past behavior. To build on that might prove a vain presumption, Should grants, to poets made, admit resumption: And in Parnassus he must lose his seat, If that be found a forfeited estate. 122 ACT I, Sc. I. He owns with toil he wrought the following scenes; But, if they're naught, ne'er spare him for his pains: Damn him the more; have no commiseration For dullness on mature deliberation, He swears he'll not resent one hissed-off scene, Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain, Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign. Some plot we think he has, and some new thought; Some humor too, no farce ; but that's a fault. Satire, he thinks, you ought not td expect; For so reformed a town who dares correct? To please, this time, has been his sole pretence, He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence. Should he by chance a knave or fool expose, That hurts none here, sure here are none of those: In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it) Give you one instance of a passive poet, Who to your judgments yields all resignation; So save or damn, after your own discretion. DRAMATIS PERSONS FAINALL, in love with MRS. MARWOOD. MIRABELL, in love with MRS. MILLAMANT. WITWOUD, ) _ ,, PETULANT ( F" owers f MRS. MILLAMANT. SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, Half-brother to WIT- WOUD, and Nephew to LADY WISHFORT. WAITWELL, Servant to MIRABELL. Coachmen, Dancers, Footmen, and Attendants. LADY WISHFORT, Enemy to MIRABELL, for hav- ing falsely pretended love to her. MRS. MILLAMANT, a fine Lady, Niece to LADY WISHFORT, and loves MIRABELL. MRS. MARWOOD, Friend to MR. FAINALL, and likes MIRABELL. MRS. FAINALL, Daughter to LADY WISHFORT, and Wife to FAINALL, formerly Friend to MIRABELL. FOIBLE, Woman to LADY WISHFORT. MINCING, Woman to MRS. MILLAMANT. BETTY, Waiting-maid at a Chocolate-house. PEG, Maid to LADY WISHFORT. SCENE. LONDON. ACT I SCENE I A Chocolate-house. MIRABELL and FAINALL, rising from cards, BETTY waiting. Mir. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fain- all! Fain. Have we done? Mir. What you please: I'll play on to en- tertain you. Fain. No, I'll give you your revenge an- other time, when you are not so indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and | the patience of a Stoic. What, some coxcomb 123 play too negligently; the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play with a man that slighted his ill fortune than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of her reputation. Mir. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on your pleasures. Fain. Prithee, why so reserved? Some- thing has put you out of humor. Mir. Not at all: I happen to be grave to- day, and you are gay; that's all. you Fain. Confess, Millamant and quarrelled last night after I left you; my fair cousin has some humors that would tempt ACT I, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD came in, and was well received by her, while you were by? Mir. Witwoud and Petulant; and what was worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, my evil genius; or to sum up all in her own name, my old Lady Wishfort came in. Fain. O, there it is then! She has a last- ing passion for you, and with reason. What, then my wife was there? Mir. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood, and three or four more, whom I never saw before. See- ing me, they all put on their grave faces, whispered one another; then complained aloud of the vapors, and after fell into a profound silence. Fain. They had a mind to be rid of you. Mir. For which reason I resolved not to stir. At last the good old lady broke through her painful taciturnity with an invective against long visits. I would not have under- stood her, but Millamant joining in the argu- ment, I rose, and, with a constrained smile, told her I thought nothing was so easy as to know when a visit began to be trouble- some. She reddened, and I withdrew, without expecting her reply. Fain. You were to blame to resent what she spoke only in compliance with her aunt. Mir. She is more mistress of herself than to be under the necessity of such a resigna- tion. Fain. What! though half her fortune de- pends upon her marrying with my lady's approbation ? Mir. 1 was then in such a humor, that I should have been better pleased if she had been less discreet. Fain. Now I remember, I wonder not they were weary of you; last night was one of their cabal nights; they have 'em three times a-week, and meet by turns at one another's apartments, where they come to- gether like the coroner's inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week. You and I are excluded; and it was once proposed that all the male sex should be excepted; but somebody moved that, to avoid scandal, there might be one man of the community; upon which motion Witwoud and Petulant were enrolled members. Mir. And who may have been the foundress of this sect? My Lady Wishfort, I warrant, who publishes her detestation of mankind; and full of the vigor of fifty-five, declares for a friend and ratafia; and let posterity shift for itself, she'll breed no more. Fain. The discovery of your sham addresses to her, to conceal your love to her niece, has provoked this separation; had you dissembled better, things might have continued in the state of nature. Mir. I did as much as man could, with any reasonable conscience; I proceeded to the very last act of flattery with her, and was guilty of a song in her commendation. Nay, I got a friend to put her into a lampoon, and compliment her with the imputation of an affair with a young fellow, which I carried so far, that I told her the malicious town took notice that she Was grown fat of a sudden; and when she lay in of a dropsy, persuaded her she was reported to be in labor. The devil's in't, if an old woman is to be flattered further, unless a man should endeavor downright personally to debauch her; and that my virtue forbade me. But for the discovery of this amour I am indebted to your friend, or your wife's friend, Mrs. Marwood. Fain. What should provoke her to be your enemy, unless she has made you advances which you have slighted? Women do not easily forgive omissions of that nature. Mir. She was always civil to me till of late. I confess I am not one of those cox- combs who are apt to interpret a woman's good manners to her prejudice, and think that she who does not refuse 'em everything, can refuse 'em nothing. /',.';.'. You are a gallant man, Mirabell; and though you may have cruelty enough not to satisfy a lady's longing, you have too much generosity not to be tender of her honor. Yet you speak with an indifference which seems to be affected, and confesses you are conscious of a negligence. Mir. You pursue the argument with a distrust that seems to be unaffected, and confesses you are conscious of a concern for which the lady is more indebted to you than is your wife. Fain. Fy, fy, friend! if you grow censor- ious I must leave you. I'll look upon the gamesters in the next room. Mir. Who are they? Fain. Petulant and Witwoud. [To BETTY.] Bring me some chocolate. [E.vit. Mir. Betty, what says your clock? Bet. Turned of the last canonical hour, sir. [Exit. Mir. How pertinently the jade answers me! [Looking on his watch.] Ha! almost one o'clock! Oh, y'are come! Enter Footman. Well, is the grand affair over? You have been something tedious. Foot. Sir, there's such coupling at Pan- eras that they stand behind one another, as 'twere in a country dance. Ours was the last couple to lead up; and no hopes appearing of dispatch; besides, the parson growing hoarse, we were afraid his lungs would have failed before it came to our turn; so we drove round to Duke's-place; and there they were rivetted in a trice. Mir. So, so, you are sure they are mar- ried. 124 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT I, Sc. I. Foot. ness. Mir. Foot. Mir. Married and bedded, sir; I am wit- Have you the certificate? Here it is, sir. Has the tailor brought Waitwell's clothes home, and the new liveries? Foot. Yes, sir. Mir. That's well. Do you go home again, d'ye hear, and adjourn the consummation till farther orders. Bid Waitwell shake his ears, and Dame Partlet rustle up her feathers, and meet me at one o'clock by Rosamond's Pond, that I may see her before she returns to her lady; and as you tender your ears be secret. [Exit Footman. Re-enter FAIN ALL and BETTY. Fain. Joy of your success, Mirabell; you look pleased. Mir. Aye; I have been engaged in a mat- ter of some sort of mirth, which is not yet ripe for discovery. I am glad this is not a cabal night. I wonder, Fainall, that you who are married and of consequence should be discreet, will suffer your wife to be of such a party. Fain. Faith, I am not jealous. Besides, most who are engaged are women and rela- tions; and for the men, they are of a kind too contemptible to give scandal. Mir. I am of another opinion. The greater the coxcomb, always the more the scandal: for a woman who is not a fool can have but one reason for associating with a man who is one. Fain. Are you jealous as often as you see Witwoud entertained by Millamant? Mir. Of her understanding I am, if not of her person. Fain. You do her wrong; for, to give her her due, she has wit. Mir. She has beauty enough to make any man think so; and complaisance enough not to contradict him who shall tell her so. Fain. For a passionate lover, methinks you are a man somewhat too discerning in the failings of your mistress. Mir. And for a discerning man, somewhat too passionate a lover; for I like her with all her faults; nay, like her for her faults. Her follies are so natural, or so artful, that they become her; and those affectations which in another woman would be odious, serve but to make her more agreeable. I'll tell thee, Fainall, she once used me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces; sifted her, and separated her failings; I studied 'em, and got 'em by rote. The catalogue was so large, that I was not with- out hopes one day or other to hate her heartily: to which end I so used myself to think of 'em, that at length, contrary to my design and expectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance; till in a few days it became habitual to me to remember 'em without being displeased. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties; and in all probability, in a little time longer, I shall like 'em as well. Fain. Marry her, marry her! Be half as well acquainted with her charms, as you are with her defects, and my life on't, you are your own man again. Mir. Say you so? Fain. Ay, ay, I have experience: I have a wife, and so forth. Enter Messenger. Mes. Is one squire Witwoud here? Bet. Yes, what's your business? Mes. I have a letter for him, from his brother Sir Wilfull, which I am charged to deliver into his own hands. Bet. He's in the next room, friend that way. [Exit Messenger. Mir. What, is the chief of that noble fam- ily in town, Sir Wilfull Witwoud? Fain. He is expected to-day. Do you know him? Mir. I have seen him. He promises to be an extraordinary person; I think you have the honor to be related to him. Fain. Yes; he is half-brother to this Wit- woud by a former wife, who was sister to my Lady Wishfort, my wife's mother. If you marry Millamant, you must call cousins too. Mir. I had rather be his relation than his acquaintance. Fain. He comes to town in order to equip himself for travel. Mir. For travel! Why, the man that I mean is above forty. Fain. No matter for that; 'tis for the honor of England, that all Europe should know we have blockheads of all ages. Mir. I wonder there is not an act of par- liament to save the credit of the nation, and prohibit the exportation of fools. Fain. By no means; 'tis better as 'tis. 'Tis better to trade with a little loss, than to be quite eaten up with being overstocked. Mir. Pray, are the follies of this knight- errant, and those of the squire his brother, anything related? Fain. Not at all; Witwoud grows by the knight, like a medlar grafted on a crab. One will melt in your mouth, and t'other set your teeth on edge; one is all pulp, and the other all core. Mir. So one will be rotten before he be ripe, and the other will be rotten without ever being ripe at all. Fain. Sir Wilfull is an odd mixture of bashfulness and obstinacy. But when he's drunk he's as loving as the monster in '/'/, Tempest, and much after the same manner. To give t'other his due, he has something of good nature, and does not always want wit. 125 ACT I, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD Mir. Not always: but as often as his memory fails him, and his commonplace of comparisons. He is a fool with a good mem- ory, and some few scraps of other folks' wit. He is one whose conversation can never be approved, yet it is now and then to be en- dured. He has indeed one good quality, he is not exceptious; for he so passionately affects the reputation of understanding raillery, that he will construe an affront into a jest; and call downright rudeness and ill language, satire and fire. Fain. If you have a mind to finish his picture, you have an opportunity to do it at full length. Behold the original! Enter WITWOUD. Wit. Afford me your compassion, my dears! Pity me, Fainall! Mirabell, pity me! Mir. I do from my soul. Fain. Why, what's the matter? Wit. No letters for me, Betty? Bet. Did not a messenger bring you one but now, sir? Wit. Ay, but no other? Bet. No, sir. Wit. That's hard, that's very hard. A messenger ! a mule, a beast of burden ! he has brought me a letter from the fool my brother, as heavy as a panegyric in a funeral sermon, or a copy of commendatory verses from one poet to another: and what's worse, 'tis as sure a forerunner of the author, as an epistle dedicatory. Mir. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud! Wit. Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half- brother he is; no nearer, upon honor. Mir. Then 'tis possible he may be but half a fool. Wit. Good, good, Mirabell, le drole! Good, good; hang him, don't let's talk of him. Fainall, how does your lady? Gad, I say anything in the world to get this fellow out of my head. I beg pardon that I should ask a man of pleasure, and the town, a ques- tion at once so foreign and domestic. But I talk like an old maid at a marriage; I don't know what I say: b'ut she's the best woman in the world. Fain. 'Tis well you don't know what you say, or else your commendation would go near to make me either vain or jealous. Wit. No man in town lives well with a wife but Fainall. Your judgment, Mirabell. Mir. You had better step and ask his wife, if you would be credibly informed. Wit. Mirabell? Mir. Ay. Wit. My dear, I ask ten thousand par- dons; gad, I have forgot what I was going to say to you! Mir. 1 thank you heartily, heartily. Wit. No, but prithee excuse me: my memory is such a memory. Mir. Have a care of such apologies, Wit- woud; for I never knew a fool but he affected to complain, either of the spleen or his memory. Fain. What have you done with Petulant? Wit. He's reckoning his money my money it was. I have no luck to-day. Fain. You may allow him to win of you at play: for you are sure to be too hard for him at repartee; since you monopolize the wit that is between you, the fortune must be his of course. Mir. I don't find that Petulant confesses the superiority of wit to be your talent, Witwoud. Wit. Come, come, you are malicious now, and would breed debates. Petulant's my friend, and a very honest fellow, and a very pretty fellow, and has a smattering faith and troth, a pretty deal of an odd sort of a small wit: nay, I'll do him justice. I'm his friend, I won't wrong him. And if he had any judgement in the world, he would not be altogether contemptible. Come, come, don't detract from the merits of my friend. Fain. You don't take your friend to be over-nicely bred? Wit. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no manners at all, that I must own: no more breeding than a bum-bailiff, that I grant you: 'tis pity; the fellow has fire and life. Mir. What, courage? Wit. Hum, faith, I don't know as to that, I can't say as to that. Yes, faith, in a con- troversy, he'll contradict anybody. Mir. Though 'twere a man whom he feared, or a woman whom he loved. Wit. Well, well, he does not always think before he speaks; we have all our failings: you are too hard upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse him I can defend most of his faults, except one or two: one he has, that's the truth on't; if he were my brother, I could not acquit him: that, indeed, I could wish were otherwise. Mir. Ay, marry, what's that, Witwoud? Wit. O pardon me! Expose the infirmities of my friend! No, my dear, excuse me there. Fain. What, I warrant he's unsincere, or 'tis some such trifle. Wit. No, no; what if he be? 'tis no mat- ter for that, his wit will excuse that: a wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as t'other of beauty. Mir. Maybe you think him too positive? U'it. No, no, his being positive is an in- centive to argument, and keeps up conver- sation. Fain. Too illiterate? Wit. That! that's his happiness: his want of learning gives him the more oppor- tunities to show his natural parts. Mir. He wants words? 126 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT I, Sc. I. Wit. Ay: but I like him for that now; for his want of words gives me the pleasure very often to explain his meaning. Fain. He's impudent? Wit. No, that's not it. Mir. Vain ? Wit. No. Mir. What! He speaks unseasonable truths sometimes, because he has not wit enough to invent an evasion? Wit. Truths! ha! ha! ha! No, no; since you will have it, I mean, he never speaks truth at all, that's all. He will lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of quality's porter. Now that is a fault. Enter Coachman. Coach. Is Master Petulant here, mistress? Bet. Yes. Coach. Three gentlewomen in a coacli would speak with him. Fain. O brave Petulant! three! Bet. I'll tell him. Coach. You must bring two dishes of chocolate and a glass of cinnamon-water. [Exeunt BETTY and Coachman. Wit. That should be for two fasting strumpets, and a bawd troubled with the wind. Now you may know what the three are. Mir. You are very free with your friend's acquaintance. Wit. Ay, ay, friendship without freedom is as dull as love without enjoyment,, or wine without toasting. But to tell you a secret, these are trulls whom he allows coach-hire, and something more, by the week, to call on him once a day at public places. Mir. How! Wit. You shall see he won't go to 'em, because there's no more company here to take notice of him. Why, this is nothing to what he used to do: before he found out this way, I have known him call for himself. Fain. Call for himself! What dost thou mean? Wit. Mean! Why, he would slip you out of this chocolate-house, just when you had been talking to him as soon as your back was turned whip he was gone ! then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf, and a mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice, where he would send in for himself; that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself; nay, and what's more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a letter for himself. Mir. I confess this is something extraor- dinary. I believe he waits for himself now, he is so long a-coming: Oh! I ask his pardon. Enter PETULANT and BETTY. Bet. Sir, the coach stays. Pet. Well, well; I come. 'Sbud, a man bad as good be a professed midwife as a professed whoremaster, at this rate! to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all places! Pox on 'em, I won't come! D'ye bear, tell 'em I won't come: let 'em snivel and cry their hearts out. Fain. You are very cruel, Petulant. /'./. All's one, let it pass: I have a humor to be cruel. Mir. I hope they are not persons of con- dition that you use at this rate. Pet. Condition! condition's a dried fig, if I am not in humor! By this hand, if they were your a a your what d'ye-call-'ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, if I want appetite. Mir. What d'ye-call-'ems ! What are they, Witwoud? Wit. Empresses, my dear: by your what- d'ye-call-'ems he means sultana queens. Pet. Ay, Roxalanas. Mir. Cry you mercy! Fain. Witwoud says they are /',-/. What does he say th' are? Wit. I? Fine ladies, I say. Pet. Pass on, Witwoud. Hark'ee, by this light, his relations: two co-heiresses his cousins, and an old aunt, who loves cater- wauling better than a conventicle. Wit. Ha! ha! ha! I had a mind to see how the rogue would come off. Ha! ha! ha! Gad, I can't be angry with him, if he had said they were my mother and my sisters. Mir. No! Wit. No; the rogue's wit and readiness of invention charm me. Dear Petulant! Bet. They are gone, sir, in great anger. Pet. Enough, let 'em trundle. Anger helps complexion, saves paint. Fain. This continence is all dissembled; this is in order to have something to brag of the next time he makes court to Millamant, and swear he has abandoned the whole sex for her sake. Mir. Have you not left off your impudent pretensions there yet? I shall cut your throat some time or other, Petulant, about that business. Pet. Ay, ay, let that pass there are other throats to be cut. Mir. Meaning mine, sir? Pet. Not I I mean nobody I know noth- ing: but there are uncles and nephews in the world and they may be rivals what, then! All's one for that. Mir. How! hark'ee, Petulant, come hither: explain, or I shall call your interpreter. Pet. Explain! I know nothing. Why, you have an uncle, have you not, lately come to town, and lodges by my Lady Wishfort's? Mir. True. Pet. Why, that's enough you and he are not friends; and if he should marry and have a child, you may be disinherited, ha? 127 ACT I, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD Mir. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this truth? Pet. All's one for that; why, then, say I know something. Mir. Come, thou art an honest fellow, Petulant, and shalt make love to my mis- tress, thou sha't, faith. What hast thou heard of my uncle? If throats are to be snug's the word, I Pet. I? Nothing, I. cut, let swords clash! shrug and am silent. Mir. Oh, raillery, raillery! Come, I know thou art in the women's secrets. What, you're a cabalist; I know you stayed at Mil- lamant's last night, after I went. Was there any mention made of my uncle or me? Tell me. If thou hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, Petulant, Tony Witwoud, who is now thy competitor in fame, would show as dim by thee as a dead whiting's eye by a pearl of orient; he would no more be seen by thee, than Mercury is by the sun. Come, I'm sure thou wo't tell me. Pet. If I do, will you grant me common ense then for the future? Mir. Faith, I'll do what I can for thee, and I'll pray that Heaven may grant it thee in the meantime. Pet. Well, hark'ee. [MIRABEL and PETULANT talk apart. Fain. Petulant and you both will find Mirabel as warm a rival as a lover. Wit. Pshaw! pshaw! that she laughs at Petulant is plain. And for my part, but that it is almost a fashion to admire her, I should hark'ee to tell you a secret, but let it go no further between friends, I shall never break my heart for her. Fain. How ! Wit. She's handsome; but she's a sort of an uncertain woman. Fain. I thought you had died for her. Wit. Umh no Fain. She has wit. Wit. 'Tis what she will hardly allow any- body else: now, demnie, I should hate that, if she were as handsome as Cleopatra. Mira- bell is not so sure of her as he thinks for. Fain. Why do you think so? Wit. We stayed pretty late there last night, and heard something of an uncle to Mirabell, who is lately come to town and is between him and the best part of his estate. Mirabell and he are at some distance, as my Lady Wishfort has been told; and you know she hates Mirabell worse than a quaker hates a parrot, or than a fishmonger hates a hard frost. Whether this uncle has seen Mrs. Millamant or not, I cannot say, but there were items of such a treaty being in embryo; and if it should come to life, poor Mirabell would be in some sort unfortunately fobbed, i'faith. I thought you had been the greatest Fain. 'Tis impossible Millamant should hearken to it. II' it. Faith, my dear, I can't tell; she's a woman, and a kind of a humorist. Mir. And this is the sum of what you could collect last night? /','. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud knows more, he staid longer: besides, they never mind him; they say anything before him. Mir. favorite. Pet. Ay, tete-a-tete, but not in public, be- cause I make remarks. Mir. You do? I'd . Ay, ay ; pox, I'm malicious, man ! Now he's soft you know; they are not in awe of him the fellow's well-bred; he's what you call a what-d'ye-call-'em, a fine gentle- man; but he's silly withal. Mir. I thank you, I know as much as my curiosity requires. Fainall, are you for the Mall? Fain. Ay, I'll take a turn before dinner. Wit. Ay, we'll all walk in the Park; the ladies talked of being there. Mir. I thought you were obliged to watch for your brother Sir Wilfull's arrival. ll'ii. No, no; he comes to his aunt's, my lady Wishfort. Pox on him! I shall be troubled with him, too; what shall I do with the fool? Pet. Beg him for his estate, that I may beg you afterwards: and so have but one trouble with you both. Wit. O, rare Petulant! Thou art as quick as fire in a frosty morning: thou shalt to the Mall with us, and we'll be very se- vere. Pet. Enough, I'm in a humor to be severe. Mir. Are you? Pray, then, walk by your- selves: let not us be accessory to your put- ting the ladies out of countenance with your senseless ribaldry, which you roar out aloud as often as they pass by you; and when you have made a handsome woman blush, then you think you have been severe. Pet. What, what! Then let 'em either show their innocence by not understanding what they hear, or else show their discretion by not hearing what they would not be thought to understand. Mir. But hast not thou then sense enough to know that thou oughtest to be most ashamed thyself, when thou hast put an- other out of countenance? Pet. Not I, by this hand! I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or ill breeding. Mir. I confess you ought to think so. You are in the right, that you may plead the error of your judgment in* defence of your practice. 128 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT II, Sc. I. Where modesty's ill manners, 'tis but fit That impudence and malice pass for wit. [Exeunt. ACT II SCENE I ST. JAMES'S PARK. MRS. FAINALL and MRS. MARWOOD. Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we will be happy, we must find the means in ourselves, and among ourselves. Men are ever in extremes; either doting or averse. While they are lovers, if they have fire and sense, their jealousies are insupportable; and when they cease to love (we ought to think at least) they loathe; they look upon us with horror and distaste; they meet us like the ghosts of what we were, and as such, fly from us. Mrs. Mar. True, 'tis an unhappy circum- stance of life, that love should ever die be- fore us; and that the man so often should outlive the lover. But say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old. For my part, my youth may wear and waste, but it shall never rust in my possession. Mrs. Fain. Then it seems you dissemble an aversion to mankind, only in compliance to my mother's humor? Mrs. Mar. Certainly. To be free; I have no taste of those insipid dry discourses, with which our sex of force must entertain themselves, apart from men. We may af- fect endearments to each other, profess eter- nal friendships, and seem to dote like lovers; but 'tis not in our natures long to persevere. Love will resume his empire in our breasts; and every heart, or soon or late, receive and re-admit him as its lawful tyrant. Mrs. Fain. Bless me, how have I been de- ceived! Why, you profess a libertine. Mrs. Mar. You see my friendship by my freedom. Come, be as sincere, acknowledge that your sentiments agree with mine. Mrs. Fain. Never! Mrs. Mar. You hate mankind? Mrs. Fain. Heartily, inveterately. Mrs. Mar. Your husband ? Mrs. Fain. Most transcendently; ay, though I say it, meritoriously. Mrs. Alar. Give me your hand upon it. Mrs. Fain. There. Mrs. Mar. I join with you; what I have said has been to try you. Mrs. Fain. Is it possible? Dost thou hate those vipers, men? Mrs. Mar. I have done hating 'em, and am now come to despise 'em; the next thing I have to do, is eternally to forget 'em. Mrs. Fain. There spoke the spirit of an Amazon, a Penthesilea ! Mrs. Mar. And yet I am thinking some- times to carry my aversion further. Mrs. Fain. How ? Mrs. Mar. Faith, by marrying; if I could but find one that loved me very well, and would be thoroughly sensible of ill usage, I think I should do myself the violence of undergoing the ceremony. Mrs. Fain. You would not make him a cuckold ? Mrs. Mar. No; but I'd make him believe I did, and that's as bad. Mrs. Fain. Why, had not you as good do it? Mrs. Mar. Oh! if he should ever discover it, he would then know the worst, and be out of his pain; but I would have him ever to continue upon the rack of fear and jealousy. Mrs. Fain. Ingenious mischief! would thou wert married to Mirabell. Mrs. Mar. Would I were! Mrs. Fain. You change color. Mrs. Mar. Because I hate him. Mrs. Fain. So do I; but I can hear him named. But what reason have you to hate him in particular? Mrs. Mar. I never loved him; he is, and always was, insufferably proud. Mrs. Fain. By the reason you give for your aversion, one would think it dissembled; for you have laid a fault to his charge, of which his enemies must acquit him. Mrs. Mar. Oh, then it seems you are one of his favorable enemies ! Methinks you look a little pale, and now you flush again. Mrs. Fain. Do I ? I think I am a little sick o' the sudden. Mrs. Mar. What ails you? Mrs. Fain. My husband. Don't you see him ? He turned short upon me unawares, and has almost overcome me. Enter FAINALL and MIRABELL Mrs. Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! He comes oppor- tunely for you. Mrs. Fain. For you, for he has brought Mirabell with him. Fain. My dear! Mrs. Fain. My soul! Fain. You don't look well to-day, child. Mrs. Fain. D'ye think so? Mir. He is the only man that does, madam. Mrs. Fain. The only man that would tell me so at least; and the only man from whom I could hear it without mortification. Fain. O, my dear, I am satisfied of your tenderness; I know you cannot resent any- 129 ACT II, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD thing from me; especially what is an effect of my concern. Mrs. Fain. Mr. Mirabell, my mother in- terrupted you in a pleasant relation last night; I would fain hear it out. Mir, The persons concerned in that affair have yet a tolerable reputation. I am afraid Mr. Fainall will be censorious. Airs. Fain. He has a humor more prevail- ing than his curiosity, and will willingly dis- pense with the hearing of one scandalous tory, to avoid giving an occasion to make another by being seen to walk with his wife. This way, Mr. Mirabell, and I dare promise you will oblige us both. [Exeunt MRS. FAINALL and MIRABELL. Fain. Excellent creature! Well, sure if I should live to be rid of my wife, I should be a miserable man. Mrs. Mar. Ay ! Fain. For having only that one hope, the accomplishment of it, of consequence, must put an end to all my hopes; and what a wretch is he who must survive his hopes ! Nothing remains when that day comes, but to sit down and weep like Alexander, when he wanted other worlds to conquer. Mrs. Mar. Will you not follow 'em? Fain. Faith, I think not. Mrs. Mar. Pray let us; I have a reason. Fain. You are not jealous? Mrs. Mar. Of whom? Fain. Of Mirabell. Mrs. Mar. If I am, is it inconsistent with my love to you that I am tender of your honor ? Fain. You would intimate, then, as if there were a fellow-feeling between my wife and him. Mrs. Mar. I think she does not hate him to that degree she would be thought. Fain. But he, I fear, is too insensible. Mrs. Mar. It may be you are deceived. Fain. It may be so. I do not now begin to apprehend it. Mrs. Mar. What? Fain. That I have been deceived, madam, and you are false. Mrs. Mar. That I am false! What mean you? Fain. To let you know I see through all your little arts. Come, you both love him; and both have equally dissembled your aver- sion. Your mutual jealousies of one another have made you clash till you have both struck fire. I have seen the warm confes- sion reddening on your cheeks, and sparkling from your eyes. Mrs. Mar. You do me wrong. Fain. I do not. 'Twas for my ease to oversee and wilfully neglect the gross ad- vances made him by my wife; that by per- mitting her to be engaged, I might continue unsuspected in my pleasures; and take you oftener to my arms in full security. But could you think, because the nodding hus- band would not wake, that e'er the watchful lover slept? Mrs. Mar. And wherewithal can you re- proach me? Fiiin. With infidelity, with loving another, with love of Mirabell. Mrs. Mar. 'Tis false! I challenge you to show an instance that can confirm your groundless accusation. I hate him. Fain. And wherefore do you hate him? He is insensible, and your resentment fol- lows his neglect. An instance! the injuries you have done him are a proof: your inter- posing in his love. What cause had you to make discoveries of his pretended passion ? To undeceive the credulous aunt, and be the officious obstacle of his match with Milla- mant? Mrs. Mar. My obligations to my lady urged me; I had professed a friendship to her; and could not see her easy nature so abused by that dissembler. Fain. What, was it conscience, then? Professed a friendship! O, the pious friend- ships of the female sex! Mrs. Mar. More tender, more sincere, and more enduring than all the vain and empty vows of men, whether professing love to us or mutual faith to one another. Fain. Ha! ha! ha! You are my wife's friend, too. Mrs. Mar. Shame and ingratitude! Do you reproach me? You, you upbraid me? Have I been false to her, through strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed my friendship to keep my love inviolate? And have you the baseness to charge me with the guilt, unmindful of the merit? To you it should be meritorious, that I have been vicious: and do you reflect that guilt upon me, which should lie buried in your bosom ? Fain. You misinterpret my reproof. I meant but to remind you of the slight ac- count you once could make of strictest ties, when set in competition with your love to me. Mrs. Mar. 'Tis false, you urged it with deliberate malice! 'twas spoken in scorn, and I never will forgive it. Fain. Your guilt, not your resentment, begets your rage. If yet you loved, you could forgive a jealousy: but you are stung to find you are discovered. Mrs. Mar. It shall be all discovered. You too shall be discovered; be sure you shall. I can but be exposed. If I do it myself I shall prevent your baseness. Fain. Why, what will you do? Mrs. Mar. Disclose it to your wife; own what has passed between us. Fain. Frenzy! Mrs. Mar. By all my wrongs I'll do't! 130 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT II, Sc. I. I'll publish to the world the injuries you have done me, both in my fame and fortune! With both I trusted you, you bankrupt in honor, as indigent of wealth. Fain. Your fame I have preserved: your fortune has been bestowed as the prodigality of your love would have it, in pleasures which we both have shared. Yet, had not you been false, I had ere this repaid it 'tis true had you permitted Mirabell with Milla- mant to have stolen their marriage, my lady had been incensed beyond all means of recon- cilement: Millamant had forfeited the moiety of her fortune; which then would have de- scended to my wife; and wherefore did I marry, but to make lawful prize of a rich widow's wealth, and squander it on love and you? Mrs. Mar. Deceit and frivolous pretence ! Fain. Death, am I not married? What's pretence? Am I not imprisoned, fettered? Have I not a wife? nay a wife that was a widow, a young widow, a handsome widow; and would be again a widow, but that I have a heart of proof, and something of a con- stitution to bustle through the ways of wed- lock and this world ! Will you yet be recon- ciled to truth and me? Mrs. Mar. Impossible. Truth and you are inconsistent: I hate you, and shall for ever. Fain. For loving you ? Mrs. Mar. I loathe the name of love after such usage; and next to the guilt with which you would asperse me, I scorn you most. Farewell ! Fain. Nay, we must not part thus. Mrs. Mar. Let me go. Fain. Come, I'm sorry. Mrs. Mar. I care not let me go break my hands, do I'd leave 'em to get loose. Fain. I would not hurt you for the world. Have I no other hold to keep you here? Mrs. Mar. Well, I have deserved it all. Fain. You know I love you. Mrs. Mar. Poor dissembling ! Oh, that well, it is not yet- Fain. What? What is it not? What is it not yet? It is not yet too late Mrs. Mar. No, it is not yet too late; I have that comfort. Fain. It is, to love another. Mrs. Mar. But not to loathe, detest, abhor mankind, myself, and the whole treacherous world. Fain. Nay, this is extravagance. Come, I ask your pardon no tears I was to blame, I could not love you and be easy in my doubts. Pray forbear I believe you; I'm convinced I've done you wrong; and any- way, every way will make amends. I'll hate my wife yet more, damn her! I'll part with her, rob her of all she's worth, and we'll re- tire somewhere, anywhere, to another world. I'll marry thee be pacified. 'Sdeath they come, hide your face, your tears; you have a mask, wear it a moment. This way, this way be persuaded. [Exeunt. Enter MIRABELL and MRS. FAINALL. Mrs. Fain. They are here yet. Mir. They are turning into the other walk. Mrs. Fain. While I only hated my hus- band, I could bear to see him; but since I have despised him, he's too offensive. Mir. O, you should hate with prudence. Mrs. Fain. Yes, for I have loved with in- discretion. Mir. , You should have just so much dis- gust for your husband, as may be sufficient to make you relish your lover. Mrs. Fain. You have been the cause that I have loved without bounds, and would you set limits to that aversion of which you have been the occasion? Why did you make me marry this man? Mir. Why do we daily commit disagree- able and dangerous actions? To save that idol, reputation. If the familiarities of our loves had produced that consequence of which you were apprehensive, where could you have fixed a father's name with credit, but on a husband? I knew Fainall to be a man lavish of his morals, an interested and pro- fessing friend, a false and a designing lover; yet one whose wit and outward fair be- havior have gained a reputation with the town enough to make that woman stand excused who has suffered herself to be won by his addresses. A better man ought not to have been sacrificed to the occasion; a worse had not answered to the purpose. When you are weary of him, you know your remedy. Mrs. Fain. 1 ought to stand in some de- gree of credit with you, Mirabell. Mir. In justice to you, I have made you privy to my whole design, and put it in your power to ruin or advance my fortune. Mrs. Fain. Whom have you instructed to represent your pretended uncle? Mir. Waitwell, my servant. Mrs. Fain. He is an humble servant to Foible my mother's woman, and may win her to your interest. Mir. Care is taken for that she is won and worn by this time. They were married this morning. Mrs. Fain. Who? Mir. Waitwell and Foible. I would not tempt my servant to betray me by trusting him too far. If your mother, in hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry my pre- tended uncle, he might, like Mosca in The Fox, stand upon terms; so I made him sure beforehand. Mrs. Fain. So if my poor mother is caught in a contract, you will discover the im- posture betimes, and release her by produc- 131 ACT II, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD ing a certificate of her gallant's former marriage ? Mir. Yes, upon condition that she con- sent to my marriage with her niece, and surrender the moiety of her fortune in her possession. Mrs. Fain. She talked last night of en- deavoring at a match between Millamant and your uncle. Mir. That was by Foible's direction, and my instruction, that she might seem to carry it more privately. Mrs. Fain. Well, I have an opinion of your success; for I believe my lady will do any- thing to get an husband; and when she has this, which you have provided for her, I sup- pose she will submit to anything to get rid of him. Mir. Yes, I think the good lady would marry anything that resembled a man, though 'twere no more than what a butler could pinch out of a napkin. Mrs. Fain. Female frailty! We must all come to it, if we live to be old, and feel the craving of a false appetite when the true is decayed. Mir. An old woman's appetite is depraved like that of a girl 'tis the green sickness of a second childhood; and, like the faint offer of a latter spring, serves but to usher in the fall, and withers in an affected bloom. Mrs. Fain. Here's your mistress. [Enter MRS. MILLAMANT, WITWOUD, and MINCING. Mir. Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, no, I cry her mercy ! Mrs. Fain. I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her woman after him. Mir. You seem to be unattended, madam you used to have the beau monde throng after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you. U'it. Like moths about a candle. I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath. Mrs. Mil. O, I have denied myself airs to-day, I have walked as fast through the crowd Wit. As a favorite just disgraced; and with as few followers. Mrs. Mil. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes; for I'm as sick of 'em U'it. As a physician of a good air. I cannot help it, madam, though 'tis against myself. Mrs. Mil. Yet, again! Mincing, stand be- tween me and his wit. Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen be- fore a great fire. I confess I do blaze to-day; I am too bright. Mrs. Fain. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long? Mrs. Mil. Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste; I have asked every living thing I met for you; I have inquired after you, as after a new fashion. U'it. Madam, truce with your simili- tudes. No, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her. Mrs. Mil. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like inquiring after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife. U'it. Hum, a hit! a hit! a palpable hit! I confess it. Mrs. Fain. You were dressed before I came abroad. Mrs. Mil. Ay, that's true. O, but then I had Mincing, what had I? Why was I so long? Min. O mem, your la'ship stayed to peruse a packet of letters. Mrs. Mil. O, ay, letters I had letters I am persecuted with letters I hate letters. Nobody knows how to write letters, and yet one has 'em, one does not know why. They serve one to pin up one's hair. Wit. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies. Mrs. Mil. Only with those In verse, Mr. Witwoud; I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I tried once, Mincing. Min. O mem, I shall never forget it. Mrs. Mil. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning. Min. Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll vow, mem: and all to no purpose. But when your la'ship pins it up with poetry, it sits so pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips. Wit. Indeed, so crips? Min. You're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud. Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, did you take excep- tions last night? O, ay, and went away. Now I think on't I'm angry no, now I think on't I'm pleased for I believe I gave you some pain. Mir. Does that please you? Mrs. Mil. Infinitely; I love to give pain. Mir. You would affect a cruelty which is not in your nature; your true vanity is in the power of pleasing. Mrs. Mil. Oh, I ask your pardon for that one's cruelty is one's power; and when one parts with one's cruelty, one parts with one's power; and when one has parted with that, I fancy one's old and ugly. Mir. Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your power, to destroy your lover and then how vain, how lost a thing you'll be! Nay, 'tis true: you are no longer handsome when you've lost your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant; for beauty is the lover's gift; 'tis he bestows your charms your glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, 132 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT II, Sc. I. yet after commendation can be flattered by it, and discover beauties in it; for that re- flects our praises, rather than your face. Mrs. Mil. Oh, the vanity of these men! Fainall, d'ye hear him? If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! Now you must know they could not commend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the lover's gift! Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why, one makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases; and then, if one pleases, one makes more. Wit. Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers, madam, than of making so many card-matches. Mrs. Mil. One no more owes one's beauty to a lover, than one's wit to an echo. They can but reflect what we look and say; vain empty things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being. Mir. Yet to those two vain empty things you owe the two greatest pleasures of your life. Mrs. Mil. Ho.w so? Mir. To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves praised; and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk. Wit. But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue, that an echo must wait till she dies, before it can catch her last words. Mrs. Mil. Oh, fiction ! Fainall, let us leave these men. Mir. Draw off Witwoud. [Aside to MRS. FAINALL. Mrs. Fain. Immediately. I have a word or two for Mr. Witwoud. [Exeunt MRS. FAINALL and WITWOUD. Mir. I would beg a little private audience too. You had the tyranny to deny me last night; though you knew I came to impart a secret to you that concerned my love. Mrs. Mil. You saw I was engaged. Mir. Unkind! You had the leisure to entertain a herd of fools; things who visit you from their excessive idleness; bestowing on your easiness that time which is the encumbrance of their lives. How can you find delight in such society? It is impos- sible they should admire you, they are not capable: or if they were, it should be to you as a mortification; for sure to please a fool is some degree of folly. Mrs. Mil. I please myself: besides, some- times to converse with fools is for my health. Mir. Your health! Is there a worse dis- ease than the conversion of fools ? Mrs. Mil. Yes, the vapors; fools are physic for it, next to assafcetida. Mir. You are not in a course of fools? Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, if you persist in this offensive freedom, you'll displease me. I I would give something that you think I must resolve, after all, not to have you; we shan't agree. Mir, Not in our physic, it may be. Mrs. Mil. And yet our distemper, in all likelihood, will be the same; for we shall be sick of one another. I shan't endure to be reprimanded nor instructed: 'tis so dull to. act always by advice, and so tedious to be told of one's faults I can't bear it. Well, I won't have you, Mirabell, I'm resolved I think you may go. Ha ! ha ! ha ! What would you give, that you could help loving me? Mir. did not know I could not help it. Mrs. Mil. Come, don't look grave, then. Well, what do you say to me? Mir. I say that a man may as soon make a friend by his wit, or a fortune by his honesty, as win a woman with plain dealing and sincerity. Mrs. Mil. Sententious Mirabell ! Prithee, don't look with that violent and inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old tapestry hanging. Mir. You are merry, madam, but I would persuade you for a moment to be serious. Mrs. Mil. What, with that face? No, if you keep your countenance, 'tis impossible I should hold mine. Well, after all, there is something very moving in a love-sick face. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I won't laugh, don't be peevish Heigho ! now I'll be melancholy, as melancholy as a watch-light. Well, Mirabell, if ever you will win me woo me now. Nay, if you are so tedious, fare you well; I see they are walking away. Mir. Can you not find in the variety of your disposition one moment Mrs. Mil. To hear you tell me Foible's married, and your plot like to speed no. Mir. But how you came to know it Mrs. Mil. Without the help of the devil, you can't imagine; unless she should tell me herself. Which of the two it may have been I will leave you to consider; and when you have done thinking of that, think of me. lExit. Mir. I have something more. Gone! Think of you? To think of a whirlwind, though't were in a whirlwind, were a case of more steady contemplation; a very tran- quillity of mind and mansion. A fellow that lives in a windmill, has not a more whimsical dwelling than the heart of a man that is lodged in a woman. There is no point of the compass to which they cannot turn, and by which they are not turned; and by one as well as another; for motion, not method, is their occupation. To know this, and yet continue to be in love, is to be made wise from the dictates of reason, and yet persevere to play the fool by the force of instinct. Oh, here come my pair of turtles ! What, 133 ACT III. Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD billing so sweetly! Is not Valentine's Day over with you yet? Enter WAITWELL and FOIBLE. Sirrah, Waitwell, why sure you think you were married for your own recreation, and not for my conveniency. Wait. Your pardon, sir. With submis- sion, we have indeed been solacing in lawful delights; but still with an eye to business, sir. I have instructed her as well as I could. If she can take your directions as readily as my instructions, sir, your affairs are in a prosperous way. Mir. Give you joy, Mrs. Foible. Foib. Oh, 'las, sir, I'm so ashamed! I'm afraid my lady has been in a thousand in- quietudes for me. But I protest, sir, I made as much haste as I could. Wait. That she did indeed, sir. It was my fault that she did not make more. Mir. That I believe. Foib. But I told my lady as you in- structed me, sir, that I had a prospect of seeing Sir Rowland your uncle; and that I would put her ladyship's picture in my pocket to show him; which I'll be sure to say has made him so enamored of her beauty, that he burns with impatience to lie at her ladyship's feet, and worship the original. Mir. Excellent Foible! Matrimony has made you eloquent in love. Wait. I think she has profited, sir, I think so. Foib. You have seen Madam Millamant, sir? Mir. Yes. Foib. I told her, sir, because I did not know that you might find an opportunity; she had so much company last night. Mir. Your diligence will merit more in the meantime [Gives money. Foib. O dear sir, your humble servant! Wait. Spouse. Mir. Stand off, sir, not a penny! Go on and prosper, Foible: the lease shall be made good, and the farm stocked, if we succeed. Foib. I don't question your generosity, sir: and you need not doubt of success. If you have no more commands, sir, I'll be gone; I'm sure my lady is at her toilet, and can't dress till I come. O dear, I'm sure that [Looking out] was Mrs. Marwood that went by in a mask! If she has seen me with you I'm sure she'll tell my lady. I'll make haste home and prevent her. Your servant, sir. B'w'y, Waitwell. [Exit. Wait. Sir Rowland, if you please. The jade's so pert upon her preferment she for- gets herself. Mir. Come, sir, will you endeavor to forget yourself, and transform into Sir Rowland ? Wait. Why, sir, it will be impossible I should remember myself. Married, knighted, and attended all in one day! 'tis enough to make any man forget himself. The difficulty will be how to recover my acquaintance and familiarity with my former self, and fall from my transformation to a reformation into Waitwell. Nay, I shan't be quite the same Waitwell neither; for now, I remember me, I'm married, and can't be my own man again. Ay, there's my grief; that's the sad change of life, To lose my title, and yet keep my wife. [Exeunt. ACT III SCENE I A Room in LADY WISHFORT'S House. LADY WISHFORT at her toilet, PEG waiting. Lady Wish. Merciful! no news of Foible yet? Peg. No, madam. Lady Wish. I have no more patience. If I have not fretted myself till I am pale again, there's no veracity in me! Fetch me the red the red, do you hear, sweetheart? An arrant ash-color, as I am a person! Look you how this wench stirs! Why dost thou not fetch me a little red? Didst thou not hear me, Mopus? Peg. The red ratafia, does your ladyship mean, or the cherry-brandy? Lady Wish. Ratafia, fool! No, fool. Not the ratafia, fool grant me patience! I mean the Spanish paper, idiot complexion, darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost thou understand that, changeling, dangling thy hands like bobbins before thee? Why dost thou not stir, puppet? Thou wooden thing upon wires ! Peg. Lord, madam, your ladyship is so impatient! I cannot come at the paint, madam; Mrs. Foible has locked it up, and carried the key with her. Lady Wish. A pox take you both! Fetch me the cherry-brandy then. [Exit PEG.] I'm as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. Qualmsick, the curate's wife, that's always breeding. Wench, come, come, wench, what art thou doing? sipping, tasting ? Save thee, dost thou not know the bottle? Re-enter PEG with a bottle and china cup. Peg. Madam, I was looking for a cup. Lady Wish. A cup, save thee! and what a cup hast thou brought ! Dost thou take me for a fairy, to drink out of an acorn? Why didst thou not bring thy thimble? Hast thou ne'er a brass thimble clinking in thy pocket with a bit of nutmeg? I warrant 134 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT III, Sc. I. thee. Come, fill, fill ! So again [One knocks.} See who that is. Set down the bottle first here, here, under the table. What, wouldst thou go with the bottle in thy hand, like a tapster? As I am a person, this wench has lived in an inn upon the road, before she came to me, like Maritornes the Asturian in Don Quixote! No Foible yet? Peg. No, madam; Mrs. Marwood. Lady Wish. Oh, Marwood; let her come in. Come in, good Marwood. Enter MRS. MARWOOD. Mrs. Mar. I'm surprised to find your ladyship in dishabille at this time of day. Lady Wish. Foible's a lost thing; has been abroad since morning, and never heard of since. Mrs. Mar. I saw her but now, as I came masked through the park, in conference with Mirabell. Lady Wish. With Mirabell ! You call my blood into my face, with mentioning that traitor. She durst not have the confidence! I sent her to negotiate an affair, in which, if I'm detected, I'm undone. If that wheed- ling villain has wrought upon Foible to de- tect me, I'm ruined. O my dear friend, I'm a wretch of wretches if I'm detected. Mrs. Mar. O madam, you cannot suspect Mrs. Foible's integrity! Lady Wish. Oh, he carries poison in his tongue that would corrupt integrity itself! If she has given him an opportunity, she has as good as put her integrity into his hands. Ah, dear Marwood, what's integrity to an opportunity ? Hark ! I hear her! dear friend, retire into my closet, that I may ex- amine her with more freedom. You'll par- don me, dear friend; I can make bold with you. There are books over the chimney Quarles and Prynne, and The Short View of the Stage, with Bunyan's works, to entertain you. [To PEG.] Go, you thing, and send her in. [Exeunt MRS. MARWOOD and PEG. Enter FOIBLE. Lady Wish. O Foible, where hast thou been? What hast thou been doing? Foib. Madam, I have seen the party. Lady Wish. But what hast thou done? Foib. Nay, 'tis your ladyship has done, and are to do; I have only promised. But a man so enamored so transported! Well, if worshipping of pictures be a sin poor Sir Rowland, I say. Lady Wish. The miniature has been counted like; but hast thou not betrayed me, Foible? Hast thou not detected me to that faithless Mirabell ? What hadst thou to do with him in the Park? Answer me, has he got nothing out of thee? Foib. [Aside.] So the devil has been be- forehand with me. What shall I say? [Aloud.'] Alas, madam, could I help it, if I met that confident thing? Was I in fault? If you had heard how he used me, and all upon your ladyship's account, I'm sure you would not suspect my fidelity. Nay, if that had been the worst, I could have borne; but he had a fling at your ladyship too; and then I could not hold; but i'faith I gave him his own. Lady Wish. Me? What did the filthy fellow say ? Foib. O madam! 'tis a shame to say what he said with his taunts and his fleers, tossing up his nose. Humph ! (says he) what, you are a hatching some plot (says he), you are so early abroad, or catering (says he), ferreting for some disbanded of- ficer, I warrant. Half-pay is but thin sub- sistence (says he); well, what pension does your lady propose? Let me see (says he), what, she must come down pretty deep now, she's superannuated (says he) and Lady Wish. Odds my life, I'll have him, I'll have him murdered! I'll have him poi- soned! Where does he eat? I'll marry a drawer to have him poisoned in his wine. I'll send for Robin from Locket's imme- diately. Foib. Poison him! poisoning's too good for him. Starve him, madam, starve him: marry Sir Rowland, and get him disinherited. Oh, you would bless yourself to hear what he said! Lady Wish. A villain ! Superannuated ! Foib. Humph (says he), I hear you are laying designs against me too (says he) and Mrs. Millamant is to marry my uncle (he does not suspect a word of your ladyship); but (says he) I'll fit you for that. I war- rant you (says he) I'll hamper you for that (says he); you and your old frippery too (says he) ; I'll handle you Lady Wish. Audacious villain! Handle me ! would he durst ! Frippery ! old frippery ! Was there ever such a foul-mouthed fellow? I'll be married to-morrow, I'll be contracted to-night. Foib. The sooner the better, madam. Lady Wish. Will Sir Rowland be here, sayest thou? when, Foible? Foib. Incontinently, madam. No new sheriff's wife expects the return of her hus- band after knighthood with that impatience in which Sir Rowland burns for the dear hour of kissing your ladyship's hand after dinner. Lady Wish, Frippery! superannuated frip- pery! I'll frippery the villain; I'll reduce him to frippery and rags! a tatterdemalion! I hope to see him hung with tatters, like a Long-Lane penthouse or a gibbet thief. A slander-mouthed railer! I warrant the 135 ACT III, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD spendthrift prodigal's in debt as much as the million lottery, or the whole court upon a birthday. I'll spoil his credit with his tailor. Yes, he shall have my niece with her fortune, he shall. Foib, He ! I hope to see him lodge in Ludgate first, and angle into Blackfriars for brass farthings with an old mitten. Lady Wish. Ay, dear Foible; thank thee for that, dear Foible. He has put me out of all patience. I shall never recompose my features to receive Sir Rowland with any economy of face. This wretch has fretted me that I am absolutely decayed. Look, Foible. Foib. Your ladyship has frowned a little too rashly, indeed, madam. There are some cracks discernible in the white varnish. Lady Wish. Let me see the glass. Cracks, sayest thou? why, I am errantly flayed I look like an old peeled wall. Thou must repair me, Foible, before Sir Rowland comes, or I shall never keep up to my pic- ture. Foib. I warrant you, madam, a little art once made your picture like you; and now a little of the same art must make you like your picture. Your picture must sit for you, madam. Lady Wish. But art thou sure Sir Row- land will not fail to come? Or will he not fail when he does come? Will he be impor- tunate, Foible, and push? For if he should not be importunate, I shall never break decorums: I shall die with confusion, if I am forced to advance. Oh, no, I can never advance! I shall swoon if he should expect advances. No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred than to put a lady to the necessity of breaking her forms. I won't be too coy, neither. I won't give him despair but a little disdain is not amiss; a little scorn is . alluring. Foib. A little scorn becomes your lady- ship. Lady Wish. Yes, but tenderness becomes me best a sort of dyingness you see that picture has a sort of a ha, Foible! a swim- mingness in the eye yes, I'll look so my niece affects it; but she wants features. Is Sir Rowland handsome? Let my toilet be removed I'll dress above. I'll receive Sir Rowland here. Is he handsome? Don't answer me. I won't know; I'll be surprised, I'll be taken by surprise. Foib. By storm, madam, Sir Rowland's a brisk man. Lady Wish. Is he! O, then he'll impor- tune, if he's a brisk man. I shall save de- corums if Sir Rowland importunes. I have a mortal terror at the apprehension of of- fending against decorums. O, I'm glad he's a brisk man. Let my things be removed, good Foible. [Exit. Enter MRS. FAINALL. Mrs. Fain. O Foible, I have been in a fright, lest I should come too late! That devil Marwood saw you in the Park with Mirabell, and I'm afraid will discover it to my lady. Foib. Discover what, madam! Mrs. Fain. Nay, nay, put not on that strange face, I am privy to the whole design, and know that Waitwell, to whom thou wert this morning married, is to personate Mira- bell's uncle, and as such, winning my lady, to involve her in those difficulties from which Mirabell only must release her, by his making his conditions to have my cousin and her fortune left to her own disposal. Foib. O dear madam, I beg your pardon. It was not my confidence in your ladyship that was deficient; but I thought the former good correspondence between your ladyship and Mr. Mirabell might have hindered his communicating this secret. Mrs. Fain. Dear Foible, forget that. Fib. O dear madam, Mr. Mirabell is such a sweet, winning gentleman but your lady- ship is the pattern of generosity. Sweet lady, to be so good! Mr. Mirabell cannot choose but be grateful. I find your ladyship has his heart still. Now, madam, I can safely tell your ladyship our success; Mrs. Marwood had told my lady; but I warrant I managed myself; I turned it all for the bet- ter. I told my lady that Mr. Mirabell railed at her; I laid horrid things to his charge, I'll vow; and my lady is so incensed that she'll be contracted to Sir Rowland to-night, she says; I warrant I worked her up, that he may have her for asking for, as they say of a Welsh maidenhead. Mrs. Fain. O rare Foible! Foib. Madam, I beg your ladyship to ac- quaint Mr. Mirabell of his success. I would be seen as little as possible to speak to him: besides, I believe Madam Marwood watches me. She has a month's mind; but I know Mr. Mirabell can't abide her. John! [Calls.] remove my lady's toilet. Madam, your serv- ant: my lady is so impatient, I fear she'll come for me if I stay. Mrs. Fain. I'll go with you up the back- stairs, lest I should meet her. , [Exeunt. Enter MRS. MARWOOD. Mrs. Mar. Indeed, Mrs. Engine, is it thus with you? Are you become a go-between of this importance? Yes, I shall watch you. Why this wench is the passe-partout, a very master-key to everybody's strong-box. My friend Fainall, have you carried it so swim- mingly? I thought there was something in it; but it seems 'tis over with you. Your loathing is not from a want of appetite, then, but from a surfeit. Else you could 136 THE WAY OP THE WORLD ACT III, So. I. never be so cool to fall from a principal to be an assistant; to procure for him! A pattern of generosity that, I confess. Well, Mr. Fainall, you have met with your match. O man, man! woman, woman, the devil's an ass: if I were a painter, I would draw him like an idiot, a driveller with a bib and bells: man should have his head and horns, and woman the rest of him. Poor simple fiend ! " Madam Marwood has a month's mind, but he can't abide her." 'Twere bet- ter for him you had not been his confessor in that affair, without you could have kept his counsel closer. I shall not prove another pattern of generosity: he has not obliged me to that with the es of himself ! and now I'll have none of him. Here comes the good lady, panting ripe; with a heart full of hope, and a head full of care, like any chemist upon the day of projection. Enter LADY WISHFORT. Lady Wish. O dear, Marwood, what shall I say for this rude forgetfulness ? but my dear friend is all goodness. Mrs. Mar. No apologies, dear madam, I have been very well entertained. Lady Wish. As I'm a person, I am in a very chaos to think I should so forget my- self: but I have such an olio of affairs, really I know not what to do. [Calls.} Foible! I expect my nephew, Sir Wilfull, every mo- ment too. Why, Foible! He means to travel for improvement. Mrs. Mar. Methinks Sir Wilfull should rather think of marrying than travelling at his years. I hear he is turned of forty. Lady Wish. O, he's in less danger of be- ing spoiled by his travels I am against my nephew's marrying too young. It will be time enough when he comes back, and has acquired discretion to choose for himself. Mrs. Mar. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and he would make a very fit match. He may travel afterwards. 'Tis a thing very usual with young gentlemen. Lady Wish. I promise you I have thought on't and since 'tis your judgment, I'll think on't again. I assure you I will; I value your judgment extremely. On my word, I'll pro- pose it. Enter FOIBLE. Lady Wish. Come, come, Foible I had forgot my nephew will be here before dinner I must make haste. Foib. Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are come to dine with your ladyship. Lady Wish. O dear, I can't appear till I'm dressed. Dear Marwood, shall I be free with you again, and beg you to entertain 'em? I'll make all imaginable haste. Dear friend, excuse me. [Exeunt LADY WISH, and FOIBLE. Enter MRS. MILLAMANT and MINCING. Mrs. Mil. Sure, never anything was so unbred as that odious man! Marwood, your servant. Mrs. Mar. You have a color; what's the matter? Mrs. Mil. That horrid fellow, Petulant, has provoked me into a flame: I have broken my fan. Mincing, lend me yours; is not all the powder out of my hair? Mrs. Mar. No. What has he done? Mrs. Mil. Nay, he has done nothing; he has only talked nay, he has said noth- ing neither; but he has contradicted every- thing that has been said. For my part, I thought Witwoud and he would have quar- relled. Min. I vow, mem, I thought once they would have fit. Mrs. Mil. Well, 'tis a lamentable thing, I swear, that one has not the liberty of choos- ing one's acquaintance as one does one's clothes. Mrs. Mar. If we had that liberty, we should be as weary of one set of acquaint- ance, though never so good, as we are of one suit though never so fine. A fool and a doily stuff would now and then find days of grace, and be worn for variety. Mrs. Mil. I could consent to wear 'em, if they would wear alike; but fools never wear out they are such drop de Berri things! Without one could give 'em to one's chambermaid after a day or two. Mrs. Mar. 'Twere better so indeed. Or what think you of the playhouse? A fine gay glossy fool should be given there, like a new masking habit, after the masquerade is over, and we have done with the disguise. For a fool's visit is always a disguise; and never admitted by a woman of wit, but to blind her affair with a lover of sense. If you would but appear barefaced now, and own Mirabell, you might as easily put off Petulant and Witwoud as your hood and scarf. And indeed, 'tis time, for the town has found it; the secret is grown too big for the pretence. Tis like Mrs. Primly's great belly; she may lace it down before, but it burnishes on her hips. Indeed, Millamant, you can no more conceal it than my Lady Strammel can her face; that goodly face, which in defiance of her Rhenish wine tea, will not be comprehended in a mask. Mrs. Mil. I'll take my death, Marwood, you are more censorious than a decayed beauty, or a discarded toast. Mincing, tell the men they may come up. My aunt is not dressing here; their folly is less provok- ing than your malice. [Exit MINCING.] The town has found it! what has it found? That Mirabell loves me is no more a secret than it is a secret that you discovered it to my 137 ACT III, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD aunt, or than the reason why you discovered it is a secret. Mrs. Mar. You are nettled. Mrs. Mil. You're mistaken. Ridiculous! Mrs. Mar. Indeed, my dear, you'll tear another fan, if you don't mitigate those violent airs. Mrs. Mil. O, silly! ha! ha! ha! I could laugh immoderately. Poor Mirabell! His constancy to me has quite destroyed his complaisance for all the world beside. I swear, I never enjoined it him to be so coy. If I had the vanity to think he would obey me, I would command him to show more gallantry 'tis hardly well-bred to be so particular on one hand, and so insensible on the other. But I despair to prevail, and so let him follow his own way. Ha! ha! ha! pardon me, dear creature, I must laugh, ha! ha! ha! though I grant you 'tis a little bar- barous, ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Mar. What pity 'tis so much fine raillery, and delivered with so significant gesture, should be so unhappily directed to miscarry ! Mrs. Mil. Ha? dear creature, I ask your pardon I swear I did not mind you. Mrs. Mar. Mr. Mirabell and you both may think it a thing impossible, when I shall tell him by telling you Mrs. Mil. O dear, what? for it is the same thing if I hear it ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Mar. That I detest him, hate him, madam. Mrs. Mil. O madam, why, so do I and yet the creature loves me, ha ! ha ! ha ! How can one forebear laughing to think of it. I am a sibyl if I am not amazed to think what he can see in me. I'll take my death, I think you are handsomer and within a year or two as young if you could but stay for me, I should overtake you but that can- not be. Well, that thought makes me mel- ancholic. Now, I'll be sad. Mrs. Mar. Your merry note may be changed sooner than you think. Mrs. Mil. D'ye say so? Then I'm resolved I'll have a song to keep up my spirits. Enter MINCING. Min. The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, and will wait on you. ' Mrs. Mil. Desire Mrs. that is in the next room to sing the song I would have learned yesterday. You shall hear it, madam not that there's any great matter in it but 'tis agreeable to my humor. SONG Set by MR. JOHN ECCLES. Love's but the frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires, And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires. 'Tis not to wound a wanton boy Or amorous youth, that gives the joy; But 'tis the glory to have pierced a swain, For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain. Then I alone the conquest prize, When I insult a rival's eyes: If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me. Enter PETULANT and WITWOUD. Mrs. Mil. Is your animosity composed, gentlemen ? Wit. Raillery, raillery, madam; we have no animosity we hit off a little wit now and then, but no animosity. The falling-out of wits is like the falling-out of lovers: we agree in the main, like treble and bass. Ha, Petulant? Pet. Ay, in the main but when I have a humor to contradict Wit. Ay, when he has a humor to con- tradict, then I contradict too. What, I know my cue. Then we contradict one an- other like two battledores; for contradic- tions beget one another like Jews. I'd. If he says black's black if I have a humor to say 'tis blue let that pass all's one for that. If I have a humor to prove it, it must be granted. Wit. Not positively must but it may- it may. Pet. Yes, it positively must, upon proof positive. Wit. Ay, upon proof positive it must; but upon proof presumptive it only may. That's a logical distinction now, madam. Mrs. Mar. I perceive your debates are of importance, and very learnedly handled. Pet. Importance is one thing, and learn- ing's another; but a debate's a debate, that I assert. Wit. Petulant's an enemy to learning; he relies altogether on his parts. Pet. No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts not me. Mrs. Mar. That's a sign indeed it's no enemy to you. Pet. No, no, it's no enemy to anybody but them that have it. Mrs. Mil. Well, an illiterate man's my aversion: I wonder at the impudence of any illiterate man to offer to make love. Wit. That I confess I wonder at too. Mrs. Mil. Ah! to marry an ignorant that can hardly read or write! Pet. Why should a man be any further from being married, though he can't read, than he is from being hanged ? The ordi- nary's paid for setting the psalm, and the parish priest for reading the ceremony. And for the rest which is to follow in both cases, 138 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT III, Sc. I. a man may do it without book so all's one for that. Mrs. Mil. D'ye hear the creature? Lord, here's company, I'll be gone. [Exeunt MRS. MIL. and MINCING. Enter SIR WILFULL WITWOUD in a riding dress, followed by Footman. Wit. In the name of Bartlemew and his fair, what have we here? Mrs. Mar. 'Tis your brother, I fancy. Don't you know him? Wit. Not I. Yes, I think it is he I've almost forgot him; I have not seen him since the Revolution. Foot. [To SIR WILFULL.] Sir, my lady's dressing. Here's company; if you please to walk in, in the mean time. Sir Wil. Dressing! What, it's but morn- ing here, I warrant, with you in London; we should count it towards afternoon in our parts, down in Shropshire. Why then, be- like, my aunt han't dined yet, ha, friend? Foot. Your aunt, sir? Sir Wil. My aunt, sir! Yes, my aunt, sir, and your lady, sir; your lady is my aunt, sir. Why, what dost thou not know me, friend? why then send somebody hither that does. How long hast thou lived with thy lady, fellow, ha? Foot. A week, sir; longer than anybody in the house, except my lady's woman. Sir Wil. Why then belike thou dost not know thy lady, if thou seest her, ha, friend? Foot. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to her face in a morning, before she is dressed. 'Tis like I may give a shrewd guess at* her by this time. Sir Wil. Well, prithee try what thou canst do; if thou canst not guess, inquire her out, dost hear, fellow? and tell her, her nephew, Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the house. Foot. I shall, sir. Sir Wil. Hold ye, hear me, friend; a word with you in your ear; prithee who are these gallants ? Foot. Really, sir, I can't tell; here come so many here, 'tis hard to know 'em all. [Exit. Sir Wil. Oons, this fellow knows less than a starling; I don't think a' knows his own name. Mrs. Mar. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behindhand in forgetfulness I fancy he has forgot you too. Wit. I hope so the devil take him that remembers first, I say. Sir Wil. Save you, gentlemen and lady! Mrs. Mar. For shame, Mr. Witwoud; why won't you speak to him? And you, sir. Wit. Petulant, speak. Pet. And you, sir. Sir Wil. No offence, I hope. [Salutes MRS. MARWOOD. Mrs. Mar. No, sure, sir. Wit. This is a vile dog, I see that al- ready. No offence! ha! ha! ha! To him; to him, Petulant, smoke him. Pet. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir; hem, hem. [Surveying him round. Sir Wil. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so. Pet. No offence, I hope, sir. II 'it. Smoke the boots, the boots; Petu- lant, the boots: ha! ha! ha! Sir Wil. May be not, sir; thereafter, as 'tis meant, sir. Pet. Sir, I presume upon the information of your boots. Sir Wil. Why, 'tis like you may, sir: if you are not satisfied with the information of my boots, sir, if you will step to the stable, you may inquire further of my horse, sir. Pet. Your horse, sir! your horse is an ass, sir! Sir Wil. Do you speak by way of offence, sir? Mrs. Mar. The gentleman's merry, that's all, sir. [Aside.} S'life, we shall have a quarrel betwixt an horse and an ass before they find one another out. [Aloud.] You must not take anything amiss from your friends, sir. You are among your friends here, though it may be you don't know it. If I am not mistaken, you are Sir Wilfull Witwoud. Sir Wil. Right, lady; I am Sir Wilfull Witwoud, so I write myself; no offence to anybody, I hope; and nephew to the Lady Wishfort of this mansion. Mrs. Mar. Don't you know this gentle- man, sir? Sir Wil. Hum! what, sure 'tis not yea by'r Lady, but 'tis s'heart, I know not whether 'tis or no yea, but 'tis, by the Wrekin. Brother Anthony! what, Tony, i'faith ! what, dost thou not know me ? By'r Lady, nor I thee, thou art so becravated, and so beperiwigged. S'heart, why dost not speak? art thou o'erjoyed? Wit. Odso, brother, is it you? your serv- ant, brother. Sir Wil. Your servant! why yours, sir. Your servant again s'heart, and your friend and servant to that and a (.puff) and a flap-dragon for your service, sir! and a hare's foot and a hare's scut for your serv- ice, sir! an you be so cold and so courtly. Wit. No offence, I hope, brother. Sir Wil. S'heart, sir, but there is, and much offence! A pox, is this your inns o' court breeding, not to know your friends and your relations, your elders and your betters ? 139 ACT III, Sc. I. THE WAY OP THE WORLD Wit. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as short as a Shrewsbury-cake, if you please. But I tell you 'tis not modish to know relations in town: you think you're in the country, where great lubberly broth- ers slabber and kiss one another when they meet, like a call of Serjeants 'tis not the fashion here; 'tis not indeed, dear brother. Sir Wil. The fashion's a fool; and you're a fop, dear brother. S'heart, I've suspected this by'r Lady, I conjectured you were a fop, since you began to change the style of your letters, and write on a scrap of paper gilt round the edges, no bigger than a suh- ptena. I might expect this when you left off, " Honored brother "; and " hoping you are in good health," and so forth to begin with a " Rat me, knight, I'm so sick of a last night's debauch " 'ods heart, and then tell a familiar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore and a bottle, and so conclude. You could write news before you were out of your time, when you lived with honest Pumple Nose the attorney of Furnival's Inn you could entreat to be remembered then to your friends round the Wrekin. We could have gazettes, then, and Dawks's Let- ter, and the Weekly Bill, till of late days. Pet. S'life, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney's clerk? of the family of the Fur- nival s? Ha! ha! ha! Wit. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while: not long, not long. Pshaw! I was not in my own power then; an orphan, and this fellow was my guardian; ay, ay, I was glad to consent to that, man, to come to London: he had the disposal of me then. If I had not agreed to that, I might have been bound 'prentice to a felt-maker in Shrewsbury; this fellow would have bound me to a maker of felts. Sir Wil. S'heart, and better than to be bound to a maker of fops; where, I suppose, you have served your time; and now you may set up for yourself. Mrs. Mar. You intend to travel, sir, as I'm informed. Sir Wil. Belike I may, madam. I may chance to sail upon the salt seas, if my mind hold. Pet. And the wind serve. Sir Wil. Serve or not serve, I shan't ask licence of you, sir; nor the weathercock your companion: I direct my discourse to the lady, sir. Tis like my aunt may have told you, madam yes, I have settled my concerns, I may say now, and am minded to see foreign parts. If an how that the peace holds, whereby that is, taxes abate. Mrs. Mar. I thought you had designed for France at all adventures. Sir Wil. I can't tell that; 'tis like I may, and 'tis like I may not. I am somewhat dainty in making a resolution because when I make it I keep it. I don't stand shill I, shall I, then; if I say't, I'll do't; but I have thoughts to tarry a small matter in town, to learn somewhat of your lingo first, before I cross the seas. I'd gladly have a spice of your French as they say, whereby to hold discourse in foreign countries. Mrs. Mar. Here's an academy in town for that use. Sir Wil. There is? 'Tis like there may. Mrs. Mar. No doubt you will return very much improved. Wit. Yes, refined, like a Dutch skipper from a whale-fishing. Enter LADY WISHFORT and FAINALL. Lady Wish. Nephew, you are welcome. Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. Fain. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful serv- ant. Sir Wil. Cousin Fainall, give me your hand. Lady Wish. Cousin Witwoud, your serv- ant; Mr. Petulant, your servant nephew, you are welcome again. Will you drink any- thing after your journey, nephew; before you eat? dinner's almost ready. Sir Wil. I'm very well, I thank you, aunt however, I thank you for your courteous offer. S'heart I was afraid you would have been in the fashion too, and have remem- bered to have forgot your relations. Here's your cousin Tony, belike, I mayn't call him brother for fear of offence. Lady Wish. Oh, he's a railleur, nephew my cousin's a wit: and your great wits always rally their best friends to choose. When you have been abroad, nephew, you'll understand raillery better. [FAINALL and MRS. MARWOOD talk apart. Sir Wil. Why then let him hold his tongue in the mean time; and rail when that day comes. Enter MINCING. Min. Mem, I am come to acquaint your la'ship that dinner is impatient. Sir Wil. Impatient! why then belike it won't stay till I pull off my boots. Sweet- heart, can you help me to a pair of slippers? My man's with his horses, I warrant. Lady Wish. Fy, fy, nephew! you would not pull off your boots here? Go down into the hall dinner shall stay for you. My nephew's a little unbred, you'll pardon him, madam. Gentlemen, will you walk? Mar- wood? Mrs. Mar. I'll follow you, madam before Sir Wilfull is ready. [Exeunt all but MRS. MARWOOD and FAINALL. Fain. Why then, Foible's a bawd, an er- rant, rank, match-making bawd: and I, it seems, am a husband, a rank husband; and my wife a very errant, rank wife all in the 140 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT IV, Sc. I. way of the world. 'Sdeath, to be a cuckold by anticipation, a cuckold in embryo! sure I was born with budding antlers, like a young satyr, or a citizen's child. .'Sdeath! to be out-witted to be out-jilted out-mat- rimony'd! If I had kept my speed like a stag, 'twere somewhat, but to crawl after, with my horns, like a snail, and be out- stripped by my wife 'tis scurvy wedlock. Mrs. Mar. Then shake it off; you have often wished for an opportunity to part and now you have it. But first prevent their plot the half of Millamant's fortune is too considerable to be parted with, to a foe, to Mirabell. Fain. Damn him! that had been mine had you not made that fond discovery that had been forfeited, had they been married. My wife had added lustre to my horns by that increase of fortune; I could have worn 'em tipped with gold, though my forehead had been furnished like a deputy-lieuten- ant's hall. Mrs. Mar. They may prove a cap of main- tenance to you still, if you can away with your wife. And she's no worse than when you had her I dare swear she had given up her game before she was married. Fain. Hum! that may be. Mrs. Mar. You married her to keep you; and if you can contrive to have her keep you better than you expected, why should you not keep her longer than you intended? Fain. The means, the means. Mrs. Mar. Discover to my lady your wife's conduct; threaten to part with her! my lady loves her, and will come to any composition to save her reputation. Take the opportunity of breaking it, just upon the discovery of this imposture. My lady will be enraged beyond bounds, and sacrifice niece, and fortune, and all, at that con- juncture. And let me alone to keep her warm; if she should flag in her part, I will not fail to prompt her. Fain. Faith, this has an appearance. Mrs. Mar. I'm sorry I hinted to my lady to endeavor a match between Millamant and Sir Wilfull; that may be an obstacle. Fain. Oh, for that matter, leave me to manage him: I'll disable him for that; he will drink like a Dane; after dinner, I'll set his hand in. Mrs. Mar. Well, how do you stand affected towards your lady ? Fain. Why, faith, I'm thinking of it. Let me see I am married already, so that's over: my wife has played the jade with me well, that's over too: I never loved her, or if I had, why that would have been over too by this time: jealous of her I cannot be, for I am certain; so there's an end of jealousy: weary of her I am, and shall be no, there's no end of that no, no, that were too much to hope. Thus far concerning my repose; now for my reputation. As to my own, I married not for it, so that's out of the question; and as to my part in my wife's why, she had parted with hers before; so bringing none to me, she can take none from me; 'tis against all rule of play, that I should lose to one who has not wherewithal to stake. Mrs. Mar. Besides, you forget, marriage is honorable. Fain. Hum, faith, and that's well thought on; marriage is honorable as you say; and if so, wherefore should cuckoldom be a dis- credit, being derived from so honorable a root? Mrs. Mar. Nay, I know not; if the root be honorable, why not the branches ? Fain. So, so, why this point's clear well, how do we proceed ? Mrs. Mar. I will contrive a letter which shall be delivered to my lady at the time when that rascal who is to act Sir Rowland is with her. It shall come as from an un- known hand for the less I appear to know of the truth, the better I can play the incen- diary. Besides, I would not have Foible provoked if I could help it because you know she knows some passages nay, I expect all will come out but let the mine be sprung first, and then I care not if I am discovered. Fain. If the worst come to the worst I'll turn my wife to grass I have already a deed of settlement of the best part of her estate, which I wheedled out of her; and that you shall partake at least. Mrs. Mar. I hope you are convinced that I hate Mirabell now; you'll be no more jealous ? Fain. Jealous! no by this kiss let hus- bands be jealous; but let the lover still be- lieve; or if he doubt, let it be only to endear his pleasure, and prepare the joy that fol- lows, when he proves his mistress true. But let husbands' doubts convert to endless jealousy; or if they have beiief, let it corrupt to superstition and blind credulity. I am single, and will herd no more with 'em. True, I wear the badge, but I'll disown the order. And since I take my leave of 'em, I care not if I leave 'em a common motto to their common crest: All husbands must or pain or shame endure; The wise too jealous are, fools too secure. [Exeunt. ACT IV SCENE I Scene Continues. Enter LADY WISHFORT and FOIBLE. Lady Wish. Is Sir Rowland coming, sayest thou, Foible? And are things in order? 141 ACT IV, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD Foib. Yes, madam, I have put wax lights in the sconces, and placed the footmen in a row in the hall, in their best liveries, with the coachman and postillion to fill up the equipage. Lady Wish. Have you pulvilled the coachman and postillion, that they may not stink of the stable when Sir Rowland comes by? Foib. Yes, madam. Lady Wish. And are the dancers and the music ready, that he may be entertained in all points with correspondence to his passion? Foib. All is ready, madam. Lady Wish. And well and how do I look, Foible? Foib. Most killing well, madam. Lady Wish. Well, and how shall I receive him ? in what figure shall I give his heart the first impression? there is a great deal in the first impression. Shall I sit? no, I won't sit I'll walk ay, I'll walk from the door upon his entrance; and then turn full upon him no, that will be too sudden. I'll lie, ay, I'll lie down I'll receive him in my little dressing-room, there's a couch yes, yes, I'll give the first impression on a couch. I won't lie neither, but loll and lean upon one elbow: with one foot a little dangling; off, jogging in a thoughtful way yes and then as soon as he appears, start, ay, start and be surprised, and rise to meet him in a pretty disorder yes, O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch, in some confu- sion: it shows the foot to advantage, and furnishes with blushes, and recomposing airs beyond comparison. Hark ! there's a coach. Foib. Tis he, madam. Lady Wish. Oh, dear! Has my nephew made his addresses to Millamant? I ordered him. Foib. Sir Wilfull is set in to drinking, madam, in the parlor. Lady Wish. Odds my life, I'll send him to her. Call her down, Foible; bring her hither. I'll send him as I go when they are to- gether, then come to me, Foible, that I may not be too long alone with Sir Rowland. [Ex-it. Enter MRS. MILLAMANT and MRS. FAINALL. Foib. Madam, I stayed here, to tell your ladyship that Mr. Mirabell has waited this half hour for an opportunity to talk with you: though my lady's orders were to leave you and Sir Wilfull together. Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at leisure? Mrs. Mil. No, what would the dear man have? I am thoughtful, and would amuse myself bid him come another time. " There never yet was woman made Nor shall, but to be cursed." [Repeating, and walking about. That's hard! Mrs. Fain. You are very fond of Sir John Suckling to-day, Millamant, and the poets. Mrs. Mil. He? Ay, and filthy verses so I am. Foib. Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away? Mrs. Mil. Ay, if you please, Foible, send him away or send him hither just as you will, dear Foible. I think I'll see him shall 1? Ay, let the wretch come. [Exit FOIBLE. " Thy rsis, a youth of the inspired train." [Repeating. Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull thou hast philosophy to undergo a fool, thou art married and hast patience I would confer with my own thoughts. Mrs. Fain. I am obliged to you, that you would make me your proxy in this affair; but I have business of my own. Enter SIR WILFULL. Mrs. Fain. O Sir Wilfull, you are come at the critical instant. There's your mistress up to the ears in love and contemplation; pursue your point now or never. Sir Wit. Yes; my aunt will have it so I would gladly have been encouraged with a bottle or two, because I'm somewhat wary at first before I am acquainted. [This while MILLAMANT walks about repeating to herself.] But I hope, after a time, I shall break my mind that is, upon further acquaintance so for the present, cousin, I'll take my leave if so be you'll be so kind to make my ex- cuse, I'll return to my company Mrs. Fain. O, fy, Sir Wilfull! What, you must not be daunted. .ViV ll'il. Daunted! no, that's not it, it is not so much for that for if so be that I set on't, I'll do't. But only for the present, 'tis sufficient till further acquaintance, that's all your servant. Mrs. Fain. Nay, I'll swear you shall never lose so favorable an opportunity,' if I can help it. I'll leave you together, and lock the door. [Exit. Sir Wil. Nay, nay, cousin I have forgot my gloves what d'ye do? S'heart, a'has locked the door indeed, I think nay, Cousin Fainall, open the door pshaw, what a vixen trick is this ? Nay, now a'has seen me too. Cousin, I made bold to pass through as it were I think this door's enchanted! Mrs. Mil. [Repeating.] " I prithee spare me, gentle boy. Press me no more for that slight toy." Sir Wil. Anan? Cousin, your servant. Mrs. Mil. [Repeating.] " That foolish trifle of a heart." Sir Wilfull! 142 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT IV, Sc. I. Sir Wil. Yes your servant. No offence, I hope, cousin. Mrs. Mil. [Repeating.] " 1 swear it will not do its part, Though thou dost thine, employes! thy power and art." Natural, easy Suckling! Sir Wil. Anan? Suckling! no such suck- ling neither, cousin, nor stripling: I thank Heaven, I'm no minor. Mrs. Mil. Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic! Sir Wil. Well, well, I shall understand your lingo one of these days, cousin; in the meanwhile I must answer in plain English. Mrs. Mil. Have you any business with me, Sir Wilfull? Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin yes, I make bold to see, to come and know if that how you were disposed to fetch a walk this evening, if so be that I might not be trouble- some, I would have sought a walk with you. Mrs. Mil. A walk! what then? Sir Wil. Nay, nothing only for the walk's sake, that's all. Mrs. Mil. I nauseate walking; 'tis a coun- try diversion; I loathe the country, and everything that relates to it. Sir Wil. Indeed! ha! Look ye, look ye, you do? Nay, 'tis like you may here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like; that must be confessed indeed. Mrs. Mil. Ah, I'etourdi! I hate the town too. Sir Wil. Dear heart, that's much ha ! that you should hate 'em both! Ha! 'tis like you may; there are some can't relish the town, and others can't away with the country 'tis like you may be one of those, cousin. Mrs. Mil. Ha! ha! ha! yes, 'tis like I may. You have nothing further to say to me? Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin. 'Tis like when I have an opportunity to be more private I may break my mind in some measure I conjecture you partly guess however, that's as time shall try but spare to speak and spare to speed, as they say. Mrs. Mil. If it is of no great importance, Sir Wilfull, you will oblige me to leave me; I have just now a little business Sir Wil. Enough, enough, cousin: yes, yes, all a case when you're disposed: now's as well as another time; and another time as well as now. All's one for that yes, yes, if your concerns call you, there's no haste; it will keep cold, as they say. Cousin, your servant I think this door's locked. Mrs. Mil. You may go this way, sir. Sir Wil. Your servant; then with your leave I'll return to my company. Mrs. Mil. Ay, ay; ha! ha! ha! " Like Phoebus sung the no less boy." [Exit. Enter MIRABELL. Mir. " Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy." Do you lock yourself up from me, to make my search more curious? or is this pretty artifice contrived to signify that here the chase must end, and my pursuit be crowned? For you can fly no further. Mrs. Mil. Vanity! no I'll fly, and be fol- lowed to the last moment. Though I am upon the very verge of matrimony, I expect you should solicit me as much as if I were wav- ering at the grate of a monastery, with one foot over the threshold. I'll be solicited to the very last, nay, and afterwards. Mir. What, after the last? Mrs. Mil. Oh, I should think I was poor and had nothing to bestow, if I were reduced to an inglorious ease, and freed from the agreeable fatigues of solicitation. Mir. But do not you know, that when favors are conferred upon instant and tedi- ous solicitation, that they diminish in their value, and that both the giver loses the grace, and the receiver lessens his pleasure? Mrs. Mil. It may be in things of common application; but never sure in love. Oh, I hate a lover that can dare to think he draws a moment's air, independent on the bounty of his mistress. There is not so impudent a thing in nature, as the saucy look of an assured man, confident of success. The pedantic arrogance of a very husband has not so pragmatical an air. Ah! I'll never marry, unless I am first made sure of my will and pleasure. Mir. Would you have 'em both before mar- riage? or will you be contented with the first now, and stay for the other till after grace? Mrs. Mil. Ah! don't be impertinent. My dear liberty, shall I leave thee? my faithful solitude, my darling contemplation, must I bid you then adieu? Ay-h adieu my morn- ing thoughts, agreeable wakings, indolent slumbers, all ye douceurs, ye sommeils du matin, adieu? I can't do't, 'tis more than impossible positively, Mirabell, I'll lie abed in a morning as long as I please. Mir. Then I'll get up in a morning as early as I please. Mrs. Mil. Ah! idle creature, get up when you will and d'ye hear, I won't be called names after I'm married; positively I won't be called names. Mir. Names ! Mrs. Mil. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, love, sweetheart, and the rest of that nauseous cant, in which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar I shall never bear that good Mirabell, don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady Fadler and Sir Francis: nor go to Hyde Park together the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, 143 ACT IV, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD and then never be seen there together again; as if we were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together; but let us be very strange and well-bred: let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while; and as well-bred as if we were not married at all. Mir. Have you any more conditions to offer? Hitherto your demands are pretty reasonable. Mrs. Mil. Trifles! As liberty to pay and receive visits to and from whom I please; to write and receive letters, without interrog- atories or wry faces on your part; to wear what I please; and choose conversation with regard only to my own taste; to have no obligation upon me to converse with wits that I don't like, because they are your ac- quaintance: or to be intimate with fools, because they may be your relations. Come to dinner when I please; dine in my dressing- room when I'm out of humor, without giving a reason. To have my closet inviolate; to be sole empress of my tea-table, which you must never presume to approach without first asking leave. And lastly, wherever I am, you shall always knock at the door before you come in. These articles subscribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into a wife. Mir. Your bill of fare is something ad- vanced in this latter account. Well, have I liberty to offer conditions that when you are dwindled into a wife, I may not be be- yond measure enlarged into a husband? Mrs. Mil. You have free leave; propose your utmost, speak and spare not. Mir. I thank you. Imprimis then, I cove- nant, that your acquaintance be general; that you admit no sworn confidant, or intimate of your own sex; no she-friend to screen her affairs under your countenance, and tempt you to make trial of a mutual secrecy. No decoy-duck to wheedle you a fop-scrambling to the play in a mask then bring you home in a pretended fright, when you think you shall be found out and rail at me for missing the play, and disappointing the frolic which you had to pick me up, and prove my con- stancy. Mrs. Mil. Detestable the play in a mask! imprimis! I go to Mir. Item, I article, that you continue to like your own face, as long as I shall: and while it passes current with me, that you endeavor not to new-coin it. To which end. together with all vizards for the day, I pro- hibit all masks for the night, made of oiled- skins, and I know not what hogs' bones, hares' gall, pig-water, and the marrow of a roasted cat. In' short, I forbid all with the gentlewoman in what-d'ye-call-it xourt. Item, I shut my doors against all bawds with baskets, and pennyworths of muslin, china, fans, atlases, etc. Item, when you shall be breeding Mrs. Mir. Mil. Ah! name it not. Which may be presumed with blessing on our endeavors Mrs. Mil. Odious endeavors ! Mir. I denounce against all strait lacing, squeezing for a shape, till you mould my boy's head like a sugar-loaf, and instead of a man-child, make me father to a crooked billet. Lastly, to the dominion of the tea- table I submit but with proviso, that you exceed not in your province; but restrain yourself to native and simple tea-table drinks, as tea, chocolate, and coffee: as likewise to genuine and authorized tea-table talk such as mending of fashions, spoiling reputations, railing at absent friends, and so forth but that on no account you encroach upon the men's prerogative, and presume to drink healths, or toast fellows; for prevention of which I banish all foreign forces, all auxil- iaries to the tea-table, as orange-brandy, all aniseed, cinnamon, citron, and Barbadoes waters, together with ratafia, and the most noble spirit of clary but for cowslip wine, poppy water, and all dormitives, those I al- low. These provisos admitted, in other things I may prove a tractable and complying husband. Mrs. Mil. O horrid provisos! filthy strong- waters! I toast fellows! odious men! I hate your odious provisos. Mir. Then we are agreed! Shall I kiss your hand upon the contract? And here comes one to be a witness to the sealing of the deed. Enter MRS. FAINALL. Mrs. Mil. Fainall, what shall I do? shall I have him ? I think I must have him. Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, take him, take him, what should you do? Mrs. Mil. Well then-I'll take my death I'm in a horrid fright Fainall, I shall never say it well I think I'll endure you. Mrs. Fain. Fy! fy! have him, have him, and tell him so in plain terms: for I am sure you have a mind to him. Mrs. Mil. Are you? I think I have and the horrid man looks as if he thought so too well, you ridiculous thing you, I'll have you I won't be kissed, nor I won't be thanked here kiss my hand though. So, hold your tongue now, don't say a word. Mrs. Fain. Mirabel!, there's a necessity for your obedience; you have neither time to talk nor stay. My mother is coming; and in my conscience if she should see you, would fall into fits, and maybe not recover gh to return to Sir Rowland, who, as Foible tells me, is in a fair way to suc- ceed. Therefore spare your ecstasies for an- 144 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT IV, Sc. I. other occasion, and slip down the backstairs, where Foible waits to consult you. Mrs. Mil. Ay, go, go. In the meantime I suppose you have said something to please me. Mir. I am all obedience. [Exit. Mrs. Fain. Yonder Sir Wilfull's drunk, and so noisy that my mother has been forced to leave Sir Rowland to appease him; but he answers her only with singing 1 and drinking what they may have done by this time I know not; but Petulant and he were upon quarrelling as I came by. Mrs. Mil. Well, if Mirabell should not make a good husband, I am a lost thing, for I find I love him violently. Mrs. Fain. So it seems; for you mind not what's said to you. If you doubt him, you had best take up with Sir Wilful!. Mrs. Mil. How can you name that super- annuated lubber? fob! . Enter WITWOUD from drinking, Mrs. Fain. So, is the fray made up, that you have left 'em? II' it. Left 'em ? I could stay no longer I have laughed like ten christenings I am tipsy with laughing if I had stayed any longer I should have burst I must have been let out and pieced in the sides like an unsized camlet. Yes, yes, the fray is com- posed; my lady came in like a noli prosequi, and stopped the proceedings. Mrs. Mil. What was the dispute? Wit. That's the jest; there was no dis- pute. They could neither of 'em speak for rage, and so fell a sputtering at one another like two roasting apples. Enter PETULANT, drunk. Wit. Now, Petulant, all's over, all's well. Gad, my head begins to whim it about why dost thou not speak ? thou art both as drunk and as mute as a fish. Pet. Look you, Mrs. Millamant if you can love me, dear nymph say it and that's the conclusion pass on, or pass off that's all. Wit. Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in less than decimo sexto, my dear Lacedemo- nian. Sirrah, Petulant, thou art an epit- omizer of words. Pet. Witwoud you are an annihilator of sense. Wit. Thou art a retailer of phrases; and dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a maker of pincushions thou art in truth (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of shorthand. / ' '. Thou art (without a figure) just one- half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy half-brother, is the rest. A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you. 145 ll'it. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard seed; kiss me for that. Pet. Stand off! I'll kiss no more males I have kissed your twin yonder in a humor of reconciliation, till he [Hiccups] rises upon my stomach like a radish. Mrs. Mil. Eh! filthy creature! what was the quarrel? Pet. There was no quarrel there might have been a quarrel. ll'it. If there had been words enow be- tween 'em to have expressed provocation, they had gone together by the ears like a pair of castanets. Pet. You were the quarrel. Mrs. Mil. .Me! /V/. If I have a humor to quarrel, I can make less matters conclude premises. If you are not handsome, what then, if I have a humor to prove it ? If I shall have my re- ward, say so; if not, fight for your face the next time yourself I'll go sleep. ll'it. Do, wrap thyself up like a wood- louse, and dream revenge and hear me, if thou canst learn to write by to-morrow morning, pen me a challenge. I'll carry it for thee. Pet. Carry your mistress's monkey a spider! Go flea dogs, and read romances! I'll go to bed to my maid. [Exit. Mrs. Fain. He's horridly drunk. How came you all in this pickle? ll'it. A plot! a plot! to get rid of the night your husband's advice; but he sneaked off. Enter SIR WILFULL drunk, LADY WISHFORT. Lady Wish. Out upon't, out upon't! At years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate! Sir Wil. No offence, aunt. Lady Wish. Offence! as I'm a person, I'm ashamed of you foh ! how you stink of wine !_ D'ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio! you're an absolute Borachio. Sir Wil. Borachio? Lady Wish. At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremost Sir Wit. S'heart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a bill give me more drink, and take my purse. [Sings. " Prithee fill me the glass, Till it laugh in my face, With ale that is potent and mellow; He that whines for a lass, Is an ignorant ass, For a bumper has not its fellow." But if you would have me marry my cousin say the word, and I'll do't Wilfull will do't, that's the word Willfull will do't, that's my crest my motto I have forgot. ACT IV, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD Lady Wish. My nephew's a little over- taken, cousin but 'tis with drinking your health. O' my word you are obliged to him. Sir ll'il. In vino veritas, aunt. If I drunk your health to-day, cousin I am a Borachio. But if you have a mind to be married, say the word, and send for the piper; Wilfull will do't. If not, dust it away, and let's have t'other round. Tony ! Odds heart, where's Tony! Tony's an honest fellow; but he spits after a bumper, and that's a fault. [Sings. " We'll drink, and we'll never ha' done, boys, Put the glass then around with the sun, boys, Let Apollo's example invite us; For he's drunk every night, And that makes him so bright, That he's able next morning to light us." The sun's a good pimple, an honest soaker; he has a cellar at your Antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your Antipodes. Your Antipodes are a good, rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows: if I had a bumper, I'd stand upon my head and drink a health to 'em. A match or no match, cousin with the hard name? Aunt, Wilfull will do't. If she has her maidenhead, let her look to't; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine months' end. Mrs. Mil. Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh! how he smells! I shall be overcome, if I stay. Come, cousin. [Exeunt MRS. MILLAMANT and MRS. FAIN- ALL. Lady Wish. Smells! He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family ! Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him! Travel, quotha! ay, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks ! for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan ! Sir Wil. Turks, no; no Turks, aunt: your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Mahometan, your Mussulman, is a dry stinkard no offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian. I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodox whereby it is a plain case, that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and [Hiccups] Greek for claret. [Sings. " To drink is a Christian diversion, Unknown to the Turk or the Persian: Let Mahometan fools Live by heathenish rules, And be damned over tea-cups and coffee. But let British lads sing, Crown a health to the king, And a fig for your sultan and sophy ! " Ah, Tony! Enter FOIBLE, who whispers to LADY WISHFORT. Lady Wish. [Aside to FOIBLE.] Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril? [Aloud.] Go lie down and sleep, you sot! or, as I'm a person, I'll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks. Call up the wenches with broomsticks. Sir Wil. Ahey! wenches, where are the wenches ? Lady Wish. Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you in- violably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with some precipitation you will oblige me to all futurity. Wit. Come, knight. Pox on him, I don't know what to say to him. Will you go to a cock-match ? Sir Wil. With a wench, Tony! Is she a shakebag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that. Wit. Horrible! he has a breath like a bag- pipe! Ay, ay; come, will you march, my Salopian ? Sir Wil. Lead on, little Tony I'll follow thee, my Anthony, my Tantony, sirrah, thou shalt be my Tantony, and I'll be thy pig. " And a fig for your sultan and sophy." [Exeunt SIR WILFULL and WITWOUD. Lady Wish. This will never do. It will never make a match at least before he has been abroad. Enter WAITWELL, disguised as SIR ROWLAND. Lady Wish. Dear Sir Rowland, I am con- founded with confusion at the retrospection of my own rudeness! I have more pardons to ask than the pope distributes in the year of jubilee. But I hope, where there is likely to be so near an alliance, we may unbend the severity of decorums, and dispense with a little ceremony. Wait. My impatience, madam, is the effect of my transport; and till I have the posses- sion of your adorable person, I am tantalized on the rack; and do but hang, madam, on the tenter of expectation. Lady Wish. You have excess of gallantry, Sir Rowland, and press things to a conclusion with a most prevailing vehemence. But a day or two for decency of marriage Wait. For decency of funeral, madam! The delay will break my heart or, if that should fail, I shall be poisoned. My nephew will get an inkling of my designs, and poison me and I would willingly starve him before I die I would gladly go out of the world with that satisfaction. That would be some comfort to me, if I could but live so long as to be revenged on that unnatural viper! Lady Wish. Is he so unnatural, say you? Truly I would contribute much both to the saving of your life, and the accomplishment 146 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT IV, Sc. I. of your revenge. Not that I respect myself, though he has been a perfidious wretch to me. Wait. Perfidious to you! Lady Wish. O Sir Rowland, the hours that he has died away at my feet, the tears that he has shed, the oaths that he has sworn, the palpitations that he has felt, the trances and the tremblings, the ardors and the ecstasies, the kneelings and the risings, the heart-heavings and the handgripings, the pangs and the pathetic regards of his pro- testing eyes! Oh, no memory can register! Wait. What, my rival! is the rebel my rival? a' dies. Lady Wish. No, don't kill him at once, Sir Rowland, starve him gradually, inch by inch. Wait. I'll do't. In three weeks he shall be barefoot; in a month out at knees with begging an alms. He shall starve upward and upward, till he has nothing living but his head, and then go out in a stink like a candle's end upon a save-all. Lady Wish. Well, Sir Rowland, you have the way you are no novice in the labyrinth of love you have the clue. But as I am a person, Sir Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to any sinister appetite, or in- digestion of widowhood; nor impute my complacency to any lethargy of continence I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials Wait. Far be it from me Lady Wish. If you do, I protest I must recede or think that I have made a prostitu- tion of decorums; but in the vehemence of compassion, and to save the life of a person of so much importance Wait. I esteem it so. Lady Wish. Or else you wrong my con- descension. II', at. I do not, I do not! Lady Wish. Indeed you do. Wait. I do not, fair shrine of virtue! Lady Wish. If you think the least scruple of carnality was an ingredient, Wait. Dear madam, no. You are all cam- phor and frankincense, all chastity and odor. Lady Wish. Or that Enter FOIBLE. Foib. Madam, the dancers are ready; and there's one with a letter, who must deliver it into your own hands. Lady Wish. Sir Rowland, will you give me leave? Think favorably, judge candidly, and conclude you have found a person who would suffer racks in honor's cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait on you inces- santly. [Exit. Wait. Fy, fy What a slavery have I undergone ! Spouse, hast thou any cordial ? I want spirits. Foib. What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus for a quarter of an hour's lying and swearing to a fine lady! Wait. Oh, she is the antidote to desire! Spouse, thou wilt fare the worse for't I shall have no appetite to iteration of nuptials this eight-and-forty hours. By this hand I'd rather be a chairman in the dog-days than act Sir Rowland till this time to-morrow! Enter LADY WISHFORT, with a letter. Lady Wish. Call in the dancers. Sir Row- land, we'll sit, if you please, and see the en- tertainment. [Dance.} Now, with your per- mission, Sir Rowland, I will peruse my letter. I would open it in your presence, because I would not make you uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, I would burn it. Speak, if it does but you may see the superscription is like a woman's hand. Foib. By Heaven ! Mrs. Marwood's, I know it. My heart aches get it from her. [To him. Wait. A woman's hand! no, madam, that's no woman's hand, I see that already. That's somebody whose throat must be cut. Lady Wish. Nay, Sir Rowland, since you give me a proof of your passion by your jealousy, I promise you I'll make a return, by a frank communication. You shall see it we'll open it together look you here. [Reads.} " Madam, though unknown to you " Look you there, 'tis from nobody that I know " I have that honor for your char- acter, that I think myself obliged to let you know you are abused. He who pretends to be Sir Rowland, is a cheat and a rascal." Oh, Heavens ! what's this ? Foib. [Aside.} Unfortunate! all's ruined! Wait. How, how, let me see, let me see! [Reading.} " A rascal, and disguised and suborned for that imposture," O villainy ! O villainy ! " by the contrivance of " Lady Wish. I shall faint, I shall die, oh! Foib. Say 'tis your nephew's hand quickly, his plot, swear, swear it! [To him. Wait. Here's a villain! Madam, don't you perceive it, don't you see it? Lady Wish. Too well, too well! I have seen too much. Wait. I told you at first I knew the hand. A woman's hand! The rascal writes a sort of a large hand; your Roman hand I saw there was a throat to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is my nephew, I'd pis- tol him! Foib. O treachery ! But are you sure, Sir Rowland, it is his writing? Wait. Sure! am I here? Do I live? Do I love this pearl of India? I have twenty letters in my pocket from him in the same character. Lady Wish. How! Foib. Oh, what luck it is, Sir Rowland, that you were present at this juncture! This 147 ACT V, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD was the business that brought Mr. Mirabel! disguised to Madam Millamant this after- noon. I thought something was contriving, when he stole by me and would have hid his face. Lady U'ish. How, how! I heard the vil- lain was in the house indeed; and now I remember, my niece went away abruptly, when Sir Wilfull was to have made his ad- dresses. Foib. Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell waited for her in her chamber! but I would not tell your ladyship to discompose you when you were to receive Sir Rowland. ll'i.'i'r. Enough, his date is short. Foib. No, good Sir Rowland, don't incur the law. Wait. Law! I care not for law. I can but die, and 'tis in a good cause. My lady shall be satisfied of my truth and innocence, though it cost me my life. Lady Wish. No, dear Sir Rowland, don't fight; if you should be killed I must never show my face; or hanged O, consider my reputation, Sir Rowland! No, you shan't fight I'll go in and examine my niece; I'll make her confess. I conjure you, Sir Row- land, by all your love, not to fight. Wait. I am charmed, madam, I obey. But some proof you must let me give you; I'll go for a black box, which contains the writ- ings of my whole estate, and deliver that into your hands. Lady Wish. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that will be some comfort, bring the black box. Wait. And may I presume to bring a contract to be signed this night? may I hope so far? Lady Wish. Bring what you will; but come alive, pray come alive. Oh, this is a happy discovery! Wait. Dead or alive I'll come and mar- ried we will be in spite of treachery; ay, and get an heir that shall defeat the last re- maining glimpse of hope in my abandoned nephew. Come, my buxom widow: Ere long you shall substantial proofs re- ceive, That I'm an arrant knight Foib. [Aside.] Or arrant knave. [Exeunt. ACT V SCENE I Scene Continues. LADY WISHFORT and FOIBLE. Lady Wish. Out of my house, out of my hduse, thou viper! thou serpent, that I have fostered! thou bosom traitress, that I raised from nothing ! Begone ! begone! begone! go! go! That I took from washing of old gauze and weaving of dead hair, with a bleak blue nose over a chafing-dish of starved embers, and dining behind a traverse rag, in a shop no bigger than a bird-cage! Go, go! starve again, do, do ! Foib. Dear madam, I'll beg pardon on my knees. Lady Wish. Away! out! out! Go, set up for yourself again! Do, drive a trade, do, with your three-pennyworth of small ware, flaunting upon a packthread, under a brandy- seller's bulk, or against a dead wall by a ballad-monger! Go, hang out an old Frisoneer gorget, with a yard of yellow col- bertine again! Do; an old gnawed mask, two rows of pins, and a child's fiddle; a glass necklace with the beads broken, and a quilted night-cap with one ear! Go, go, drive a trade! These were your commodities, you treacherous trull! this was the merchandise you dealt in when I took you into my house, placed you next myself, and made you gov- ernante of my whole family ! You have forgot this, have you, now you have feathered your nest? Foib. No, no, dear madam. Do but hear me, have but a moment's patience, I'll confess all. Mr. Mirabell seduced me; I am not the first that he has wheedled with his dis- sembling tongue; your ladyship's own wis- dom has been deluded by him; then how should I, a poor ignorant, defend myself? O madam, if you knew but what he promised me, and how he assured me your ladyship should come to no damage! Or else the wealth of the Indies should not have bribed me to conspire against so good, so sweet, so kind a lady as you have been to me. Lady Wish. No damage! What, to betray me, to marry me to a cast servingman! to make me a receptacle, an hospital for a de- cayed pimp ! No damage ! O thou frontless impudence, more than a big-bellied actress ! Foib. Pray, do but hear me, madam; he could not marry your ladyship, madam. No, indeed, his marriage was to have been void in law, for he was married to me first, to secure your ladyship. He could not have bedded your ladyship; for if he had consum- mated with your ladyship, he must have run the risk of the law, and been put upon his clergy. Yes, indeed, I inquired of the law in that case before I would meddle or make. Lady Wish. What, then, I have been your property, have I? I have been conven- ient to you, it seems! While you were catering for Mirabell, I have been broker for you! What, have you made a passive bawd of me? This exceeds all precedent; I am brought to fine uses, to become a botcher of second-hand marriages between Abigails and Andrews ! I'll couple you ! Yes, I'll baste you together, you and your Philander! I'll 148 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT V, Sc. I. Duke's-place you, as I'm a person ! Your turtle is in custody already: you shall coo in the same cage, if there be a constable or warrant in the parish. {Exit. Foib. Oh, that ever I was born! Oh, that I was ever married ! A bride ! ay, I shall be a Bridewell-bride. Oh! Enter MRS. FAINALL. Mrs. Fain. Poor Foible, what's the mat- ter? Foib. O madam, my lady's gone for a con- stable. I shall be had to a justice, and put to Bridewell to beat hemp. Poor WaitwelPs gone to prison already. Mrs. Fain. Have a good heart, Foible; Mirabell's gone to give security for him. This is all Marwood's and my husband's doing. Foib. Yes, yes; I know it, madam: she was in my lady's closet, and overheard all that you said to me before dinner. She sent the letter to my lady; and that missing ef- fect, Mr. Fainall laid this plot to arrest Waitwell, when he pretended to go for the papers; and in the meantime Mrs. Marwood declared all to my lady. Mrs. Fain. Was there no mention made of me in the letter? My mother does not sus- pect my being in the confederacy ? I fancy Marwood has not told her, though she has told my husband. Foib. Yes, madam; but my lady did not ee that part; we stifled the letter before she read so far. Has that mischievous devil told Mr. Fainall of your ladyship, then? Mrs. Fain. Ay, all's out my affair with Mirabell everything discovered. This is the last day of our living together, that's my comfort. Foib. Indeed, madam; and so 'tis a com- fort if you knew all; he has been even with your ladyship, which I could have told you long enough since, but I love to keep peace and quietness by my goodwill. I had rather bring friends together, than set 'em at dis- tance: but Mrs. Marwood and he are nearer related than ever their parents thought for. Mrs. Fain. Sayest thou so, Foible? Canst thou prove this? Foib. I can take my oath of it, madam; so can Mrs. Mincing. We have had many a fair word from Madam Marwood, to conceal something that passed in our chamber one evening when you were at Hyde Park; and we were thought to have gone a-walking, but we went up unawares; though we were sworn to secrecy, too. Madam Marwood took a book and swore us upon it, but it was but a book of poems. So long as it was not a bible-oath, we may break it with a safe conscience. Mrs. Fain. This discovery is the most opportune thing I could wish. Now, Minc- ing! Enter MINCING. Min. My lady would speak with Mrs. Foible, mem. Mr. Mirabell is with her; he has set your spouse at liberty, Mrs. Foible, and would have you hide yourself in my lady's closet till my old lady's anger is abated. Oh, my old lady is in a perilous passion at something Mr. Fainall has said; he swears, and my old lady cries. There's a fearful hurricane, I vow. He says, mem, how that he'll have my lady's fortune made over to him, or he'll be divorced. Mrs. Fain. Does your lady or Mirabell know that? Min. Yes, mem; they have sent me to see if Sir Wilfull be sober, and to bring him to them. My lady is resolved to have him, I think, rather than lose such a vast sum as six thousand pounds. Oh, come, Mrs. Foible, I hear my old lady. Mrs. Fain. Foible, you must tell Mincing that she must prepare to vouch when I call her. Foib. Yes, yes, madam. Min. Oh, yes, mem, I'll vouch anything for your ladyship's service, be what it will. [.Exeunt MINCING and FOIBLE. Enter LADY WISHFORT, and MRS. MARWOOD. Lady Wish. Oh, my dear friend, how can I enumerate the benefits that I have re- ceived from your goodness ! To you I owe the timely discovery of the false vows of Mirabell; to you I owe the detection of the impostor Sir Rowland. And now you are be- come an intercessor with my son-in-law, to save the honor of my house, and compound for the frailities of my daughter. Well, friend, you are enough to reconcile me to the bad world, or else I would retire to deserts and solitudes, and feed harmless sheep by groves and purling streams. Dear Marwood, let us leave the world, and retire by ourselves and be shepherdesses. Mrs. Mar. Let us first dispatch the affair in hand, madam. We shall have leisure to think of retirement afterwards. Here is one who is concerned in the treaty. Lady Wish. Oh, daughter, daughter! is it possible thou shouldst be my child, bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, and, as I may say, another me, and yet transgress the most minute particle of severe virtue? Is it pos- sible you should lean aside to iniquity, who have been cast in the direct mould of virtue? I have not only been a mould but a pattern for you, and a model for you, after you were brought into the world. Mrs. Fain. I don't understand your lady- ship. Lady Wish. Not understand! Why, have 149 ACT V, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD you not been naught? have you not been sophisticated ? Not understand ! here I am ruined to compound for your caprices and your cuckoldoms. I must pawn my plate and my jewels, and ruin my niece, and all little enough Mrs. Fain. I am wronged and abused, and so are you. 'Tis a false accusation, as false as hell, as false as your friend there, ay, or your friend's friend, my false husband. Mrs. 'Mar. My friend, Mrs. Fainall ! your husband my friend ! what do you mean ? Mrs. Fain. I know what I mean, madam, and so do you; and so shall the world at a time convenient. Mrs. Mar. I am sorry to see you so pas- sionate, madam. More temper would look more like innocence. But I have done. I am sorry my zeal to serve your ladyship and family should admit of misconstruction, or make me liable to affronts. You will pardon me, madam, if I meddle no more with an affair in which I am not personally concerned. Lady Wish. O dear friend, I am so ashamed that you should meet with such returns! [To MRS. FAINALL.] You ought to ask pardon on your knees, ungrateful crea- ture! she deserves more from you than all your life can accomplish. [To MRS. MAR- WOOD.] Oh, don't leave me destitute in this perplexity ! no, stick to me, my good genius. Mrs. Fain. I tell you, abused. Stick to you ! ay, madam, you're like a leech, to suck your best blood she'll drop off when she's full. Madam, you shan't pawn a bodkin, nor part with a brass counter, in composition for me. I defy 'em all. Let 'em prove their aspersions; I know my own innocence, and dare stand a trial. [Exit. Lady Wish. Why, if she should be inno- cent, if she should be wronged after all, ha? I don't know what to think; and I promise you her education has been unexceptionable I may say it; for I chiefly made it my own care to initiate her very infancy in the rudiments of virtue, and to impress upon her tender years a young odium and aversion to the very sight of men: ay, friend, she would ha' shrieked if she had but seen a man, till she was in her teens. As I'm a person 'tis true; she was never suffered to play with a male child, though but in coats; nay, her very babies were of the feminine gender. Oh, she never looked a man in the face but her own father, or the chaplain, and him we made a shift to put upon her for a woman, by the help of his long garments, and his sleek face, till she was going in her fifteen. Mrs. Mar. 'Twas much she should be de- ceived so long. Lady Wish. I warrant you, or she would never have borne to have been catechized by him; and have heard his long lectures against singing and dancing, and such de- baucheries; and going to filthy plays, and profane music-meetings, where the lewd trebles squeak nothing but bawdy, and the basses roar blasphemy. Oh, she would have swooned at the sight or name of an obscene play-book ! and can I think, after all this, that my daughter can be naught? What, a whore? and thought it excommunication to set her foot within the door of a playhouse! O dear friend, I can't believe it, no, no! As she says, let him prove it, let him prove it. Mrs. Mar. Prove it, madam! What, and have your name prostituted in a public court! Yours and your daughter's reputa- tion worried at the bar by a pack of bawling lawyers! To be ushered in with an O yes of scandal; and have your case opened by an old fumbling lecher in a quoif like a man- midwife; to bring your daughter's infamy to light; to be a theme for legal punsters and quibblers by the statute; and become a jest against a rule of court, where there is no precedent for a jest in any record not even in doomsday-book; to discompose the gravity of the bench, and provoke naughty interrog- atories in more naughty law Latin; while the good judge, tickled with the proceed- ing, simpers under a grey beard, and fidgets off and on his cushion as if he had swal- lowed cantharides, or sat upon cow-itch ! Lady Wish. Mrs. Mar. Oh, 'tis very hard! And then to have my young revellers of the Temple take notes, like 'pren- tices at a conventicle; and after talk it over again in commons, or before drawers in an eating-house. Lady Wish. Worse and worse! Mrs. Mar. Nay, this is nothing; if it would end here 'twere well. But it must, after this, be consigned by the shorthand writers to the public press; and from thence be transferred to the hands, nay into the throats and lungs of hawkers, with voices more licentious than the loud flounder-man's: and this you must hear till you are stunned; nay, you must hear nothing else for some days. Lady Wish. Oh, 'tis insupportable! No, no, dear friend, make it up, make it up; ay> ay, I'll compound. I'll give up all, my- self and my all, my niece and her all anything, everything for composition. Mrs. Mar. Nay, madam, I advise noth- ing, I only lay before you, as a friend, the inconveniences which perhaps you have over- seen. Here comes Mr. Fainall; if he will be satisfied to huddle up all in silence, I shall be glad. You must think I would rather congratulate than condole with you. Enter FAINALL. Lady Wish. Ay, ay, I do not doubt it, dear Mar wood; no, no, I do not doubt it. 150 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT V, Sc. I. Fain. Well, madam; I have suffered my- self to be overcome by the importunity of this lady your friend; and am content you shall enjoy your own proper estate during life, on condition you oblige yourself never to marry, under such penalty as I think convenient. Lady Wish. Never to marry! Fain. No more Sir Rowlands; the next imposture may not be so timely detected. Mrs. Mar. That condition, I dare answer, my lady will consent to without difficulty; she has already but too much experienced the perfidiousncss of men. Besides, madam, when we retire to our pastoral solitude we shall bid adieu to all other thoughts. Lady Wish. Ay, that's true; but in case of necessity, as of health, or some such emergency Fain. Oh, if you are prescribed marriage, you shall be considered; I will only reserve to myself the power to choose for you. If your physic be wholesome, it matters not who is your apothecary. Next, my wife shall settle on me the remainder of her fortune, not made over already; and for her entirely on my dis- maintenance depend cretion. Lady Wish. This is most inhumanly sav- age; exceeding the barbarity of a Muscovite husband. Fain. I learned it from his Czarish maj- esty's retinue, in a winter evening's con- ference over brandy and pepper, amongst other secrets of matrimony and policy, as they are at present practised in the north- ern hemisphere. But this must be agreed unto, and that positively. Lastly, I will be endowed, in right of my wife, with six thousand pounds, which is the moiety of Mrs. Millamant's fortune in your possession; and which she has forfeited (as will appear by the last will and testament of your de- ceased husband, Sir Jonathan Wishfort) by her disobedience in contracting herself against your consent or knowledge; and by refusing the offered match with Sir Wilfull Witwoud, which you, like a careful aunt, had provided for her. Lady Wish. My nephew was non compos, and could not make his addresses. Fain. I come to make demands I'll hear no objections. Lady Wish. consider? You will grant me time to Fain. Yes, while the instrument is draw- ing, to which you must set your hand till more sufficient deeds can be perfected: which shall be done with all pos- In the meanwhile I will go for I will take sible speed, the said instrument, and till my return you may balance this matter in your own dis- cretion. [Exit. Lady Wish. This insolence is beyond all precedent, all parallel: must I be subject to this merciless villain ? Mrs. Mar. 'Tis severe indeed, madam, that you should smart for your daughter's wan- tonness. Lady Wish. 'Twas against my consent that she married this barbarian, but she would have him, though her year was not out. Ah ! her first husband, my son Lan- guish, would not have carried it thus. Well, that was my choice, this is hers: she is matched now with a witness. I shall be mad ! Dear friend, is there no comfort for me? must I live to be confiscated at this rebel-rate? Here come two more of my Egyptian plagues too. Enter MRS. MILLAMANT and WITWOUD. SIR WILFULL Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. Lady Wish. Out, caterpillar, call not me aunt! I know thee not! Sir Wil. I confess I have been a little in disguise, as. they say. S'heart! and I'm sorry for't. What would you have? I hope I have committed no offence, aunt and if I did I am willing to make satisfaction; and what can a man say fairer? If I have broke anything I'll pay for't, an it cost a pound. And so let that content for what's past, and make no more words. For what's to come, to pleasure you I'm willing to marry my cousin. So pray let's all be friends; she and I are agreed upon the matter before a witness. Lady Wish. How's this, dear niece? Have I any comfort? Can this be true? Mrs. Mil. I am content to be a sacrifice to your repose, madam; and to convince you that I had no hand in the plot, as you were misinformed, I have laid my commands on Mirabel! to come in person, and be a wit- ness that I give my hand to this flower of knighthood: and for the contract that passed between Mirabell and me, I have obliged him to make a resignation of it in your lady- ship's presence; he is without, and waits your leave for admittance. Lady Wish. Well, I'll swear I am some- thing revived at this testimony of your obedience: but I cannot admit that traitor. I fear I cannot fortify myself to support his appearance. He is as terrible to me as a gorgon; if I see him I fear I shall turn to stone, and petrify incessantly. Mrs. Mil. If you disoblige him, he may resent your refusal, and insist upon the con- tract still. Then 'tis the last time he will be offensive to you. Lady Wish. Are you sure it will be the last time ? If I were sure of that shall I never see him again? Mrs. Mil. Sir Wilfull, you and he are to travel together, are you not? 151 ACT V, Sc. I. THE WAY OF THE WORLD Sir ll'il. S'heart, the gentleman's a civil gentleman, aunt, let him come in; why, we are sworn brothers and fellow-travellers. We are to be Pylades and Orestes, he and I. He is to be my interpreter in foreign parts. He has been over-seas once already; and with proviso that I marry my cousin, will cross 'em once again, only to bear me com- pany. S'heart, I'll call him in, an I set on't once, he shall come in; and see who'll hinder him. [Goes to the door and hems. Mrs. Mar. This is precious fooling, if it would pass; but I'll know the bottom of it. Lady ll'isli. O dear Marwood, you are not going? Mrs. Mar. Not far, madam; I'll return immediately. [Exit. Enter MIRABELL. Sir ll'il. Look up, man, I'll stand by you; 'sbud an she do frown, she can't kill you; besides harkee, she dare not frown des- perately, because her face is none of her own. S'heart, an she should, her forehead would wrinkle like the coat of a cream-cheese; but mum for that, fellow-traveller. Mir. If a deep sense of the many injuries I have offered to so good a lady, with a sincere remorse, and a hearty contrition, can but obtain the least glance of compassion, I am too happy. Ah, madam, there was a time! but let it be forgotten I confess I have deservedly forfeited the high place I once held of sighing at your feet. Nay, kill me not, by turning from me in disdain. I come not to plead for favor; nay, not for pardon; I am a suppliant only for pity I am going where I never shall behold you How, fellow-traveller! you shall more Sir Wil. go by yourself then. Mir. Let me be pitied first, and after- wards forgotten. I ask no more. Sir Wil. By'r Lady, a very reasonable re- quest, and will cost you nothing, aunt! Come, come, forgive and forget, aunt. Why, you must, an you are a Christian. Mir. Consider, madam, in reality, you could not receive much prejudice; it was an innocent device; though I confess it had a face of guiltiness, it was at most an artifice which love contrived; and errors which love produces have ever been accounted venial. At least think it is punishment enough, that I have lost what in my heart I hold most dear, that to your cruel indignation I have offered up this beauty, and with her my peace and quiet; nay, all my hopes of future comfort. Sir Wil. An he does not move me, would I may never be o' the quorum! an it were not as good a deed as to drink, to give her to him again, I would I might never take ship- ping! Aunt, if you don't forgive quickly, I shall melt, I can tell you that. My contract went no farther than a little mouth glue, and that's hardly dry; one doleful sigh more from my fellow-traveller, and 'tis dissolved. Lady Wish. Well, nephew, upon your ac- count Ah, he has a false insinuating tongue! Well sir, I will stifle my just resentment at my nephew's request. I will endeavor what I can to forget, but on proviso that you resign the contract with my niece im- mediately. Mir. It is in writing, and with papers of concern; but I have sent my servant for it, and will deliver it to you, with all acknowl- edgments for your transcendent goodness. Lady Wish. [Aside. "\ Oh, he has witchcraft in his eyes and tongue! When I did not see him, I could have bribed a villain to his assassination; but his appearance rakes the embers which have so long lain smothered in my breast. Enter FAINALL and MRS. MARWOOD. Fain. Your date of deliberation, madam, is expired. Here is the instrument; are you prepared to sign? Lady Wish. If I were prepared, I am not impowered. My niece exerts a lawful claim, having matched herself by my direction to Sir Wilfull. Fain. That sham is too gross to pass on me though 'tis imposed on you, madam. Mrs. Mil. Sir, I have given my consent. Mir. And, sir, I have resigned my pre- tensions. Sir Wil. And, sir, I assert my right: and will maintain it in defiance of you, sir, and of your instrument. S'heart, an you talk of an instrument, sir, I have an old fox by my thigh that shall hack your instrument of ram vellum to shreds, sir! It shall not be sufficient for a mittimus or a tailor's measure. Therefore withdraw your instru- ment, sir, or by'r Lady, I shall draw mine. Lady Wish. Hold, nephew, hold! Mrs. Mil. Good Sir Wilfull, respite your valor. Fain. Indeed! Are you provided of your guard, with your single beef-eater there? but I'm prepared for you, and insist upon my first proposal. You shall submit your own estate to my management, and absolutely make over my wife's to my sole use, as pur- suant to the purport and tenor of this other covenant. I suppose, madam, your consent is not requisite in this case; nor, Mr. Mira- bell, your resignation; nor, Sir Wilfull, your right. You may draw your fox if you please, sir, and make a bear-garden flourish some- where else: for here it will not avail. This, my Lady Wishfort, must be subscribed, or your darling daughter's turned adrift, like a 152 THE WAY OF THE WORLD ACT V, Sc. I. leaky hulk, to sink or swim, as she and the current of this lewd town can agree. Lady Wish. Is there no means, no remedy to stop my ruin ? Ungrateful wretch ! dost thou not owe thy being, thy subsistence, to my daughter's fortune ? Fain. I'll answer you when I have the rest of it in my possession. Mir. But that you would not accept of a remedy from my hands I own I have not deserved you should owe any obligation to me; or else perhaps I could advise Lady Wish. O, what? what? To save me and my child from ruin, from want, I'll for- give all that's past; nay, I'll consent to any- thing to come, to be delivered from this tyranny. Mir. Ay, madam; but that is too late, my reward is intercepted. You have disposed of her who only could have made me a com- pensation for all my services; but be it as it may, I am resolved I'll serve you ! you shall not be wronged in this savage manner. Lady Wish. How! dear Mr. Mirabell, can you be so generous at last ! But it is not possible. Harkee, I'll break my nephew's match; you shall have my niece yet, and all her fortune, if you can but save me from this imminent danger. Mir. Will you? I'll take you at your word. I ask no more. I must have leave for two criminals to appear. Lady Wish. Ay, ay, anybody, anybody ! Mir. Foible is one, and a penitent. Enter MRS. FAINALL, FOIBLE, and MINCING. Mrs. Mar. Oh, my shame! [MIRABELL and LADY WISHFORT go to MRS. FAINALL and FOIBLE.] These corrupt things are brought hither to expose me. Fain. If it must all [To FAINALL. come out, why let . , 'em know it; 'tis but the way of the world. That shall not urge me to relinquish or abate one tittle of my terms; no, I will insist the more. Foib. Yes, indeed, madam, I'll take my bible-oath of it. Min. And so will I, mem. Lady Wish. O Marwood, Marwood, art thou false ? my friend deceive me ! hast thou been a wicked accomplice with that profligate man? Mrs. Mar. Have you so much ingratitude and injustice to give credit against your friend, to the aspersions of two such mer- cenary trulls ? Min. Mercenary, mem ? I scorn your words. 'Tis true we found you and Mr. Fain- all in the blue garret; by the same token, you swore us to secrecy upon Messalina's poems. Mercenary! No, if we would have been mercenary, we should have held our tongues; you would have bribed us suffi- ciently. Fain. Go, you are an insignificant thing! Well, what are you the better for this; is this Mr. Mirabell's expedient? I'll be put off no longer. You thing, that was a wife, shall smart for this! I will not leave thee wherewithal to hide thy shame; your body shall be naked as your reputation. Mrs. Fain. I despise you, and defy your malice! you have aspersed me wrongfully I have proved your falsehood go you and your treacherous I will not name it, but starve together perish ! Fain. Not while you are worth a groat, indeed, my dear. Madam, I'll be fooled no longer. Lady Wish. Ah, Mr. Mirabell, this is small comfort, the detection of this affair. Mir. Oh, in good time your leave for the other offender and penitent to appear, madam. Enter WAITWELL with a box of writings. Lady Wish. O Sir Rowland ! Well, rascal! Wait. What your ladyship pleases. I have brought the black box at last, madam. Mir. Give it me. Madam, you remember your promise. Lady Wish. Ay, dear sir. Mir. Where are the gentlemen? Wait. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes just risen from sleep. Fain. 'Sdeath, what's this to me? I'll not wait your private concerns. Enter PETULANT and WITWOUD. Pet. How now? What's the matter? Whose hand's out? Wit. Heyday! what, are you all got to- gether, like players at the end of the last act? Mir. You may remember, gentlemen, I once requested your hands as witnesses to a certain parchment. Wit. Ay, I do, my hand I remember Petulant set his mark. Mir. You wrong him, his name is fairly written, as shall appear. You do not remem- ber, gentlemen, anything of what that parch- ment contained? [Undoing the box. Wit. No. Pet. Not I; I writ, I read nothing. Mir. Very well, now you shall know. Madam, your promise. Lady Wish. Ay, ay, sir, upon my honor. Mir. Mr. Fainall, it is now time that you should know that your lady, while she was at her own disposal, and before you had by your insinuations wheedled her out of a pretended settlement of the greatest part of her for- tune Fain. Sir! pretended! Mir. Yes, sir. I say that this lady while _ widow, having it seems received some cautions respecting your inconstancy and 153 EPILOGUE THE WAY OF THE WORLD tyranny of temper, which from her own partial opinion and fondness of you she could never have suspected she did, I say, by the wholesome advice of friends, and of sages learned in the laws of this land, de- liver this same as her act and deed to me in trust, and to the uses within mentioned. You may read if you please [.Holding out the parchment} though perhaps what is writ- ten on the back may serve your occasions. Fain. Very likely, sir. What's here? Damnation! [Reads.] A deed of conveyance of the whole estate real of Arabella Languish, widow, in trust to Edward Mirabell. Con- fusion ! Mir. Even so, sir; 'tis the way of the world, sir, of the widows of the world. I suppose this deed may bear an elder date than what you have obtained from your lady. Fain. Perfidious fiend! then thus I'll be revenged. [Offers to run at MRS. FAIN ALL. Sir Wil. Hold, sir! Now you may make your bear-garden flourish somewhere else, sir. Fain. Mirabell, you shall hear of this, sir, be sure you shall. Let me pass, oaf! [Exit. Mrs. Fain. Madam, you seem to stifle your resentment; you had better give it vent. Mrs. Mar. Yes, it shall have vent and to your confusion; or I'll perish in the at- tempt. [Exit. Lady Wish. O daughter, daughter! Tis plain thou hast inherited thy mother's pru- dence. Mrs. Fain. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cautious friend, to whose advice all is owing. Lady Wish. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have kept your promise and I must perform mine. First, I pardon, for your sake, Sir Rowland there, and Foible; the next thing is to break the matter to my nephew and how to do that Mir. For that, madam, give yourself no trouble; let me have your consent. Sir Wil- full is my friend; he has had compassion upon lovers, and generously engaged a vol- unteer in this action, for our service; and now designs to prosecute his travels. Sir Wil. S'heart, aunt, I have no mind to marry. My cousin's a fine lady, and the gentleman loves her, and she loves him, and they deserve one another; my resolution is to see foreign parts I have set on't and when I'm set on't I must do't. And if these two gentlemen would travel too, I think they may be spared. Pet. For my part, I say little I think things are best off or on. Wit. I'gad, I understand nothing of the matter; I'm in a maze yet, like a dog in a dancing-school. Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with her all the joy I can give you. Mrs. Mil. Why does not the man take me? Would you have me give myself to you over again ? Mir. Ay, and over and over again; [Kisses her hand.] I would have you as often as possibly I can. Well, Heaven grant I love you not too well, that's all my fear. Sir Wil. S'heart, you'll have time enough to toy after you're married; or if you will toy now, let us have a dance in the mean- time, that we who are not lovers may have some other employment besides looking on. Mir. With all my heart, dear Sir Wilfull. What shall we do for music? Foib. Oh, sir, some that were provided for Sir Rowland's entertainment are yet within call. [A dance. Lady Wish. As I am a person, I can hold out no longer; I have wasted my spirits so to-day already, that I am ready to sink un- der the fatigue; and I cannot but have some fears upon me yet, that my son Fainall will pursue some desperate course. Mir. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that account; to my knowledge his circumstances are such he must of force comply. For my part, I will contribute all that in me lies to a reunion; in the meantime, madam [To MRS. FAINALL.] let me before these witnesses restore to you this deed of trust: it may be a means, well-managed, to make you live easily together. From hence let those be warned, who mean to wed; Lest mutual falsehood stain the bridal bed; For each deceiver to his cost may find That marriage-frauds too oft are paid in kind. [Exeunt ornnes. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE After our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, I'm thinking how this play'll be pulled to pieces. But pray consider, ere you doom its fall, How hard all. a thing 'twould be to please you There are some critics so with spleen dis- eased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal skill, Who pleases any one against his will. Then all bad poets we are sure are foes, And how their number's swelled, the town well knows: In shoals I've marked 'em judging in the pit; Though they're, on no pretence, for judgment fit, 154 THE WAY OF THE WORLD EPILOGUE But that they have been damned for want of wit. Since when, they by their own offences taught, Set up for spies on plays, and finding: fault. Others there are whose malice we'd pre- vent; Such who watch plays with scurrilous intent To mark out who by characters are meant. And though no perfect likeness they can trace, Yet each pretends to know the copied face. These with false glosses feed their own ill nature, And turn to libel what was meant a satire. May such malicious fops this fortune find, To think themselves alone the fools de- signed: If any are so arrogantly vain, To think they singly can support a scene, And furnish fool enough to entertain. For well the learned and the judicious know That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low, As any one abstracted fop to show. For, as when painters form a matchless face, They from each fair one catch some differ- ent grace; And shining features in one portrait blend, To which no single beauty must pretend; So poets oft do in one piece expose Whole belles-assemblees of coquettes and beaux. 155 GEORGE FARQUHAR THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM GEORGE FARQUHAR'S life-portrait may be viewed as a composite of the features of several other dramatists in our volume. In the circumstances of his Irish birth and Dublin University training, the last of the Restoration writers of comedy closely resembles Goldsmith, whose chief stage-success owes to him so much. In his youthful failure as an actor, in his triumphant decade as a playwright, and in his early and wretched end, he recalls the unhappy Otway. In the large sympathy of his intellect with the robust and joyous life of town and country, he has much in common with Harry Field- ing, who drew his first breath in pleasant Somerset just a week before Farquhar died, April 29, 1/07, in his London garret. Very little is known of Farquhar's origin. The date of his birth, 1677 or 1678, the gentility of his parentage, the site of his father's Irish parish, are alike uncertain. The poems of his boyhood, " moral verses " and pompous " Pindaricks," bred in him no jigging vein, for knack at rime was ever denied him. His hazy career as sizar at Trinity College, Dublin, after his Londonderry lessons were over in 1694, was perhaps stopped short by a bit of boyish irreverence ; but this inglorious tradition is of the vaguest. In his twentieth year he is suffering the horrors of stage fright on Dublin boards, ridiculously enough in his first role of " valiant Othello." He essays many other parts with no marked success, but his accidental wounding of a brother-actor soon drives him from the stage in disgust. Then he is off to London by the advice of the famous English actor, Robert Wilks, whose friendship always stands him in stead. If unlike many another fortune- seeking youth, he has no play in his pocket, one is soon in the making, and Love and a Bottle is staged at the end of 1698. Here, as so often in Far- quhar's later comedies, the temptation is strong to identify the penniless young Irish rake of the piece with the adventurous author, but it is dan- gerous to push such a parallel. Not to pause over that bit of picaresque writing, which may or may not be Farquhar's own, The Adventures of Covent Garden, the next year sees the production of his second comedy, The Con- stant Couple, which ran for over fifty nights with Wilks in the chief role of Sir Harry Wildair and with Norris in the laughable part of Dicky, the 156 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM servant. Far inferior is the sequel, Sir Harry Wildair, acted in 1701 ; but there is no need to explain this inferiority as the unhappy result of Farqu- har's infatuation for a fair unknown some say, Anne Oldfield, whom the dramatist had discovered, a rich-voiced girl of sixteen, in her aunt's tavern and introduced to the stage. Though that charming woman graced later the roles of Farquhar's chief heroines, as Mrs. Barry did those of Otway, and maintained always her friendship with the dramatist, we have small reason to suspect that she is the " Penelope " of his fervent love-letters. Farqu- har's marriage, a year or two later, furnishes nought of romance but a grim suggestion of a comic motive that serves him well in his greatest play. Some feminine Aimwell from the North dupes the gay, handsome, young fellow by large pretensions to wealth ; but Farquhar, though a for- tune-hunter, is of gentler stuff than Thackeray's Deuce-ace and greatly to his honor "never once upbraided her with the cheat." Farquhar's pen is still busy, and to some purpose. In 1702 appears his Love and Business, a miscellany of stray verses, letters from Holland, a sensible essay upon " Comedy," and copies of love-letters revealing the author as " half an actor, a quarter a poet, and altogether a very honest and gallant gentleman." Two unsuccessful comedies, The Inconstant and The Twin-Rivals (a thing of merit), a farce adapted from the French, The Stage Coach, and a halting epic, Barcelona, occupy the time between 1702 and 1705. For several years he has held an army commission, like Steele and Vanbrugh, his friends, and in 1706 he turns to capital account his own experience at Shrewsbury in his joyous comedy, The Recruiting Officer, with its memorable figures of Captain Plume and Silvia and, best of all, Sergeant Kite. After this signal triumph dark days come upon him, as upon Otway. Relying upon the assurances of the Duke of Ormond, whose " Grace makes promises trifles indeed" (see Archer's song in The Beaux' Stratagem, III, iii), he sells, in confident hope of other preferment, his commission for the benefit of his creditors and is soon plunged in misery and poverty. No final stage-scene is more replete with irony than the last act of Farquhar's own life-drama. The poor jester must " go to bed at noon " he is barely thirty but, though overwhelmed with want and settled sickness, he still has strength in him for his merriest peal of laughter. A dying man, he writes in six weeks, at the urging of the loyal Wilks, who provides a retainer of twenty guineas, his greatest comedy perhaps the greatest, as it is the last, of all the comedies of the so-called Restoration period. While the Hay- market is ringing with the applause that greets The Beaux' Stratagem in April, 1707 (see the pathetic epilogue), Farquhar passes away in his wretched attic in St. Martin's Lane, entrusting his " two helpless girls " to his friend's protection. The situation rivals in grisly mockery the expiring Moliere's mirth in his last interpretation of Le Malade Imaginaire. The dates of Farquhar's plays suggest a seeming paradox. All the work of the last Restoration dramatist was done after Jeremy Collier's 157 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM vehement philippic, A Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage (1698), had dealt, thus many have maintained, a death-blow to the Restoration drama. As if in despite, Farquhar's gay world of riotous animal spirits seems abundantly alive. And yet his essay upon " Comedy," and his prologues show that the playwright was profoundly influenced by the preacher, at least in his professions. Amusingly enough, he sets up as a censor of morals. " Comedy," he declares', " is a well-framed tale handsomely told as an agreeable vehicle for counsel and reproof." It is his boast that he will improve upon Collier's invective and " make the stage flourish by virtue of his satire." More than once he assures the ladies that they may smile without blushing for " here's no slander, no smut, no lewd-tongued beau, no double-entendre." All this is very well; but, as with Fielding, who takes the same tone in his engaging prefaces, the gap between precept and practice is enormous. The color must have been fast set by art in cheeks that are unchanged in hue when Farquhar and Fielding laugh the loudest. The little homily is over and forgotten, and the " modest air " yields to "waggish action" (the phrases are Farquhar's own). It's a mad world, my masters, life seems but a turmoil of the senses, a riot of wild blood; and youth, pledged to love and a bottle, is willing to forego none of its trinity of joys, not even song. Let us be grateful for this much of virtue that Restoration Comedy now abandons the covert wink and cruel leer, the un- clean innuendo, the prurient suggestion, and becomes wholesome, if not always decent. In Farquhar there is, of course, not the faintest element of the simpering prudery and tearful sentimentality of the bourgeois comedy of reaction against the drama of large license. The difference between Farquhar and his immediate forerunners in comedy is rather of temperament than of time. Unlike them he has a gen- erous nature overflowing with sympathy and charity. In his modest account of himself he reveals a temper the reverse of libertine: " I hate all pleasure that's purchased by excess of pain ; " " The greatest proof of my affection that a lady must expect is this I would run any hazard to make us both happy, but would not for any transitory pleasure make us both miserable." Hence his dashing beaux, his Harry Wildair, his Archer and Aimwell, have not, like the gallants of Wycherley and Congreve, " foreheads of bronze, hearts like the nether millstone and tongues set on fire of hell" (Macaulay). Rattle-brained scapegraces they are to be. sure, but they are quite without malice and inspire no contempt and loathing. Joyous adventurers, they fight, love, and banter in .a breath, but their warm hearts preserve them from selfish irresponsibility and render them quite unequal to the task of villains. Reason, honor, and gratitude are as strong in these delightful rascals as in the high-spirited prodigals of Goldsmith and Sheridan ; for they are, in Hazlitt's happy phrase, " real gentlemen and only pretended impostors." Archer's voluble good-fellowship in his footman's cloak renders him every- body's friend and equal, and Aimwell's scruples assert themselves even at 158 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM the cost of his marriage prospects. Miss Guiney puts it prettily " none of the old deviltry, though much of the old swagger." A marked sign of changing taste is observed in Farquhar's extension of the range of comic interest. His predecessors had been content to paint " beaux and belles enamored of themselves in one another's follies and flut- tering like gilded butterflies in giddy mazes through the walks of St. James's Park," and in his earlier plays he followed their example. But in his two later and better comedies he deserts the conventional West End back- ground of Park and Mall, he turns away even from " the sweet smoke of Cheapside and the dear perfume of Fleet Ditch," and to the ringing notes of his merry ballad-music, " Over the hills and far away," carries his audi- ence with him to some county- or cathedral-town deep in the provinces, to Shrewsbury or Lichfield. Instead of the inevitable seventeenth-century drawing-room or city-lodging of Wycherley and Congreve, his scenes are those most familiar in eighteenth-century fiction, the market-place, the broad highway, the river walk, the country-inn, the squire's hall. And in this new setting, what a host of new characters ! Every figure of The Beaux' Strata- gem is memorable : the rollicking " knight-errants," Aimwell and Archer ; the knavish landlord drawn very much from life, Boniface whose name has become proverbial of his class confederate of highwaymen yet honestly eloquent over the merits of his Anno Domini; Gibbet and his brace of rogues, no idealized Turpins or Du Vals, but as humorously realistic ruffians as Stevenson's greedy pirates ; Scrub, a real person too, one of the most amusing serving men of the comic stage with his cowardice and his itching palm ; and the delicious Cherry, tight of waist, quick of eye, and true of heart. The provincial gentlefolk are equally amusing: that best of women, Lady Bountiful, ever " spreading of plasters, brewing of diet-drinks and stilling rosemary-water " ; Squire Sullen, her son, not a fiend like Van- brugh's Sir John Brute, not a savage like Fielding's Western, but a dull animal sodden with drink and hence thick of speech and loutish of manner, perpetual offence to the fine lady from London, his wife, sprightly, witty, and far more alluring than her sister-in-law, the somewhat shadowy Dorinda. Strangely enough the only failure among the persons is the author's own countryman, the Jesuit priest, Foigard, who arouses with his wonderful jargon the wrath of sensitive Irish editors. Even the Frenchman Bellair, though omitted in acting versions, is more convincing. Not only through genial characterization, but through laughing mastery over action is Farquhar eminent. In this high quality indeed he seems easily the first of his group. " The Beaux' Stratagem," says Hazlitt, " is infinitely lively, bustling and full of point and interest ; the assumed disguise of Archer and Aimwell is a perpetual amusement to the mind." In this straight- forward story we are never confused as by the labyrinthine intricacy of The Way of the World. The plot knows no dull moments, but from its breezy beginning in the arrival of the crowd on the London coach develops 159 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM steadily and rapidly, with the interest shifting gaily from inn to hall, through a series of incidents at once humorous and sensational though never un- natural, to a highly agreeable resolution in the beaux' full triumph. At the mutual separation of Squire Sullen and his wife in the last scene, Nance Oldfield, the actress, was the first to cavil; but her objection, turned aside by Farquhar with a death -bed jest, is answered by William Archer, who deems " this discussion of the ethics of divorce not only the admission of a moral standard, but a homage to the idea of marriage which Wycherley, Congreve, or Vanbrugh would never have dreamt of paying." In any case we could ill afford to spare one of the cleverest bits of give and take in ^the comic drama. Single scenes of the play are admirable. In Farquhar's mer- riest vein are Cherry's love-catechism, Mrs. Sullen's lively picture of her drunken husband's home-coming, Aimwell's laughable account of the appear- ance of the stranger in the country church, and Archer's delightful diag- nosis of his friend's stroke of love. Only the scene between Archer and Foigard in Act IV clamors loudly for reconstruction. All critics have noticed that Farquhar's finest effects are derived rather from the humor of his situations than from the wit of his dialogues. Not that wit is wanting in him, as Mrs. Sullen's brilliancy amply attests, nor that he disdains the miniature social essay, for the gossipy news of the town in the first scene and the delicious criticism of country life in the second act anticipate the urban chat of Will Honeycomb of The Spectator. He can make, too, such famously happy phrases as Scrub's " I believe, they talked of me, for they laughed consumedly," and Gibbet's " 'Twas for the good of my country that I should be abroad." His style is ever easy and natural. But conduct rather than conversation being his study, he is, unlike the inim- itable Congreve, no consummate master of the quick foil of delicate repartee and artful innuendo. He seldom dazzles us with flashing epigrams and sparkling conceits, airy trifles of the Restoration smart set. Because in him this fineness, this preciosity of the inner circle, yields to the provincial and the picaresque, because his accent is not of " modish wit," but, as Mr. William Archer says, of " unforced buoyant gaiety," his diction has been forever branded by Pope, the arch-poet of artificial life, in the single line, " What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ ! " An interesting phase of Farquhar's art is his intense hatred of formalism. " The rules of English comedy," he writes in that admirable essay of 1702, " don't lie in the compass of Aristotle or his followers, but in the pit, box, and galleries. . . . We shall find that these gentlemen [Shakspere, Jonson, Fletcher] have fairly dispensed with the greatest part of critical formalities ; the decorums of time and place, so much cried up of late, had no force of decorum with them ; the economy of their plays was ad libitum, and the extent of their plays only limited by the convenience of action. ... A play may be written with all the exactness imaginable, in respect of unity in time and place; but if you inquire its character of any person, though of the 160 \ THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM PROLOGUE meanest understanding of the whole audience, he will tell you it is intolerable stuff." Again in the Prologue to Sir Harry Wildair, he swears that he cares not a pin for " learned pens " and " musty books," and assures his hearers, " You are the rules by which he writes his plays." And the Epilogue to The Twin-Rivals likewise hails the audience as the supreme court of judgment, "If you have damned the play, no power can save it." Farquhar's complete confidence in the popular taste, a notable contrast to the stereotyped contempt of "the great vulgar," has been abundantly justified by the instant success and long vogue of his best comedies. Since its first appearance on March 8, 1/07, The Beaux' Stratagem has been presented to more audiences and by greater actors than any other light drama of the Restoration not excepting even The Recruiting Officer. Its first cast Wilks as Archer, Verbruggen as Sullen, " Dicky " Norris as Scrub, Colley Abber as Gibbet, and Nance Oldfield as Mrs. Sullen established a splendid precedent, well sustained by such interpreters as Garrick, in light blue and silver livery, and Charles Kemble as Archer, Quin as Sullen, Weston, Macklin, and Listen as Scrub (a role taken more than once by women), Kitty Clive as Cherry, and many famous actresses, Mrs. Pritchard, Peg Woffington, Mrs. Abington, Miss Farren, and Mrs. Jordan, in the part of Mrs. Sullen. The last revival of the play was at the Imperial Theatre, Lon- don, on September 22, 1879, with William Farren in Archer's role. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ADVERTISEMENT The reader may find some faults in this play, which my illness prevented the amending of; but there is great amends made in the represen- tation, which cannot be matched, no more than the friendly and indefatigable care of Mr. Wilks, to whom I chiefly owe the success of the play. GEORGE FARQUHAR. PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. Wilks When strife disturbs, or sloth corrupts an age, Keen satire is the business of the stage. When the Plain-Dealer writ, he lash'd those crimes, Which then infested most the modish times: But now, when faction sleeps, and sloth is fled, And all our youth in active fields are bred ; 161 PROLOGUE THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM When through Great Britain's fair extensive round, The trumps of fame, the notes of UNION sound; When Anna's sceptre points the laws their course, And her example gives her precepts force: There scarce is room for satire; all our lays Must be, or songs of triumph, or of praise. But as in grounds best cultivated, tares And poppies rise among the golden ears; Our product so, fit for the field or school, Must mix with nature's favorite plant a fool: A weed that has to twenty summers ran, Shoots up in stalk, and vegetates to man. Simpling our author goes from field to field, And culls such fools as may diversion yield; And, thanks to nature, there's no want of those, For rain or shine, the thriving coxcomb grows. Follies to-night we show ne'er lash'd before, Yet such as nature shows you every hour; Nor can the pictures give a just offence, For fools are made for jests to men of sense. DRAMATIS PERSONS MEN f Two gentlemen of broken THOMAS AIMWELL, j fortunes, the first as FRANCIS ARCHER, master, and the second [ as servant. COUNT BELLAIR, A French Officer, prisoner at Lichfield. SQUIRE SULLEN, a Country Blockhead, brutal to his Wife. SIR CHARLES FREEMAN, a Gentleman from London, brother to MRS. SULLEN. FOIGARD, a Priest, Chaplain to the French Officers. GIBBET, a Highwayman. HOUNSLOW, ) TT . _ BAGSHOT, \ Hu Companions. BONIFACE, Landlord of the Inn. SCRUB, Servant to SQUIRE SULLEN. WOMEN LADY BOUNTIFUL, an old, ch-il, Country Gentle- woman, that cures all her neighbors of all distempers, and foolishly fond of her son, SQUIRE SULLEN. MRS. SULLEN, Her Daughter-in-law, wife to SQUIRE SULLEN. DORINDA, LADY BOUNTIFUL'S Daughter. GIPSY, Maid to the Ladies. CHERRY, the Landlord's Daughter in the Inn. Tapster, Coach-passengers, Countryman, Coun- trywoman, and Servants. SCENE. LICHFIELD. 162 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT I, Sc. I. ACT I SCENE I A Room in BONIFACE'S Inn. Enter BONIFACE running. Bon. Chamberlain! maid! Cherry! daugh- ter Cherry! all asleep? all dead? Enter CHERRY running. Cher. Here, here! why d'ye bawl so, father? d'ye think we have no ears? Bon. You deserve to have none, you young minx! The company of the Warring- ton coach has stood in the hall this hour, and nobody to show them to their chambers. Cher. And let 'em wait, father; there's neither red-coat in the coach, nor footman behind it. Bon. But they threaten to go to another inn to-night. Cher. That they dare not, for fear the coachman should overturn them to-morrow. Coming ! coming ! Here's the London coach arrived. Enter several people with trunks, bandboxes, and other luggage, and cross the stage. Bon. Welcome, ladies! Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen! Cham- berlain, show the Lion and the Rose. [.Exit with the company. Enter AIMWELL in a riding-habit, and ARCHER as footman, carrying a portmantle. Bon. This way, this way, gentlemen! Aim. [To ARCHER.] Set down the things; go to the stable, and see my horses well rubbed. Arch. I shall, sir. [Exit. Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose? Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface, pretty well known upon this road, as the saying is. Aim. O Mr. Boniface, your servant! Bon. O sir! What will your honor please to drink, as the saying is ? Aim. I have heard your town of Lichfield much famed for ale; I think I'll taste that. Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in Staffordshire; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as am- ber, and strong as brandy; and will be just fourteen year old the fifth day of next March, old style. Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale. Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children. I'll show you such ale ! Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the say- ing is. Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini. I have lived in Lichfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty years, and, I believe, have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of meat. Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess your sense by your bulk. Bon. Not in my life, sir: I have fed purely upon ale; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale. Enter Tapster with a bottle and glass, and exit. Now, sir, you shall see! [Filling it out.} Your worship's health. Ha! delicious, delicious! fancy it burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart. Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong! Bon. Strong! it must be so, or how should we be strong that drink it? Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord ? Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is. Aim. How came that to pass? Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the ale take its natural course, sir; she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is; and an honest gentleman that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bot- tles of usquebaugh but the poor woman was never well after. But, howe'er, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know. Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her? Bon. My Lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what could be done; she cured her of three tympanies, but the fourth car- ried her off. But she's happy, and I'm con- tented, as the saying is. Aim. Who's that Lady Bountiful you men- tioned ? Bon. Ods my life, sir, we'll drink her health. [Drinks.] My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pound a year; and, I believe, she lays out one-half on't in charitable uses for the good of her neighbors. She cures rheumatisms, ruptures, and broken shins in men; green- sickness, obstructions, and fits of the mother, in women; the king's evil, chincough, and chilblains, in children: in short, she has cured more people in and about Lichfield within ten years than the doctors have killed in twenty; and that's a bold word. Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her generation? Bon. Yes, sir; she has a daughter by Sir Charles, the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune. She has a son too, by her first husband, Squire Sullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other day; if you please, sir, we'll drink his health. 163 ACT I, Sc. I. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Aim. What sort of a man is he? Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough; says little, thinks less, and does nothing- at all, faith. But he's a man of a great estate, and values nobody. Aim. A sportsman, I suppose? Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure; he plays at whisk and smokes his pipe eight- and-forty hours together sometimes. Aim. And married, you say? Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir. But he's a he wants it here, sir. [Pointing to his forehead. Aim. He has it there, you mean? Bon. That's none of my business; he's my landlord, and so a man, you know, would not But ecod, he's no better than Sir, my humble service to you. [Drinks.] Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his rent at quarter- day; I have a good running-trade; I have but one daughter, and I can give her but no matter for that. Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface. Pray, what other company have you in town ? Bon. A power of fine ladies; and then we have the French officers. Aim. Oh, that's right, you have a good many of those gentlemen. Pray, how do you like their company? Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as many more of 'em; they're full of money, and pay double for everything they have. They know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for the taking of 'em, and so they are willing to reimburse us a little. One of 'em lodges in my house. Re-enter ARCHER. Arch. Landlord, there are some French gentlemen below that ask for you. Bon. I'll wait on 'em. [Aside to ARCHER.] Does your master stay long in tow.,, as the saying is? Arch. I can't tell, as the saying is. Bon. Come from London? Arch. No. Bon. Going to London, mayhap? Arch. No. Bon. [Aside.1 An odd fellow this. [To AIMWELL.] I beg your worship's pardon, I'll wait on you in half a minute. [Exit. Aim. The coast's clear, I see. Now, my dear Archer, welcome to Lichfield ! Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in iniquity. Aim. Iniquity! prithee, leave canting; you need not change your style with your dress. Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell, for 'tis still my maxim, that there is no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty. Aim. The world confesses it every day in its practice, though men won't own it for their opinion. Who did that worthy lord, my brother, single out of the side-box to sup with him t'other night? Arch. Jack Handicraft, a handsome, well- dressed, mannerly, sharping rogue, who keeps the best company in town. Aim. Right! And, pray, who married my lady Man-slaughter t'other day, the great fortune ? Arch. Why, Nick Marrabone, a professed pickpocket, and a good bowler; but he makes a handsome figure, and rides in his coach, that he formerly used to ride behind. Aim. But did you observe poor Jack Gen- erous in the Park last week. Arch. Yes, with his autumnal periwig, shading his melancholy face, his coat older than anything but its fashion, with one hand idle in his pocket, and with the other pick- ing his useless teeth; and, though the Mall was crowded with company, yet was poor Jack as single and solitary as a lion in a desert. Aim. And as much avoided, for no crime upon earth but the want of money. Arch. And that's enough. Men must not be poor; idleness is the root of all evil; the world's wide enough, let 'em bustle. For- tune has taken the weak under her pro- tection, but men of sense are left to their industry. Aim. Upon which topic we proceed, and, I think, luckily hitherto. Would not any man swear now, that I am a man of quality, and you my servant, when if our intrinsic value were known Arch. Come, come, we are the men of in- trinsic value who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves, whose worth is independent of accidents in life, or revolutions in govern- ment: we have heads to get money and hearts to spend it. Aim. As to our hearts, I grant ye, they are as willing tits as any within twenty de- grees: but I can have no great opinion of our heads from the service they have done us hitherto, unless it be that they have brought us from London hither to Lichfield, made me a lord and you my servant. Arch. That's more than you could expect already. But what money have we left? Aim. But two hundred pound. Arch. And our horses, clothes, rings, etc. Why, we have very good fortunes now for moderate people; and, let me tell you besides, that this two hundred pound, with the ex- perience that we are now masters of, is a better estate than the ten thousand we have spent. Our friends, indeed, began to suspect that our pockets were low, but we came off with flying colors, showed no signs of want either in word or deed. Aim. Ay, and our going to Brussels was a good pretence enough for our sudden disap- 164 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT I, Sc. I. pearing; and, I warrant you, our friends imagine that we are gone a-volunteering. Arch. Why, faith, if this prospect fails, it must e'en come to that. I am for ventur- ing one of the hundreds, if you will, upon this knight-errantry; but, in case it should fail, we'll reserve t'other to carry us to some counterscarp, where we may die, as we lived, in a blaze. Aim. With all my heart; and we have lived justly, Archer: we can't say that we have spent our fortunes, but that we have enjoyed 'em. Arch. Right! So much pleasure for so much money. We have had our penny- worths; and, had I millions, I would go to the same market again. O London ! London ! Well, we have had our share, and let us be thankful: past pleasures, for aught I know, are best, such as we are sure of; those to come may disappoint us. Aim. It has often grieved the heart of me to see how some inhuman wretches mur- der their kind fortunes; those that, by sac- rificing all to one appetite, shall starve all the rest. You shall have some that live only in their palates, and in their sense of tasting shall drown the other four. Others are only epicures in appearances, such who shall starve their nights to make a figure a days, and famish their own to feed the eyes of others. A contrary sort confine their pleasures to the dark, and contract their spacious acres to the circuit of a muff-string. Arch. Right! But they find the Indies in that spot where they consume 'em. And I think 'your kind keepers have much the best on't: for they indulge the most senses by one expense. There's the seeing, hearing, and feeling, amply gratified; and, some phi- losophers will tell you, that from such a commerce there arises a sixth sense, that gives infinitely more pleasure than the other five put together. ml;:,:. And to pass to the other extremity, of all keepers I think those the worst that keep their money. Arch. Those are the most miserable wights in being, they destroy the rights of nature, and disappoint the blessings of Providence. Give me a man that keeps his five senses keen and bright as his sword, that has 'em always drawn out in their just order and strength, with his reason as com- mander at the head of 'em, that detaches 'em by turns upon whatever party of pleasure agreeably offers, and commands 'em to re- treat upon the least appearance of disad- vantage or danger! For my part, I can stick to my bottle while my wine, my company, and my reason, hold good; I can be charmed with Sappho's singing without falling in love with her face: I love hunting, but would not, like Actaeon, be eaten up by my own dogs; I love a fine house, but let another keep it; and just so I love a fine woman. Aim. In that last particular you have the better of me. Arch. Ay, you're such an amorous puppy, that I'm afraid you'll spoil our sport; you can't counterfeit the passion without feeling it. Aim. Though the whining part be out of doors in town, 'tis still in force with the country ladies: and let me tell you, Frank, the fool in that passion shall outdo the knave at any time. Arch. Well, I won't dispute it now; you command for the day, and so I submit: at Nottingham, you know, I am to be master. Aim. And at Lincoln, I again. Arch. Then, at Norwich I mount, which, I think, shall be our last stage; for, if we fail there, we'll embark for Holland, bid adieu to Venus, and welcome Mars. Aim. A match! Mum! Re-enter BONIFACE. Bon. What will your worship please to have for supper? ./'/)/. What have you got? Bon. Sir, we have a delicate piece of beef in the pot, and a pig at the fire. Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confess. I can't eat beef, landlord. Arch. Aim. And I hate pig. Hold your prating, sirrah! Do you know who you are? Bon. Please to bespeak something else; I have everything in the house. Aim. Have you any veal? Bon. Veal, sir! We had a delicate loin of veal on Wednesday last. Aim. Bon. Have you got any fish or wildfowl? As for fish, truly, sir, we are an in- land town, and indifferently provided with fish, that's the truth on't; and then for wild- fowlwe have a delicate couple of rabbits. Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed. Bon. Fricasseed! Lard, sir, they'll eat much better smothered with onions. Arch. Psha! Damn your onions! Aim. Again, sirrah ! Well, landlord, what you please. But hold, I have a small charge of money, and your house is so full of stran- gers, that I believe it may be safer in your custody than mine; for when this fellow of mine gets drunk he minds nothing. Here, sirrah, reach me the strong-box. Arch. Yes, sir. [Aside.] This will give us a reputation. [Brings the box.] Aim. Here, landlord; the locks are sealed down both for your security and mine; it holds somewhat above two hundred pound: if you doubt it, I'll count it to you after supper; but be sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's warning; for my affairs are a little dubious at present; perhaps I may 165 ACT I, Sc. I. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM be gone in half an hour, perhaps I may be your guest till the best part of that be spent; and pray order your ostler to keep my horses always saddled. But one thing above the rest I must beg, that you would let this fellow have none of your Anno Domini, as you call it; for he's the most insufferable sot. Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber. [Ex-it, lighted by ARCHER. Bon. Cherry! daughter Cherry! Re-enter CHERRY. Cher. D'ye call, father? Bon. Ay, child, you must lay by this box for the gentleman; 'tis full of money. Cher. Money! all that money! why, sure, father, the gentleman comes to be chosen parliament-man. Who is he? Bon. I don't know what to make of him; he talks of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of going perhaps at a minute's warning, or of staying perhaps till the best part of this be spent. Cher. Ay, ten to one, father, he's a high- wayman. Bon. A highwayman! upon my life, girl, you have hit it, and this box is some new- purchased booty. Now, could we find him out, the money were ours. Cher. He don't belong to our gang. Bon. What horses have they? Cher. The master rides upon a black. Bon. A black! ten to one the man upon the black mare; and since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience; I don't think it lawful to harbor any rogues but my own. Look'ee, child, as the saying is, we must go cunningly to work, proofs we must have; the gentle- man's servant loves drink, I'll ply him that way, and ten to one loves a wench: you must work him t'other way. Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret for his? Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pound to boot. [Ringing without.} Coming! coming! Child, mind your business. [Exit. Cher. What a rogue is my father! My father! I deny it. My mother was a good, generous, free-hearted woman, and I can't tell how far her good nature might have ex- tended for the good of her children. This landlord of mine, for I think I can call him no more, would betray his guest, and de- bauch his daughter into the bargain by a footman too ! Re-enter ARCHER. Arch. What footman, pray, mistress, is so happy as to be the subject of your con- templation ? Cher. Whoever he is, friend, he'll be but little the better for't. Arch. I hope so, for, I'm sure, you did not think of me. Cher. Suppose I had? Arch. Why, then, you're but even with me; for the minute I came in, I was a-con- sidering in what manner I should make love to you. Cher. Love to me, friend! Arch. Yes, child. Cher. Child! manners! If you kept a little more distance, friend, it would become you much better. Arch. Distance! good-night, sauce-box. [Going. Cher. [Aside.] A pretty fellow! I like his pride. [Aloud.} Sir, pray, sir, you see, sir [ARCHER returns], I have the credit to be entrusted with your master's fortune here, which sets me a degree above his footman; I hope, sir, you an't affronted ? Arch. Let me look you full in the face, and I'll tell you whether you can affront me or no. 'Sdeath, child, you have a pair of delicate eyes, and you don't know what to do with 'em! Cher. Why, sir, don't I see everybody? Arch. Ay, but if some women had 'em, they would kill everybody. Prithee, instruct me, I would fain make love to you, but I don't know what to say. Cher. Why, did you never make love to anybody before ? Arch. Never to a person of your figure, I can assure you, madam. My addresses have been always confined to people within my own sphere; I never aspired so high before. [Sings. But you look so bright, And are dressed so tight, That a man would swear you're right, As arm was e'er laid over. Such an air You freely wear To ensnare, As makes each guest a lover! Since then, my dear, I'm your guest, Prithee give me of the best Of what is ready drest: Since then, my dear, etc. What can I think of this Will you give me that song, Cher. [Aside.} man? [Aloud.} sir? Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while 'tis warm. [Kisses her.} Death and fire! her lips are honeycombs. Cher. And I wish there had been bees too, to have stung you for your impudence. Arch. There's a swarm of Cupids, my little Venus, that has done the business much better. Cher. [Aside.} This fellow is misbegotten as well as I. [Aloud.} What's your name, sir? 166 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT II, Sc. I. Arch. [Aside.] Name! egad, I have forgot it. [Aloud.] Oh! Martin. Cher. Where were you born? Arch. In St. Martin's parish. Cher. What was your father? Arch. St. Martin's parish. Cher. Then, friend, good-night. Arch. I hope not. Cher. You may depend upon't. Arch. Upon what? Cher. That you're very impudent. Arch. That you're very handsome. Cher. That you're a footman. Arch. That you're an angel. Cher. I shall be rude. Arch. So shall I. Cher. Let go my hand. Arch. Give me a kiss. [Kisses her. Bon. [Without.'] Cherry ! Cherry ! Cher. I'm my father calls; you plaguy devil, how durst you stop my breath so? Offer to follow me one step, if you dare. [Exit. Arch. A fair challenge, by this light! This is a pretty fair opening of an adven- ture; but we are knight-errants, and so Fortune be our guide. [Exit. ACT II SCENE I A Gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S House. Enter MRS. SULLEN and DORINDA, meeting. Dor. Morrow, my dear sister; are you for church this morning? Mrs. Sul. Anywhere to pray; for Heaven alone can help me. there's no form of But I think, Dorinda, prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands. Dor. But there's a form of law in Doctors- Commons; and I swear, sister Sullen, rather than see you thus continually discontented, I would advise you to apply to that: for besides the part that I bear in your vexatious broils, as being sister to the husband, and friend to the wife, your example gives me such an impression of matrimony, that I shall be apt to condemn my person to a long vacation all its life. But supposing, madam, that you brought it to a case of separation, what can you urge against your husband? My brother is, first, the most constant man alive. Mrs. Sul. The most constant husband, I grant ye. Dor. He never sleeps from you. Mrs. Sul. No, he always sleeps with me. Dor. He allows you a maintenance suit- able to your quality. Mrs. Sul. A maintenance! do you take me, madam, for an hospital child, that I must sit down, and bless my benefactors for meat, drink, and clothes? As I take it, madam, I brought your brother ten thou- sand pounds, out of which I might expect some pretty things, called pleasures. Dor. You share in all the pleasures that the country affords. Mrs. Sul. Country pleasures! racks and torments! Dost think, child, that my limbs were made for leaping of ditches, and clamber- ing over stiles? or that my parents, wisely foreseeing my future happiness in country pleasures, had early instructed me in rural accomplishments of drinking fat ale, playing at whisk, and smoking tobacco with my husband? or of spreading of plasters, brew- ing of diet-drinks, and stilling rosemary- water, with the good old gentlewoman my mother-in-law ? Dor. I'm sorry, madam, that it is not more in our power to divert you; I could wish, indeed, that our entertainments were a little more polite, or your taste a little less refined. But, pray, madam, how came the poets and philosophers, that labored so much in hunting after pleasure, to place it at last in a country life? Mrs. Sul. Because they wanted money, child, to find out the pleasures of the town. Did you ever see a poet or philosopher worth ten thousand pound? if you can show me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pound you'll find him somewhere within the weekly bills. Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the poets have painted them; in their land- scape, every Phillis has her Corydon, every murmuring stream and every flowery mead gives fresh alarms to love. Besides, you'll find, that their couples were never married. But yonder I see my Corydon, and a sweet swain it is, Heaven knows! Come, Dorinda, don't be angry, he's my husband, and your brother; and, between both, is he not a sad brute ? Dor. I have nothing to say to your part of him, you're the best judge. Mrs. Sul. O sister, sister! if ever you marry, beware of a sullen, silent sot, one that's always musing, but never thinks. There's some diversion in a talking block- head; and since a woman must wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing 'em rattle a little. Now you shall see, but take this by the way. He came home this morn- ing at his usual hour of four, wakened me out of a sweet dream of something else, by tumbling over the tea-table, which he broke all to pieces; after his man and he had rolled about the room, like sick passengers in a storm, he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice, his breath hot as a furnace, and bis hands and his face as greasy as his flan- nel night-cap. O matrimony! He tosses up the clothes with a barbarous swing over his 167 ACT II, Sc. I. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM shoulders, disorders the whole economy of my bed, leaves me half naked, and my whole night's comfort is the tuneable serenade of that wakeful nightingale, his nose! Oh, the pleasure of counting the melancholy clock by a snoring husband! But now, sister, you shall see how handsomely, being a well-bred man, he will beg my pardon. Enter SULLEN. Squire Sul. My head aches consumedly. Mrs. Sul. Will you be pleased, my dear, to drink tea with us this morning? It may do your head good. Squire Sul. No. Dor. Coffee, brother? Squire Sul. Psha! Mrs. Sul. Will you please to dress, and to church with me? The air may help [Calls. go to ch you. Squire Sul. Scrub ! Enter SCRUB. Scrub. Sir! Squire Sul. What day o* th' week is this? Scrub. Sunday, an't please your worship. Squire Sul. Sunday! Bring me a dram; and d'ye hear, set out the venison-pasty, and a tankard of strong beer upon the hall- table; I'll go to breakfast. [Going. Dor. Stay, stay, brother, you shan't get off so; you were very naught last night, and must make your wife reparation; come, come, brother, won't you ask pardon? Squire Sul. For what? Dor. For being drunk last night. Squire Sul. I can afford it, can't I? Mrs. Sul. But I can't, sir. Squire Sul. Then you may let it alone. Mrs. Sul. But I must tell you, sir, that this is not to be borne. Squire Sul. I'm glad on't. Mrs. Sul. What is the reason, sir, that you use me thus inhumanly ? Squire Sul. Scrub! ^Scrub. Sir! Squire Sul. Get things ready to shave my head. [Exit. Mrs. Sul. Have a care of coming near his temples, Scrub, for fear you meet something there that may turn the edge of your razor. [Exit SCRUB.] Inveterate stupidity! Did you ever know so hard, so obstinate a spleen as his? O sister, sister! I shall never ha* good of the beast till I get him to town; London, dear London, is the place for man- aging and breaking a husband. Dor. And has not a husband the same opportunities there for humbling a wife? Mrs. Sul. No, no, child, 'tis a standing maxim in conjugal discipline, that when a man would enslave his wife, he hurries her into the country; and when a lady would be arbitrary with her husband, she wheedles her booby up to town. A man dare not play the tyrant in London, because there are so many examples to encourage the subject to rebel. O Dorinda! Dorinda! a fine woman may do anything in London: o' my con- science, she may raise an army of forty thousand men. Dor. I fancy, sister, you have a mind to be trying your power that way here in Lich- field; you have drawn the French Count to your colors already. Mrs. Sul. The French are a people that can't live without their gallantries. Dor. And some English that I know, sis- ter, are not averse to such amusements. Mrs. Sul. Well, sister, since the truth must out, it may do as well now as here- after; I think, one way to rouse my lethargic, sottish husband, is to give him a rival. Security begets negligence in all people, and men must be alarmed to make 'em alert in their duty. Women are like pictures, of no value in the hands of a fool, till he hears men of sense bid high for the purchase. Dor. This might do, sister, if my brother's understanding were to be convinced into a passion for you; but, I fancy, there's a nat- ural aversion on his side; and I fancy, .sister, that you don't come much behind him, if you dealt fairly. Mrs. Sul. I own it, we are united contra- dictions, fire and water: but I could be con- tented, with a great many other wives, to humor the censorious mob, and give the world an appearance of living well with my husband, could I bring him but to dissemble a little kindness to keep me in countenance. Dor. But how do you know, sister, but that, instead of rousing your husband by this artifice to a counterfeit kindness, he should awake in a real fury? Mrs. Sul. Let him: if I can't entice him to the one, I would provoke him to the other. Dor. But how must I behave myself be- tween ye? Mrs. Sul. You must assist me. Dor. What, against my own brother? Mrs. Sul. He's but half a brother, and I'm your entire friend. If I go a step beyond the bounds of honor, leave me; till then, I ex- pect you should go along with me in every- thing; while I trust my honor in your hands, you may trust your brother's in mine. The count is to dine here to-day. Dor. 'Tis a strange thing, sister, that I can't like that man. Mrs. Sul. You like nothing; your time i* not come; love and death have their fatali- ties, and strike home one time or other. You'll pay for all one day, I warrant ye. But come, my lady's tea is ready, and 'tis almost church time. [Exeunt. 168 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT II, Sc. II. SCENE II A Room in BONIFACE'S Inn. Enter AIMWELL dressed, and ARCHER. Aim. And was she the daughter of the house ? Arch. The landlord is so blind as to think so; but I dare swear she has better blood in her veins. Aim. Why dost thou think so? Arch. Because the baggage has a pert jc ne sais quoi; she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is troubled with vapors. Aim. By which discoveries I guess that you know more of her. Arch. Not yet, faith; the lady gives her- self airs; forsooth, nothing under a gentle- man! Aim. Let me take her in hand. Arch. Say one word more o' that, and I'll declare myself, spoil your sport there, and everywhere else; look ye, Aim well, every man in his own sphere. Aim. Right; and therefore you must pimp for your master. Arch. In the usual forms, good sir, after I have served myself. But to our business. You are so well dressed, Tom, and make so handsome a figure, that I fancy you may do execution in a country church; the exterior part strikes first, and you're in the right to make that impression favorable. Aim. There's something in that which may turn to advantage. The appearance of a stranger in a country church draws as many gazers as a blazing-star; no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a train of whispers runs buzzing round the congregation in a moment: Who is he? Whence comes he? Do you know him? Then I, sir, tips me the verger with half-a-crown; he pockets the simony, and inducts me into the best pew in the church. I pull out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the bishop, or the dean, if he be the commanding-officer; single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set my nose a-bleeding by the strength of imagina- tion, and show the whole church my concern, by my endeavoring to hide it. After the sermon, the whole town gives me to her for a lover, and by persuading the lady that I am a-dying for her, the tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in love with me. Arch. There's nothing in this, Tom, with- out a precedent; but instead of riveting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix 'em upon a for- tune; that's our business at present. Aim. Psha! no woman can be a beauty without a fortune. Let me alone, for I am a marksman. Arch. Tom! Aim. Ay. Arch. When were you at church before, pray? Aim. Um I was there at the coronation. Arch. And how can you expect a blessing by going to church now? Aim. Blessing! nay, Frank, I ask but for a wife. [Exit. Arch. Truly, the man is not very unrea- sonable in his demands. [Exit at the opposite door. Enter BONIFACE and CHERRY. Bon. Well, daughter, as the saying is, have you brought Martin to confess? Cher. Pray, father, don't put me upon getting anything out of a man; I'm but young, you know, father, and I don't under- stand wheedling. Bon. Young! why, you jade, as the saying is, can any woman wheedle that is not young? Your mother was useless at five-and-twenty. Not wheedle! would you make your mother a whore, and me a cuckold, as the saying is? I tell you, his silence confesses it, and his master spends his money so freely, and is so much a gentleman every manner of way, that he must be a highwayman. Enter GIBBET, in a cloak. Gib. Landlord, landlord, is the coast clear? Bon. O Mr. Gibbet, what's the news? Gib. No matter, ask no questions, all fair and honorable. Here, my dear Cherry. [Gives her a bag.] Two hundred sterling pounds, as good as any that ever hanged or saved a rogue; lay 'em by with the rest; and here three wedding or mourning rings, 'tis much the same you know here, two sil- ver-hilt ed swords; I took those from fel- lows that never show any part of their swords but the hilts here is a diamond necklace which the lady hid in the privatest place in the coach, but I found it out this gold watch I took from a pawnbroker's wife; it was left in her hands by a person of quality: there's the arms upon the case. Cher. But who had you the money from ? Gib. Ah! poor woman! I pitied her; from a poor lady just eloped from her hus- band. She had made up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as hard as she could drive; she told me of her husband's barbarous usage, and so I left her half-a-crown. But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry, I have a present for you. Cher. What is't? Gib. A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of a lady's under-pocket. Cher. What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think that I paint? Gib. Why, you jade, your betters do; I'm sure the lady that I took it from had a 169 ACT II, So. II. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM coronet upon her handkerchief. Here, take my cloak, and go, secure the premises. Cher. 1 will secure 'em. [Exit. Bon. But, hark'ee, where's Hounslow and Bagshot ? Gil>. They'll be here to-night. Bon. D'ye know of any other gentlemen o' the pad on this road? Gib. No. Bon. I fancy that I have two that lodge in the house just now. Gib. The devil! how d'ye smoke 'em? Bon. Why, the one is gone to church. (.';".'. That's suspicious, I must confess. Bon. And the other is now in his master's chamber; he pretends to be servant to the other. We'll call him out and pump him a little. Gib. With all my heart. Bon. Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin! [Calls. Enter ARCHER, combing a periwig and singing. Gib. The roads are consumed deep, I'm as dirty as Old Brentford at Christmas. A good pretty fellow that. Whose servant are you, friend ? Arch. My master's. Gib. Really! Arch. Really. Gib. That's much. The fellow has been at the bar by his evasions. But, pray, sir, what is your master's name? Arch. Tall, all, dall! [Sings and combs the periwig.] This is the most obstinate curl Gib. I ask you his name? Arch. Name, sir tall, all, dall! I never asked him his name in my life. Tall, all, dall! Bon. What think you now? [Aside to GIBBET. Gib. [Aside to BONIFACE.] Plain, plain, he talks now as if he were before a judge. [To ARCHER.] But pray, friend, which way does your master travel ? Arch. A-horseback. Gib. [Aside.] Very well, again, an old offender, right. [To ARCHER.] But, I mean, does he go upwards or downwards? Arch. Downwards, I fear, sir. Tall, all! Gib. I'm afraid my fate will be a con- trary way. Bon. Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Martin, you're very arch. This gentleman is only travelling towards Chester, and would be glad of your company, that's ail. Come, captain, you'll stay to-night, I suppose? I'll show you a chamber come, captain. Gib. Farewell, friend! Arch. Captain, your servant. [Exeunt BONIFACE and GIBBET.] Captain! a pretty fellow! 'Sdeath, I wonder that the officers of the army don't conspire to beat all scoundrels in red but their own. Re-enter CHERRY. Cher. [Aside.] Gone, and Martin here! I hope he did not listen; I would have the merit of the discovery all my own, because I would oblige him to love me. [Aloud.] Mr. Martin, who was that man with my father? Arch. Some recruiting serjeant, or whipped-out trooper, I suppose. Cher. All's safe, I find. [Aside. Arch. Come, my dear, have you conned over the catechise I taught you last night? Cher. Come, question me. Arch. What is love? ('/.(>. Love is I know not what, it comes I know not how, and goes I know not when. Arch. Very well, an apt scholar. [Chucks her under the chin.] Where does love enter? Cher. Into the eyes. Arch. And where go out? Cher. I won't tell ye. Arch. What are the objects of that passion ? Cher. Youth, beauty, and clean linen. Arch. The reason? Cher. The two first are fashionable in nature, and the third at court. Arch. That's my dear. What are the signs and tokens of that passion? Cher. A stealing look, a stammering tongue, words improbable, designs impossible, and actions impracticable. Arch. That's my good child, kiss me. What must a lover do to obtain his mistress? Cher. He must adore the person that dis- dains him, he must bribe the chambermaid that betrays him, and court 'the footman that laughs at him. He must he must Arch. Nay, child, I must whip you if you don't mind your lesson; he must treat his Cher. Oh ay ! he must treat his enemies with respect, his friends with indifference, and all the world with contempt; he must suffer much, and fear more; he must desire much, and hope little; in short, he must em- brace his ruin, and throw himself away. Arch. Had ever man so hopeful a pupil as mine! Come, my dear, why is love called a riddle? Cher. Because, being blind, he leads those that see, and, though a child, he governs a man. Arch. Mighty well! And why is Love pictured blind? Cher. Because the painters out of the weakness or privilege of their art chose to hide those eyes that they could not draw. Arch. That's my dear little scholar, kiss me again. And why should Love, that's a child, govern a man? Cher. Because that a child is the end of love. Arch. And so ends Love's catechism. And now, my dear, we'll go in and make my master's bed. 170 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT III, Sc. I. Cher. Hold, hold, Mr. Martin! You have taken a great deal of pains to instruct me, and what d'ye think I have learned by it? Arch. What? Cher. That your discourse and your habit are contradictions, and it would be nonsense in me to believe you a footman any longer. Arch. 'Oons, what a witch it is! Cher. Depend upon this, sir, nothing- in this garb shall ever tempt me; for, though I was born to servitude, I hate it. Own your condition, swear you love me, and then Arch. And then we shall go make the bed? Cher. Yes. Arch. You must know, then, that I am born a gentleman, my education was liberal; but 1 went to London a younger brother, fell into the hands of sharpers, who stripped me of my money, my friends disowned me, and now my necessity brings me to what you see. Cher. Then take my hand promise to marry me before you sleep, and I'll make you master of two thousand pounds. Arch. How! Cher. Two thousand pounds that I have this minute in my own custody; so, throw off your livery this instant, and I'll go find a parson. Arch. What said you? a parson! Cher. What! do you scruple? Arch. Scruple! no, no, but Two thousand pounds, you say ? Cher. And better. Arch. [Aside.'} 'Sdeath, what shall I do? [Aloud. 1 But hark'ee, child, what need you make me master of yourself and money, when you may have the same pleasure out of me, and still keep your fortune in your hands ? Cher. Then you won't marry me? Arch. I would marry you, but Cher. O sweet sir, I'm your humble ser- vant, you're fairly caught! Would you persuade me that any gentleman who could bear the scandal of wearing a livery would refuse two thousand pounds, let the condition be what it would? no, no, sir. But I hope you'll pardon the freedom I have taken, since it was only to inform myself of the respect that I ought to pay you. [Going. Arch. [Aside.] Fairly bit, by Jupiter! [Aloud.] Hold! hold! And have you actually two thousand pounds ? Cher. Sir, I have my secrets as well as you; when you please to be more open I shall be more free, and be assured that I have dis- coveries that will match yours, be what they will. In the meanwhile, be satisfied that no discovery I make shall ever hurt you; but beware of my father! [Exit. Arch. So! we're like to have as many adventures in our inn as Don Quixote had in his. Let me see two thousand pounds! If the wench would promise to die when the money were spent, egad, one would marry her; but the fortune may go off in a year or two, and the wife may live Lord knows how long. Then an innkeeper's daughter! ay, that's the devil there my pride brings me off. For whatsoe'er the sages charge on pride, The angels' fall, and twenty faults beside, On earth, I'm sure, 'mong us of mortal call- ing, Pride saves man oft, and woman too, from falling. [Exit. ACT III SCENE I The Gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S House. Enter MRS. SULLEN and DORINDA. Mrs. Siil. Ha! ha! ha! my dear sister, let me embrace thee! Now we are friends indeed; for I shall have a secret of yours as a pledge for mine now you'll be good for something, I shall have you conversable in the subjects of the sex. Dor. But do you think that I am so weak as to fall in love with a fellow at first sight? Mrs. Sul. Psha! now you spoil all; why should not we be as free in our friendships as the men? I warrant you, the gentleman has got to his confidant already, has avowed his passion, toasted your health, called you ten thousand angels, has run over your lips, eyes, neck, shape, air, and everything, in a description that warms their mirth to a second enjoyment. Dor. Your hand, sister, I an't well. Mrs. Sul. So she's breeding already come, child, up with it hem a little so now tell me, don't you like the gentleman that we saw at church just now? Dor. The man's well enough. Mrs. Sul. Well enough! is he not a demi- god, a Narcissus, a star, the man i' the moon? Dor. O sister, I'm extremely ill! Mrs. Sul. Shall I send to your mother, child, for a little of her cephalic plaster to put to the soles of your feet, or shall I send to the gentleman for something for you? Come, unlace your stays, unbosom yourself. The man is perfectly a pretty fellow; I saw him when he first came into church. Dor. I saw him too, sister, and with an air that shone, methought, like rays about his person. Mrs. Sul. Well said, up with it! Dor. No forward coquette behavior, no airs to set him off, no studied looks nor art- ful posture but nature did it all Mrs. Sul. Better and better! one touch more come ! 171 ACT III, Sc. II. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Dor. But then his looks did you observe his eyes? Mrs. Snl. Yes, yes, I did. His eyes, well, what of his eyes? /'.>. Sprightly, but not wandering; they seemed to view, but never gazed on anything but me. And then his looks so humble were, and yet so noble, that they aimed to tell me that he could with pride die at my feet, though he scorned slavery anywhere else. Mrs. Sul. The physic works purely! How d'ye find yourself now, my dear? Dor. Hem ! much better, my dear. Oh, here comes our Mercury ! Enter SCRUB. Well, Scrub, what news of the gentleman? Scrub. Madam, I have brought you a packet of news. Dor. Open it quickly, come. Scrub. In the first place I inquired who the gentleman was; they told me he was a stranger. Secondly, I asked what the gentle- man was; they answered and said, that they never saw him before. Thirdly, I inquired what countryman he was; they replied, 'twas more than they knew. Fourthly, I demanded whence he came; their answer was, they could not tell. And, fifthly, I asked whither he went; and they replied, they knew nothing of the matter, and this is all I could learn. Mrs. Sul. But what do the people say? can't they guess ? Scrub. Why, some think he's a spy, some guess he's a mountebank, some say one thing, some another: but, for my own part, I believe he's a Jesuit. Dor. A Jesuit! why a Jesuit? Scrub. Because he keeps his horses al- ways ready saddled, and his footman talks French. Mrs. Sul. His footman! Scrub. Ay, he and the Count's footman were jabbering French like two intriguing ducks in a mill-pond; and I believe they talked of me, for they laughed consumedly. Dor. What sort of livery has the foot- man? Scrub. Livery! Lord, madam, I took him for a captain, he's so bedizened with lace! And then he has tops to his shoes, up to his mid leg, a silver-headed cane dangling at his knuckles; he carries his hands in his pockets just so [walks in the French air] and has a fine long periwig tied up in a bag. Lord, madam, he's clear another sort of man than I! Mrs. Sul. That may easily be. But what shall we do now, sister? Dor. I have it this fellow has a world of simplicity, and some cunning; the first hides the latter by abundance. Scrub! Scrub. Madam! Dor. We have a great mind to know who this gentleman is, only for our satisfaction. St-riih. Yes, madam, it would be a satis- faction, no doubt. Dor. You must go and get acquainted with his footman, and invite him hither to drink a bottle of your ale, because you're butler to-day. Scrub. Yes, madam, I am butler every Sunday. Mrs. Sul. O brave! sister, o' my con- science, you understand the mathematics al- ready. TTis the best plot in the world: your mother, you know, will be gone to church, my spouse will be got to the ale-house with his scoundrels, and the house will be our own so we drop in by accident, and ask the fellow some questions ourselves. In the country, you know, any stranger is company, and we're glad to take up with the butler in a country-dance and happy if he'll do us the favor. Scrub. O madam, you wrong me! I never refused your ladyship the favor in my life. Enter GIPSY. Gip. Ladies, dinner's upon table. Dor. Scrub, we'll excuse your waiting go where we ordered you. Scrub. I shall. [Exeunt. SCENE II A Room in BONIFACE'S Inn. Enter AIMWELL and ARCHER. Arch. Well, Tom, I find you're a marks- man. Aim. A marksman! who so blind could be, as not discern a swan among the ravens? Arch. Well, but hark'ee, Aimwell ! Aim. Aimwell! call me Oroondates, Cesa- rio, Amadis, all that romance can in a lover paint, and then I'll answer. O Archer! I read her thousands in her looks, she looked like Ceres in her harvest: corn, wine and oil, milk and honey, gardens, groves, and purling streams played on her plenteous face. Arch. Her face! her pocket, you mean; the corn, wine and oil, lies there. In short, she has ten thousand pounds, that's the English on't. Aim. Her eyes Arch. Are demi-cannons, to be sure; so I won't stand their battery. [Going. Aim. Pray excuse me, my passion must have vent. Arch. Passion! what a plague, d'ye think these romantic airs will do our business? Were my temper as extravagant as yours, my adventures have something more ro- mantic by half. Aim. Your adventures ! Arch. Yes, 172 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT III, Sc. II. The nymph that with her twice ten hundred pounds, With brazen engine hot, and quoif clear- starched, Can fire the guest in warming of the bed There's a touch of sublime Milton for you, and the subject but an innkeeper's daughter! I can play with a girl as an angler does with his fish; he keeps it at the end of his line, runs it up' the stream, and down the stream, till at last he brings it to hand, tickles the trout, and so whips it into his basket. Enter BONIFACE. Bon. Mr. Martin, as the saying is yon- der's an honest fellow below, my Lady Boun- tiful's butler, who begs the honor that you would go home with him and see his cellar. Arch. Do my baise-mains to the gentleman, and tell him I will do myself the honor to wait on him immediately. [Exit BONIFACE. Aim. What do I hear? Soft Orpheus play, and fair Toftida sing ! Arch. Psha! damn your raptures; I tell you, here's a pump going to be put into the vessel, and the ship will get into harbor, my life on't. You say, there's another lady very handsome there ? Aim. Yes, faith. Arch. I'm in love with her already. Aim. Can't you give me a bill upon Cherry in the meantime? Arch. No, no, friend, all her corn, wine and oil, is ingrossed to my market. And once more I warn you, to keep your anchor- age clear of mine; for if you fall foul of me, by this light you shall go to the bottom ! What! make prize of my little frigate, while I am upon the cruise for you! Aim. Well, well, I won't. [Exit ARCHER. Re-enter BONIFACE. Landlord, have you any tolerable company in the house, I don't care for dining alone? Bon. Yes, sir, there's a captain below, as the saying is, that arrived about an hour ago. Aim. Gentlemen of his coat are welcome everywhere; will you make him a compli- ment from me and tell him I should be glad of his company ? Bon. Who shall I tell him, sir, would Aim. [Aside.} Ha! that stroke was well thrown in! [Aloud.} I'm only a traveller, like himself, and would be glad of his company, that's all. Bon. I obey your commands, as the saying is. [Exit. Re-enter ARCHER. Arch. 'Sdeath! I had forgot; what title will you give yourself? Aim. My brother's, to be sure; he would never give me anything else, so I'll make bold with his honor this bout: you know the rest of your cue. Arch. Ay, ay. [Exit. Enter GIBBET. Gib. Sir, I'm yours. Aim. 'Tis more- than I deserve, sir, for I don't know you. Gib. I don't wonder at that, sir, for you never saw me before [Aside.} I hope. Aim. And pray, sir, how came I by the honor of seeing you now? Gib. Sir, I scorn to intrude upon any gentleman but my landlord Aim. O sir, I ask your pardon, you're the captain he told me of? Gib. At your service, sir. Aim. What regiment, may I be so bold? Gib. A marching regiment, sir, an old corps. Aim. [Aside.} Very old, if your coat be regimental. [Aloud.} You have served abroad, sir? Gib. Yes, sir, in the plantations, 'twas my lot to be sent into the worst service; I would have quitted it indeed, but a man of honor, you know Besides, 'twas for the good of my country that I should be abroad: anything for the good of one's country I'm a Roman for that. Aim. [Aside.} One of the first; I'll lay my life. [Aloud.} You found the West Indies very hot, sir? Gib. Ay, sir, too hot for me. Aim. Pray, sir, han't I seen your face at Will's coffee-house? Gib. Yes, sir, and at White's too. Aim. And where is your company now, captain ? Gib. They an't come yet. Aim. Why, d'ye expect 'em here? Gib. They'll be here to-night, sir. Aim. Which way do they march? Gib. Across the country. [Aside.} The devil's in't, if I han't said enough to encour- age him to declare! But I'm afraid he's not right; I must tack about. Aim. Is your company to quarter in Lich- field? Gib. In this house, sir. Aim. What! all? Gib. My company's but thin, ha! ha! ha! we are but three, ha! ha! ha! Aim. You're merry, sir. Gib. Ay, sir, you must excuse me, sir; I understand the world, especially the art of travelling: I don't care, sir, for answering questions directly upon the road for I gen- erally ride with a charge about me. Aim. [Aside.} Three or four, I believe. Gib. I am credibly informed that there are highwaymen upon this quarter; not, sir, that I could suspect a gentleman of your figure but truly, sir, I have got such a way 173 ACT III, Sc. III. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM of evasion upon the road, that I don't care for speaking truth to any man. Aim. [Aside.} Your caution may be neces- sary. [.-J/fuJ.] Then I presume you're no captain ? Gib. Not I, sir; captain is a good travel- ling name, and so I take it; it stops a great many foolish inquiries that are generally made about gentlemen that travel, it gives a man an air of something, and makes the drawers obedient: and thus far I am a cap- tain, and no farther. Aim. And pray, sir, what is your true profession ? Gib. O sir, you must excuse me! upon my word, sir, I don't think it safe to tell ye. Aim. Ha! ha! ha! upon my word I com- mend you. Re-enter BONIFACE. Well, Mr. Boniface, what's the news? Bon. There's another gentleman below, as the saying is, that hearing you were but two, would be glad to make the third man, if you would give him leave. Aim. What is he? Bon. A clergyman, as the saying is. Aim. A clergyman! is he really a clergy- man? or is it only his travelling name, as my friend the captain has it? Bon. O sir, he's a priest, and chaplain to the French officers in town. Aim. Is he a Frenchman? Bon. Yes, sir, born at Brussels. Gib. A Frenchman, and a priest ! I won't be seen in his company, sir; I have a value for my reputation, sir. Aim. Nay, but, captain, since we are by ourselves Can he speak English, landlord ? Bon. Very well, sir; you may know him, as the saying is, to be a foreigner by his accent, and that's all. Aim. Then he has been in England be- fore? Bon. Never, sir; but he's a master of languages, as the saying is; he talks Latin it does me good to hear him talk Latin. Aim. Then you understand Latin, Mr. Boniface ? Bon. Not I, sir, as the saying is; but he talks it so very fast, that I'm sure it must be good. Aim. Pray, desire him to walk up. Bon. Here he is, as the saying is. Enter FOICARD. F i. Save you, gentlemens, both. Aim. [Aside.} A Frenchman! [To Foi- GARD.] Sir, your most humble servant. Foi. Och, dear joy, I am your most faith- ful shervant, and yours alsho. Gib. Doctor, you talk very good English, but you have a mighty twang of the foreigner. Foi. My English is very veil for the vords, but we foreigners, you know, cannot bring our tongues about the pronunciation so soon. Aim. [Aside.] A foreigner! a downright Teague, by this light! [Aloud.} Were you born in France, doctor? Foi. I was educated in France, but I was horned at Brussels; I am a subject of the King of Spain, joy. Gib. What King of Spain, sir? speak! Foi. Upon my shoul, joy, I cannot tell you as yet. Aim. Nay, captain, that was too hard upon the doctor; he's a stranger. Foi. Oh, let him alone, dear joy; I am of a nation that is not easily put out of coun- tenance. Aim. Come, gentlemen, I'll end the dis- pute. Here, landlord, is dinner ready? Bon. Upon the table, as the saying is. Aim. Gentlemen pray that door Foi. No, no, fait, the captain must lead. Aim. No, doctor, the church is our guide. Gib. Ay, ay, so it is. [Exit FOIGARD foremost, they follow. SCENE III The Gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S House. Enter ARCHER and SCRUB singing, and hug- ging one another, SCRUB with a tankard in his hand. GIPSY listening at a dis- tance. Scrub. Tall, all, dall! Come, my dear boy, let's have that song once more. Arch. No, no, we shall disturb the family. But will you be sure to keep the secret? Scrub. Pho! upon my honor, as I'm a gen- tleman. Arch. 'Tis enough. You must know, then, that my master is the Lord Viscount Aim- well; he fought a duel t'other day in London, wounded his man so dangerously, that he thinks fit to withdraw till he hears whether the gentleman's wounds be mortal or not. He never was in this part of England before, so he chose to retire to this place, that's all. Gil'. [Aside.} And that's enough for me. [Exit. Scrub. And where were you when your master fought? Arch. We never know of our masters' quarrels. Scrub. No! If our masters in the country here receive a challenge, the first thing they do is to tell their wives; the wife tells the servants, the servants alarm the tenants, and in half an hour you shall have the whole county in arms. Arch. To hinder two men from doing what they have no mind for. But if you should chance to talk now of my business ? Scrub. Talk ! ay, sir, had I not learned the knack of holding my tongue, I had never lived so long in a great family. 174 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT III, So. III. Arch. Ay, ay, to be sure there are secrets in all families. Scrub. Secrets! ay; but I'll say no more. Come, sit down, we'll make an end of our tankard: here [Gives ARCHER the tankard. Arch. With all my heart; who knows but you and I may come to be better acquainted, eh? Here's your ladies' healths; you have three, I think, and to be sure there must be secrets among 'em. Scrub. Secrets! ay, friend. I wish I had a friend! Arch. Am not I your friend? Come, you and I will be sworn brothers. Scrub. Shall we? Arch. From this minute. Give me a kiss: and now, brother Scrub Scrub. And now, brother Martin, I will tell you a secret that will make your hair stand on end. You must know that I am consumedly in love. Arch. That's a terrible secret, that's the truth on't. Scrub. That jade, Gipsy, that was with us just now in the cellar, is the arrantest whore that ever wore a petticoat; and I'm dying for love of her. Arch. Ha! ha! ha! Are you in love with her person or her virtue, brother Scrub? Scrub. I should like virtue best, be- cause it is more durable than beauty: for virtue holds good with some women long, and many a day after they have lost it. Arch. In the country, I grant yc, where no woman's virtue is lost, till a bastard be found. Scrub. Ay, could I bring her to a bastard, I should have her all to myself; but I dare not put it upon that lay, for fear of being sent for a soldier. Pray, brother, how do you gentlemen in London like that same Pressing Act? Arch. Very ill, brother Scrub; 'tis the worst that ever was made for us. Formerly I remember the good days, when we could dun our masters for our wages, and if they refused to pay us, we could have a warrant to carry 'em before a Justice: but now if we talk of eating, they have a warrant for us, and carry us before three Justices. Scrub. And to be sure we go, if we talk of eating; for the Justices won't give their own servants a bad example. Now this is my misfortune I dare not speak in the house, while that jade Gipsy dings about like a fury. Once I had the better end of the staff. Arch. And how comes the change now? Scrub. Why, the mother of all this mis- chief is a priest. Arch. A priest! Scrub. Ay, a damned son of a whore of Babylon, that came over hither to say grace to the French officers, and eat up our pro- visions. There's not a day goes over his head without a dinner or supper in this house. Arch. How came he so familiar in the family ? Scrub. Because he speaks English as if he had lived here all his life, and tells lies as if he had been a traveller from his cradle. Arch. And this priest, I'm afraid, has converted the affections of your Gipsy? Scrub. Converted! ay, and perverted, my dear friend: for, I'm afraid, he has made her a whore and a papist! But this is not all; there's the French count and Mrs. Sul- len, they're in the confederacy, and for some private ends of their own, to be sure. Arch. A very hopeful family yours, brother Scrub ! I suppose the maiden lady has her lover too? Scrub. Not that I know. She's the best on 'em, that's the truth on't. But they take care to prevent my curiosity, by giving me so much business, that I'm a perfect slave. What d'ye think is my place in this family? Arch. Butler, I suppose. Scrub. Ah, Lord help you! I'll tell you. Of a Monday I drive the coach; of a Tuesday I drive the plough; on Wednesday I follow the hounds; a Thursday I dun the tenants; on Friday I go to market; on Saturday I draw warrants; and a Sunday I draw beer. Arch. Ha! ha! ha! if variety be a pleasure in life, you have enough on't, my dear brother. But what ladies are those? Enter MRS. SULLEN and DORINDA. Scrub. Ours, ours; that upon the right hand is Mrs. Sullen, and the other is Mrs. Dorinda. Don't mind 'em; sit still, man. Mrs. Sul. I have heard my brother talk of my Lord Aim well; but they say that his brother is the finer gentleman. Dor. That's impossible, sister. Mrs. Sul. He's vastly rich, but very close, they say. Dor. No matter for that; if I can creep into his heart, I'll open his breast, I warrant him. I have heard say, that people may be guessed at by the behavior of their serv- ants; I could wish we might talk to that fellow. Mrs. Sul. So do I; for I think he's a very pretty fellow. Come this way, I'll throw out a lure for him presently. [They walk a turn towards the opposite side of the stage. Arch. [Aside.] Corn, wine, and oil indeed! But, I think, the wife has the greatest plenty of flesh and blood; she should be my choice. Ay, ay, say you so! [MRS. SULLEN drops her glove, ARCHER runs, takes it up and gives to her.] Madam your ladyship's glove. Mrs. Sul. O sir, I thank you! [To Do- 175 ACT III, Sc. III. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM RINDA.] What a handsome bow the fellow has! Dor. Bow! why, i have known several footmen come down from London set up here for dancing-masters, and carry off the best fortunes in the country. Arch. [Aside.} That project, for aught I know, had been better than ours. [To SCRUB.] Brother Scrub, why don't you intro- duce me? Scrub. Ladies, this is the strange gentle- man's servant that you saw at church to- day; I understood he came from London, and so I invited him to the cellar, that he might show me the newest flourish in whetting my knives. Dor. And I hope you have made much of him? Arch. Oh yes, madam, but the strength of your ladyship's liquor is a little too potent for the constitution of your humble servant. Mrs. Sul. What, then you don't usually drink ale? Arch. No, madam; my constant drink is tea, or a little wine and water. Tis pre- scribed me by the physician for a remedy against the spleen. Scrub. Oh la! Oh la! a footman have the spleen ! Mrs. Sul. I thought that distemper had been only proper to people of quality? Arch. Madam, like all other fashions it wears out, and so descends to their serv- ants; though in a great many of us, I be- lieve, it proceeds from some melancholy particles in the blood, occasioned by the stagnation of wages. Dor. [Aside to MRS. SULLEN.] How af- fectedly the fellow talks! [To ARCHER.] How long, pray, have you served your present master? Arch. Not long; my life has been mostly spent in the service of the ladies. Mrs. Sul. And pray, which service do you like best? Arch. Madam, the ladies pay best; the honor of serving them is sufficient wages; there is a charm in their looks that delivers a pleasure with their commands, and gives our duty the wings of inclination. Mrs. Sul. [Aside.} That flight was above the pitch of a livery. [Aloud.} And, sir, would not you be satisfied to serve a lady again ? Arch. As a groom of the chamber, madam, but not as a footman. Mrs. Sul. I suppose you served as foot- man before? Arch. For that reason I would not serve in that post again; for my memory is too weak for the load of messages that the ladies lay upon their servants in London. My Lady Howd'ye, the last mistress I served, called me up one morning, and told me, " Martin, go to my Lady Allnight with my humble service; tell her I was to wait on her ladyship yesterday, and left word with Mrs. Rebecca, that the preliminaries of the affair she knows of, are stopped till we know the concurrence of the person that I know of, for which there are circumstances wanting which we shall accommodate at the old place; but that in the meantime there is a person about her ladyship, that from sev- eral hints and surmises, was accessory at a certain time to the disappointments that naturally attend things, that to her knowl- edge are of more importance " Mrs. Sul., Dor. Ha! ha! ha! where are you going, sir? Arch. Why, I han't half done!-The whole howd'ye was about half an hour long; so I happened to misplace two syllables, and was turned off, and rendered incapable. Dor. [Aside to MRS. SULLEN.] The pleas- ant est fellow, sister, I ever saw! [To ARCHER.] But, friend, if your master be married, I presume you still serve a lady? Arch. No, madam, I take care never to come into a married family; the commands of the master and mistress are always so contrary, that 'tis impossible to please both. Dor. There's a main point gained: my lord is not married, I find. [Aside. Mrs. Sul. But I wonder, friend, that in so many good services, you had not a bet- ter provision made for you. Arch. I don't know how, madam. I had a lieutenancy offered me three or four times; but that is not bread, madam I live much better as I do. Scrub. Madam, he sings rarely ! I was thought to do pretty well here in the coun- try till he came; but alack a day, I'm noth- ing to my brother Martin! Dor. Does he? Pray, sir, will you oblige us with a song? .trch. Are you for passion or humor? Scrub. Oh le! he has the purest ballad about a trifle Mrs. Sul. A trifle! pray, sir, let's have it. Arch. I'm ashamed to offer you a trifle, madam; but since you command me [Sings to the tune of " Sir Simon the King." A trifling song you shall hear, Begun with a trifle and ended: All trifling people draw near, And I shall be nobly attended. Were it not for trifles, a few, That lately have come into play; The men would want something to do, And the women want something to say. What makes men trifle in dressing? Because the ladies (they know) 176 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT III, So. III. Admire, by often possessing, That eminent trifle, a beau. When the lover his moments has trifled, The trifle of trifles to gain: No sooner the virgin is rifled, But a trifle shall part 'em again. What mortal man would be able At White's half an hour to sit? Or who could bear a tea-table, Without talking of trifles for wit? The court is from trifles secure, Gold keys are no trifles, we see: White rods are no trifles, I'm sure, Whatever their bearers may be. But if you will go to the place, Where trifles abundantly breed, The levee will show you His Grace Makes promises trifles indeed. A coach with six footmen behind, I count neither trifle nor sin: But, ye gods! how oft do we find A scandalous trifle within. A flask of champagne, people think it A trifle, or something as bad: But if you'll contrive how to drink it, You'll find it no trifle, egad! A parson's a trifle at sea, A widow's a trifle in sorrow: A peace is a trifle to-day, Who knows what may happen to-morrow! A black coat a trifle may cloak, Or to hide it, the red may endeavor: But if once the army is broke, We shall have more trifles than ever. The stage is a trifle, they say, The reason, pray carry along, Because at every new play, The house they with trifles so throng. But with people's malice to trifle, And to set us all on a foot: The author of this is a trifle, And his song is a trifle to boot. Mrs. Sul. Very well, sir, we're obliged to you. Something for a pair of gloves. [Offering him money. Arch. I humbly beg leave to be excused: my master, madam, pays me; nor dare I take money from any other hand, without injuring his honor, and disobeying his com- mands. [Ex-it with SCRUB. Dor. This is surprising! Did you ever see so pretty a well-bred fellow? Mrs. Sul. The devil take him for wearing that livery! Dor. I fancy, sister, he may be some gen- tleman, a friend of my lord's, that his lord- ship has pitched upon for his courage, fidel- 177 ity, and discretion, to bear him company in this dress, and who ten to one was his second too. Mrs. Sul. It is so, it must be so, and it shall be so ! for I like him. Dor. What! better than the Count? Airs. Sul. The Count happened to be the most agreeable man upon the place; and so I chose him to serve me in my design upon my husband. But I should like this fellow better in a design upon myself. Dor. But now, sister, for an interview with this lord and this gentleman; how shall we bring that about? Mrs. Sul. Patience! you country ladies give no quarter if once you be entered. Would you prevent their desires, and give the fellows no wishing- time? Look'ee, Do- rinda, if my Lord Aimwell loves you or de- serves you, he'll find a way to see you, and there we must leave it. My business comes now upon the tapis. Have you prepared your brother? Dor. Yes, yes. Mrs. Sul. And how did he relish it? Dor. He said little, mumbled something to himself, promised to be guided by me but here he comes. Enter SULLEN. Squire Sul. What singing was that I heard just now? Mrs. Sul. The singing in your head, my dear; you complained of it all day. Squire Sul. You're impertinent. Mrs. Sul. I was ever so, since I became one flesh with you. Squire Sul. One flesh! rather two car- casses joined unnaturally together. Mrs. Sul. Or rather a living soul coupled to a dead body. Dor. So, this is fine encouragement for me! Squire Sul. Yes, my wife shows you what you must do. Mrs. Sul. And my husband shows you what you must suffer. Squire Sul. 'Sdeath, why can't you be silent ? Mrs. Sul. 'Sdeath, why can't you talk? Squire Sul. Do you talk to any purpose? Mrs. Sul. Do you think to any purpose? Squire Sul. Sister, hark'ee! [Whispers.'} I shan't be home till it be late. . [Exit. Mrs. Sul. What did he whisper to ye? Dor. That he would go round the back way, come into the closet, and listen as I directed him. But let me beg you once more, dear sister, to drop this project; for as I told you before, instead of awaking him to kindness, you may provoke him to a rage; and then who knows how far his brutality may carry him? Mrs. Sul. I'm provided to receive him, I ACT III, Sc. III. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM warrant vanish I you. But here comes the Count: [Exit DORINDA. Enter COUNT BELLAIR, Don't you wonder, Monsieur le Count, that I was not at church this afternoon? Count Bel. I more wonder, madam, that you go dere at all, or how you dare to lift those eyes to heaven that are guilty of so much killing. Mrs. Sul. If Heaven, sir, has given to my eyes with the power of killing the virtue of making a cure, I hope the one may atone for the other. Count Bel. Oh, largely, madam, would your ladyship be as ready to apply the remedy as to give the wound. Consider, madam, I am doubly a prisoner; first to the arms of your general, then to your more conquering eyes. My first chains are easy- there a ransom may redeem me; but from your fetters I never shall get free. Mrs. Sul. Alas, sir! why should you complain to me of your captivity, who am in chains myself? You know, sir, that I am bound, nay, must be tied up in that particular that might ;?ive you ease: I am like you, a prisoner of war of war, indeed I have given my parole of honor! would you break yours to gain your liberty? Count Bel. Most certainly I would, were I a prisoner among the Turks; dis is your case, you're a slave, madam, slave to the worst of Turks, a husband. Mrs. Sul. There lies my foible, I confess; no fortifications, no courage, conduct, nor defend governor place forces vigilancy, can pretend to where the cruelty of the the garrison to mutiny. Count Bel. And where de besieger is re- solved to die before de place. Here will I fix [Kneels']; with tears, vows, and prayers assault your heart and never rise till you surrender; or if I must storm Love and St. Michael! And so I begin the attack. Mrs. Sul. Stand off ! [Aside.} Sure he hears me not! And I could almost wish he did not ! The fellow makes love very pret- tily. [.-lloiiii.] But, sir, why should you put such a value upon my person, when you see it despised by one that knows it so much better? Count Bel. He knows it not, though he possesses it; if he but knew the value of the jewel he is master of, he would always wear it next his heart, and sleep with it in his arms. Mrs. Sul. But since he throws me un- regarded from him Count Bel. And one that knows your value well comes by and takes you up, is it not justice? [Goes to lay hold of her. Enter SULLEN with his sword drawn. 178 Squire Sul. Hold, villain, hold! Mrs. Sul. [Presenting a pistol.] Do you hold! Squire Sir/. What! murder your husband, to defend your bully! Mrs. Sul. Bully! for shame, Mr. Sullen, bullies wear long swords, the gentleman has none; he's a prisoner, you know. I was aware of your outrage, and prepared this to receive your violence; and, if occasion were, to preserve myself against the force of this other gentleman. Count Bel. O madam, your eyes be bettre firearms than your pistol; they never miss. Squire Sul. What! court my wife to my face! Mrs. Sul. Pray, Mr. Sullen, put up; sus- pend your fury for a minute. Squire Sul. To give you time to invent an excuse ! Mrs. Sul. I need none. Squire Sul. No, for I heard every syllable of your discourse. Count Bel. Ah! and begar, I tink the dia- logue was vera pretty. Mrs. Sul. Then I suppose, sir, you heard something of your own barbarity? Squire Sul. Barbarity! 'Oons, what does the woman call barbarity? Do I ever meddle with you ? Mrs. Sul. No. Squire Sul. As for you, sir, I shall take another time. Count Bel. Ah, begar, and so must I. Squire Sul. Look'ee, madam, don't think that my anger proceeds from any concern I have for your honor, but for my own, and if you can contrive any way of being a whore without making me a cuckold, do it and welcome. Mrs. Sul. Sir, I thank you kindly, you would allow me the sin but rob me of the pleasure. No, no, I'm resolved never to venture upon the crime without the satis- faction of seeing you punished for't. Squire Sul. Then will you grant me this, my dear? Let anybody else do you the favor but that Frenchman, for I mortally hate his whole generation. [Exit. Count Bel. Ah, sir, that be ungrateful, for begar, I love some of yours. Madam [Approaching her. Mrs. Sul. No, sir. Count Bel. No, sir! garzoon, madam, I am not your husband. Mrs. Sul. 'Tis time to undeceive you, sir. I believed your addresses to me were no more than an amusement, and I hope you will think the same of my complaisance; and to convince you that you ought, you must know that I brought you hither only to make you instrumental in setting me right with my husband, for he was planted to listen by my appointment. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT IV, Sc. I. Count Bel. By your appointment? Mrs. Sul. Certainly. Count Bel. And so, madam, while I was telling twenty stories to part you from your husband, begar, I was bringing you together all the while? Mrs. Sul. I ask your pardon, sir, but I hope this will give you a taste of the virtue of the English ladies. Count Bel. Begar, madam, your virtue be vera great, but garzoon, your honeste be vera little. Re-enter DORINDA. / Mrs. Sul. Nay, now, you're angry, sir. Count Bel. Angry! Fair Dorinda [Sings ' Fair Dorinda,' the opera tune, and addresses Dorinda.'] Madam, when your ladyship want a fool, send for me. etc. Fair Dorinda, Revenge, [Exit singing. Mrs. Sul. There goes the true humor of his nation resentment with good manners, and the height of anger in a song! Well, sister, you must be judge, for you have heard the trial. Dor. And I bring in my brother guilty. Mrs. Sul. But I must bear the punish- ment. 'Tis hard, sister. Dor. I own it; but you must have pa- tience. Mrs. Sul. Patience! the cant of custom- Providence sends no evil without a remedy. Should I lie groaning under a yoke I can shake off, I were accessory to my ruin, and my patience were no better than self-murder. Dor. But how can you shake off the yoke? your divisions don't come within the reach of the law for a divorce. Mrs. Sul. Law! what law can search into the remote abyss of nature? What evidence can prove the unaccountable disaffections of wedlock? Can a jury sum up the endless aversions that are rooted in our souls, or can a bench give judgment upon antipathies? Dor. They never pretended, sister; they never meddle, but in case of uncleanness. Mrs. Sul. Uncleanness! O sister! casual violation is a transient injury, and may possibly be repaired, but can radical hatreds be ever reconciled? No, no, sister, nature is the first lawgiver, and when she has set tempers opposite, not all the golden links of wedlock nor iron manacles of law can keep 'em fast. Wedlock we own ordain'd by Heaven's de- cree, But such as Heaven ordain'd it first to be; Concurring tempers in the man and wife As mutual helps to draw the load of life. View all the works of Providence above, The stars with harmony and concord move; View all the works of Providence below, The fire, the water, earth and air, we know, AH in one plant agree to make it grow. Must man, the chiefest work of art divine, Be doomed in endless discord to repine? No, we should injure Heaven by that sur- mise, Omnipotence is just, were man but wise. ACT IV SCENE I The Gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S House. Enter MRS. SULLEN. Mrs. Sul. Were I born an humble Turk, where women have no soul nor property, there I must sit contented. But in England, a country whose women are its glory, must women be abused? Where women rule, must women be enslaved? Nay, cheated into slavery, mocked by a promise of comfort- able society into a wilderness of solitude! I dare not keep the thought about me. Oh, here comes something to divert me. Enter a COUNTRYWOMAN. Worn. I come, an't please your ladyship you're my Lady Bountiful, an't ye? Mrs. Sul. Well, good woman, go on. Wont. I have come seventeen long mail to have a cure for my husband's sore leg. Mrs. Sul. Your husband! what, woman, cure your husband ! Worn. Ay, poor man, for his sore leg won't let him stir from home. Mrs. Sul. There, I confess, you have given me a reason. Well, good woman, I'll tell you what you must do. You must lay your husband's leg upon a table, and with a chopping-knif- you must lay it open as broad as you can, then you must take out the bone, and beat the flesh soundly with a rolling-pin; then take salt, pepper, cloves, mace, and ginger, some sweet-herbs, and season it very well; then roll it up like brawn, and put it into the oven for two hours. Worn. Heavens reward your ladyship! I have two little babies too that are piteous bad with the graips, an't please ye. Mrs. Sul. Put a little pepper and sa't in their bellies, good woman. Enter LADY BOUNTIFUL. I beg your ladyship's pardon for taking your business out of your hands; I have been a-tampering here a little with one of your patients. Lady Boun. Come, good woman, don't mind this mad creature; I am the person that you want, I suppose. What would you have, woman? Mrs. Sul. She wants something for her husband's sore leg. 179 ACT IV, Sc. I. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Ld title, place, and precedence, the Park, the play, and the drawing-room, splendor, equipage, noise, and flambeaux. Hey, my Lady Aimwell's servants there! Lights, lights to the stairs! My Lady Aimwell's coach put forward! Stand by, make room for her lady- ship! Are not these things moving? What! melancholy of a sudden? Mrs. Sul. Happy, happy sister! your angel has been watchful for your happiness, whilst mine has slept regardless of his charge. Long smiling years of circling joys for you, but not one hour for me! [Weeps. Dor. Come, my dear, we'll talk of some- thing else. Mrs. Sul. O Dorinda! I own myself a woman, full of my sex, a gentle, generous soul, easy and yielding to soft desires; a spacious heart, where love and all his train might lodge. And must the fair apartment of my breast be made a stable for a brute to lie in? Dor. Meaning your husband, I suppose? Mrs. Sul. Husband! no; even husband is too soft a name for him. But, come, I ex- pect my brother here to-night or to-morrow; he was abroad when my father married me; perhaps he'll find a way to make me easy. Dor. Will you promise not to make your- self easy in the meantime with my lord's friend? Mrs. Sul. You mistake me, sister. It happens with us as among the men, the greatest talkers are the greatest cowards? and there's a reason for it; those spirits evaporate in prattle, which might do more mischief if they took another course. Though, to confess the truth, I do love that fellow; and if I met him dressed as he should be, and I undressed as I should be look'ee, sister, I have no supernatural gifts I can't swear I could resist the temptation; though I can safely promise to avoid it; and that's as much as the best of us can do. [Exeunt. SCENE II A Room in BONIFACE'S Inn. Enter AIMWELL and ARCHER laughing. Arch. And the awkward kindness of the good motherly old gentlewoman Aim. And the coming easiness of the young one 'Sdeath, 'tis pity to deceive her! Arch. Nay, if you adhere to these prin- ciples, stop where you are. Aim. I can't stop; for I love her to dis- traction. Arch. 'Sdeath, if you love her a hair's- breath beyond discretion, you must go no further. Aim. Well, well, anything to deliver us 184 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT IV, Sc. II. from sauntering away our idle evenings at White's, Tom's, or Will's, and be stinted to bare looking at our old acquaintance, the cards; because our impotent pockets can't afford us a guinea for the mercenary drabs. Arch. Or be obliged to some purse-proud coxcomb for a scandalous bottle, where we must not pretend to our share of the dis- course, because we can't pay our club o" th' reckoning. Damn it, I had rather sponge upon Morris, and sup upon a dish of bohea scored behind the door! Aim. And there expose our want of sense by talking criticisms, as we should our want of money by railing at the government. Arch. Or be obliged to sneak into the side-box, and between both houses steal two acts of a play, and because we han't money to see the other three, we come away dis- contented, and damn the whole five. Aim. And ten thousand such rascally tricks had we outlived our fortunes among our acquaintance. But now Arch. Ay, now is the time to prevent all this: strike while the iron is hot. This priest is the luckiest part of our adventure; he shall marry you, and pimp for me. Aim. But I should not like a woman that can be so fond of a Frenchman. Arch. Alas, sir! Necessity has no law. The lady may be in distress; perhaps she has a confounded husband, and her revenge may carry her farther than her love. Egad, I have so good an opinion of her, and of myself, that I begin to fancy strange things: and we must say this for the honor of our women, and indeed of ourselves, that they do stick to their men as they do to their Magna Charta. If the plot lies as I suspect, I must put on the gentleman. But here comes the doctor I shall be ready. [Exit. Enter FOIGARD. Foi. Sauve you, noble friend. Aim. O sir, your servant! Pray, doctor, may I crave your name? Foi. Fat naam is upon me? My naam is Foigard, joy. Aim. Foigard! a very good name for a clergyman. Pray, Doctor Foigard, were you ever in Ireland? Ireland! no, joy. Fat sort of plaace is dat saam Ireland? Dey say de people are catched dere when dey are young. Aim. And some of 'em when they are old: as for example. [Takes FOIGARD by the shoulder.'] Sir, I arrest you as a traitor against the government; you're a subject of England, and this morning showed me a commission, by which you served as chap- Iain in the French army. This is death by our law, and your reverence must hang for it. Fni. Upon my shout, noble friend, dis is strange news you tell me ! Fader Foigard a subject of England! de son of a burgo- master of Brussels, a subject of England! ubooboc Aim. The son of a bog-trotter in Ireland! Sir, your tongue will condemn you before any bench in the kingdom. Foi. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy? Aim. That's enough. Foi. No, no, joy, for I vill never spake English no more. Aim. Sir, I have other evidence. Here, Martin ! Re-enter ARCHER. You know this fellow? Arch. [In a brogue.} Saave you, my dear cussen, how does your health? Foi. [Aside.] Ah ! upon my shoul dere is my countryman, and his brogue will hang mine. [To ARCHER.] Mynheer, Ick wet neat watt hey zacht, Ick universton ewe neat, sacramant! Aim. Altering your language won't do, sir; this fellow knows your person, and will swear to your face. Foi. Faash! fey, is dere a brogue upon my faash too ? Arch. Upon my soulvation dere ish, Joy! But cussen Mackshane, vil you not put a remembrance upon me ? Foi. [Aside.'} Mackshane! by St. Patrick, dat ish my naam shure enough. Aim. [Aside to ARCHER.] I fancy, Archer, you have it. . Foi. The devil hang you, joy! by fat ac- quaintance are you my cussen? Arch. Oh, de devil hang yourshelf, joy! you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster-moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens. Foi. De devil taake de relation! Vel, joy, and fat school was it? Arch. I tinks it vas aay 'twas Tip- perary. Foi. Aim. No, no, joy; it vas Kilkenny. That's enough for us self-confes- sion. Come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate. Arch. He sends you to jail, you're tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory. Foi. And is it so wid you, cussen? Arch. It vil be sho wid you, cussen, if you don't immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsy. Look'ee, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice. Foi. The gallows ! upon my shoul I hate that saam gallow, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our family. Vel, den, dere is nothing, shentlemens, but Mrs. Shullen would spaak wid the Count in her chamber 185 ACT V, Sc. I. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM at midnight, and dere is no haarm, joy, for I am to conduct the Count to the plash, myshelf. Arch. As I guessed. Have you communi- cated the matter to the Count? Foi. I have not sheen him since. Arch. Right again! Why then, doctor you shall conduct me to the lady instead of the Count. Foi. Fat, my cussen to the lady! upon my shoul, gra, dat is too much upon the brogue. Arch. Come, come, doctor; consider we have got a rope about your neck, and if you offer to squeak, we'll stop your windpipe, most certainly. We shall have another job for you in a day or two, I hope. Aim. Here's company coming this way; let's into my chamber, and there concert our affairs farther. Arch. Come, my dear cussen, come along. [Exeunt. Enter BONIFACE, HOUNSLOW, and BAGSHOT at one door, GIBBET at the opposite. Gib. Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprise. Houn. Dark as hell. Bag. And blows like the devil; our land- lord here has showed us the window where in, and tells us the plate wainscot cupboard in the we must break stands in the parlor. Bon. Ay, ay, Mr. Bagshot, as the saying is, knives and forks, and cups and cans, and tumblers and tankards. There's one tankard, as the saying is, that's near upon as big as me; it was a present to the squire from his godmother, and smells of nutmeg and toast like an East-India ship. Houn. Then you say we must divide at the stairhead? Bon. Yes, Mr. Hounslow, as the saying is. At one end of that gallery lies my Lady Bountiful and her daughter, and at the other Mrs. Sullen. As for the squire Gib. He's safe enough, I have fairly en- tered him, and he's more than half seas over already. But such a parcel of scoun- drels are got about him now, that, egad, I was ashamed to be seen in their company. Bon. 'Tis now twelve, as the saying is gentlemen, you must set out at one. Gib. Hounslow, do you and Bagshot see our arms fixed, and I'll come to you pres- ently. Houn., Bag. We will. [Exeunt. Gib. Well, my dear Bonny, you assure me that Scrub is a coward? Bon. A chicken, as the saying is. You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies. Gib. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady; I am the most a gentleman that way that ever travelled the road. But, my dear Bonny, this prize will be a galleon, a Vigo business. I warrant you we shall bring off three or four thousand pounds. Bon. In plate, jewels, and money, as the saying is, you may. Gib. Why then, Tyburn, I defy thee! I'll get up to town, sell off my horse and arms, buy myself some pretty employment in the household, and be as snug and as honest as any courtier of 'em all. Bon. And what think you then of my daughter Cherry for a wife? Gib. Loak'ee, my dear Bonny Cherry is the Goddess I adore, as the song goes; but it is a maxim, that man and wife should never have it in their power to hang one another; for if they should, the Lord have mercy on 'em both! [Exeunt. ACT V SCENE I A Room in BONIFACE'S Inn. Knocking without, enter BONIFACE. Bon. Coming! Coming! A coach and six foaming horses at this time o'night! some great man, as the saying is, for he scorns to travel with other people. Enter SIR CHARLES FREEMAN. Sir Chas. What, fellow! a public house, and abed when other people sleep? Bon. Sir, I an't abed, as the saying is. Sir Chas. Is Mr. Sullen's family abed, think'ee? Bon. All but the squire himself, sir, as the saying is; he's in the house. Sir Chas. What company has he? Bon. Why, sir, there's the constable, Mr. Gage the exciseman, the hunch-backed bar- ber, and two or three other gentlemen. Sir Chas. [Aside.'} I find my sister's let- ters gave me the true picture of her spouse. Enter SULLEN, drunk. Bon. Sir, here's the squire. Squire Sul. The puppies left me asleep. Sir! Sir Chas. Well, sir. Squire Sul. Sir, I am an unfortunate man I have three thousand pounds a year, and I can't get a man to drink a cup of ale with me. Sir Chas. That's very hard. Squire Sul. Ay, sir; and unless you have pity upon me, and smoke one pipe with me, I must e'en go home to my wife, and I had rather go to the devil by half. Sir Chas. But I presume, sir, you won't see your wife to-night; she'll be gone to 186 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT V, So. II. bed. You don't use to lie with your wife in that pickle ? Squire Sul. What! not lie with my wife! Why, sir, do you take me for an atheist or a rake ? Sir Chas. If you hate her, sir, I think you had better lie from her. Squire Sul. I think so too, friend. But I'm a Justice of peace, and must do nothing against the law. Sir Chas. Law! as I take it, Mr. Justice, nobody observes law for law's sake, only for the good of those for whom it was made. Squire Sul. But, if the law orders me to send you to jail, you must lie there, my friend. Sir Chas. Not unless I commit a crime to deserve it. Squire Sul. A crime? 'oons, an't I mar- ried? Sir Chas. Nay, sir, if you call a marriage a crime, you must disown it for a law. Squire Sul. Eh! I must be acquainted with you, sir. But, sir, I should be very glad. to know the truth of this matter. Sir Chas. Truth, sir, is a profound sea, and few there be that dare wade deep enough to find out the bottom on't. Be- sides, sir, I'm afraid the line of your under- standing mayn't be long enough. Squire Sul. Look'ee, sir, I have nothing to say to your sea of truth, but, if a good parcel of land can entitle a man to a little truth, I have much as any he in the country. Bon. I never heard your worship, as the saying is, talk so much before. Squire Sul. Because I never met with a man that I liked before. Bon. Pray, sir, as the saying is, let me ask you one question: are not man and wife one flesh? Sir Chas. You and your wife, Mr. Guts, may be one flesh, because ye are nothing else; but rational creatures have minds that must be united. Squire Sul. Minds! Sir Chas. Ay, minds, sir; don't you think that the mind takes place of the body? Squire Sul. In some people. Sir Chas. Then the interest of the master must be consulted before that of his servant. Squire Sul. Sir, you shall dine with me to-morrow! 'Oons, I always thought that we were naturally one. Sir Chas. Sir, I know that my two hands are naturally one, because they love one another, kiss one another, help one another in all the actions of life; but I could not say so much if they were always at cuffs. Squire Sul. Then 'tis plain that we are two. Sir Chas. Why don't you part with her, sir? Squire Sul. Will you take her, sir? Sir Chas. With all my heart. Squire Sul. You shall have her to-mor- row morning, and a venison-pasty into the bargain. Sir Chas. You'll let me have her fortune too? Squire Sul. Fortune! why, sir, I have no quarrel at her fortune: I only hate the woman, sir, and none but the woman shall go. Sir Chas. But her fortune, sir Squire Sul. Can you play at whisk, sir? Sir Chas. No, truly, sir. Squire Sul. Nor at all-fours? Sir Chas. Neither. Squire Sul. [Aside.']. 'Oons! where was this man bred? [Aloud.~\ Burn me, sir! I can't go home, 'tis but two a clock. Sir Chas. For half an hour, sir, if you please; but you must consider 'tis late. Squire Sul. Late ! that's the reason I can't go to bed. Come, sir! [Exeunt. Enter CHERRY, runs across the stage, and knocks at AIMWELL'S chamber door. Enter AIMWELL in his nightcap and gown. Aim. WMat's the matter? You tremble, child; you're frighted. Cher. No wonder, sir But, in short, sir, this very minute a gang of rogues are gone to rob my Lady Bountiful's house. Aim. How! Cher. I dogged 'em to the very door, and left 'em breaking in. .-tin i. Have you alarmed anybody else with the news ? Cher. No, no, sir, I wanted to have dis- covered the whole plot, and twenty other things, to your man Martin; but I have searched the whole house, and can't find him ! Where is he? Aim. No matter, child; will you guide me immediately to the house? Cher. With all my heart, sir; my Lady Bountiful is my godmother, and I love Mrs. Dorinda so well Aim. Dorinda! the name inspires me, the glory and the danger shall be all my own. Come, my life, let me but get my sword. [Exeunt. SCENE II A Bedchamber in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S House. Enter MRS. SULLEN and DORINDA undressed; a table and lights. Dor. 'Tis very late, sister, no news of your spouse yet? Mrs. Sul. No, I'm condemned to be alone till towards four, and then perhaps I may be executed with his company. Dor. Well, my dear, I'll leave you to your rest. You'll go directly to bed, I suppose? 187 ACT V, Sc. II. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Mrs. Sul. I don't know what to do. Heigh-ho! Dor. That's a desiring sigh, sister. Mrs. Sul. This is a languishing hour, ister. Dor. And might prove a critical minute if the pretty fellow were here. Mrs. Sul. Here! what, in my bedchamber at two o'clock o' th* morning, I undressed, the family asleep, my hated husband abroad, and my lovely fellow at my feet! O gad, ister! Dor. Thoughts are free, sister, and them I allow you. So, my dear, good night. Mrs. Sul. A good rest to my dear Do- rinda! [Ex-it DORINDA.] Thoughts free! are they so? Why, then, suppose him here, dressed like a youthful, gay, and burning bridegroom, [Here ARCHER steals out of the closet. with tongue enchanting, eyes bewitching, knees imploring. [Turns a little on one side and sees ARCHER in the posture she describes.} Ah! [Shrieks, and runs to the other side of the stage.] Have my thoughts raised a spirit? What are you, sir, a man or a devil? Arch. A man, a man, madam. [Rising. Mrs. Sul. How shall I be sure of it? Arch. Madam, I'll give you demonstration this minute. [Takes her hand. Mrs. Sul. What, sir! do you intend to be rude? Arch. Yes, madam, if you please. Mrs. Sul. In the name of wonder, whence came yc ? Arch. From the skies, madam I'm a Jupiter in love, and you shall be my Alcmena. Mrs. Sul. How came you in? Arch. I flew in at the window, madam; your cousin Cupid lent me his wings, and your sister Venus opened the casement. Mrs. Sul. I'm struck dumb with admira- tion! Arch. And I with wonder! [Looks passionately at her. Mrs. Sul. What will become of me? Arch. How beautiful she looks ! The teeming jolly Spring smiles in her blooming face, and, when she was conceived, her mother smelt to roses, looked on lilies Lilies unfold their white, their fragrant charms, When the warm sun thus darts into their arms. [Runs to her. Mrs. Sul. Ah! [Shrieks. Arch. 'Oons, madam, what d'ye mean? you'll raise the house. Mrs. Sul. Sir, I'll wake the dead before I bear this! What! approach me with the freedoms of a keeper! I'm glad on't, your impudence has cured me. Arch. If this be impudence [Kneels.] I leave to your partial self; no panting pilgrim, after a tedious, painful voyage, e'er bowed before his saint with more devotion. Mrs. Sul. [Aside.] Now, now, I'm ruined if he kneels! [Aloud.] Rise, thou prostrate engineer, not all thy undermining skill shall reach my heart. Rise, and know I am a woman without my sex; I can love to all the tenderness of wishes, sighs, and tears but go no farther. Still, to convince you that I'm more than woman, I can speak my frailty, confess my weakness even for you, but Arch. For me! [Going to lay hold on her. Mrs. Sul. Hold, sir! build not upon that; for my most mortal hatred follows if you disobey what I command you now. Leave me this minute. [Aside.] If he denies, I'm lost. Arch. Then you'll promise Mrs. Sul. Anything another time. Arch. When shall I come? Mrs. Sul. To-morrow when you will. Arch. Your lips must seal the promise. Mrs. Sul. Psha! Arch. They must! they must! [Kisses her.] Raptures and paradise ! And why not now, my angel? the time, the place, silence, and secrecy, all conspire. And the now con- scious stars have preordained this moment for my happiness. [Takes her in his arms. Mrs. Sul. You will not! cannot, sure! Arch. If the sun rides fast, and dis- appoints not mortals of to-morrow's dawn, this night shall crown my joys. Mrs. Sul. My sex's pride assist me! Arch. My sex's strength help me! Mrs. Sul. You shall kill me first! Arch. I'll die with you. [Carrying her off. Mrs. Sul. Thieves! thieves! murder! Enter SCRUB in his breeches, and one shoe. Scrub. Thieves! thieves! murder! popery! Arch. Ha! the very timorous stag will kill in rutting time. [Draws, and offers to stab SCRUB. Scrub. [Kneeling.] O pray, sir, spare all I have, and take my life! Mrs. Sul. [Holding ARCHER'S hand.] What does the fellow mean? Scrub. O madam, down upon your knees, your marrow-bones ! he's one of 'em. Arch. Of whom? Scrub. One of the rogues I beg your pardon, one of the honest gentlemen that just now are broke into the house. Arch. How! Mrs. Sul. I hope you did not come to rob me? Arch. Indeed I did, madam, but I would have taken nothing but what you might ha' spared; but' your crying " Thieves " has 188 THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT V, Sc. II. waked this dreaming fool, and so he takes 'em for granted. Scrub. Granted! 'tis granted, sir; take all we have. Mrs. Sul. The fellow looks as if he were broke out of Bedlam. Scrub. 'Oons, madam, they're broke into the house with fire and sword! I saw them, heard them; they'll be here this minute. Arch. What, thieves! Scrub. Under favor, sir, I think so. Mrs. Sul. What shall we do, sir? Arch. Madam, I wish your ladyship a good night. Mrs. Sul. Will you leave me? Arch. Leave you! Lord, madam, did not you command me to be gone just now, upon pain of your immortal hatred? Mrs. Sul. Nay, but pray, sir [Takes hold of him. Arch. Ha! ha! ha! now comes my turn to be ravished. You see now, madam, you must use men one way or other; but take this by the way, good madam, that none but a fool will give you the benefit of his courage, unless you'll take his love along with it. How are they armed, friend? Scrub. With sword and pistol, sir. Arch. Hush! I see a dark lantern coming through the gallery. Madam, be assured I will protect you, or lose my life. Mrs. Sul. Your life ! no, sir, they can rob me of nothing that I value half so much; there- fore now, sir, let me entreat you to be gone. Arch. No, madam, I'll consult my own safety for the sake of yours; I'll work by stratagem. Have you courage enough to stand the appearance of 'em? Mrs. Sul. Yes, yes, since I have scaped your hands, I can face anything. Arch. Come hither, brother Scrub! don't you know me? Scrub. Eh, my dear brother, let me kiss thee. [Kisses ARCHER. Arch. This way here [ARCHER and SCRUB hide behind the bed. Enter GIBBET, with a dark lantern in one hand, and a pistol in the other. Gib. Ay, ay, this is the chamber, and the lady alone. Mrs. Sul. Who are you, sir? what would you have? d'ye come to rob me? Gib. Rob you! alack a day, madam, I'm only a younger brother, madam; and so, madam, if you make a noise, I'll shoot you through the head; but don't be afraid, madam. [Laying his lantern and pistol upon the table.] These rings, madam; don't be concerned, madam, I have a profound re- spect for you, madam; your keys, madam; don't be frighted, madam, I'm the most of a gentleman. [Searching her pockets.] This necklace, madam; I never was rude to any lady; I have a veneration for this neck- lace [Here ARCHER having come round, and seised the pistol, takes GIBBET by the collar, trips up his heels, and claps the pistol to his breast. Arch. Hold, profane villain, and take the reward of thy sacrilege! Gib. Oh! pray, sir, don't kill me; I an't prepared. Arch. How many is there of 'em, Scrub? Scrub. Five-and-forty, sir. Arch. Then I must kill the villain, to have him out of the way. Gib. Hold, hold, sir, we are but three, upon my honor. .//(/;. Scrub, will you undertake to secure him? Scrub. Not I, sir; kill him, kill him! Arch. Run to Gipsy's chamber, there you'll find the doctor; bring him hither presently. [Exit SCRUB, running.] Come, rogue, if you have a short prayer, say it. Gib. Sir, I have no prayer at all; the government has provided a chaplain to say prayers for us on these occasions. Mrs. Sul. Pray, sir, don't kill him: you. fright me as much as him. Arch. The dog shall die, madam, for being the occasion of my disappointment. Sirrah, this moment is your last. (/;/'. Sir, I'll give you two hundred pounds to spare my life. Arch. Have you no more, rascal? Gib. Yes, sir, I can command four hun- dred, but I must reserve two of 'em to save my life at the sessions. Re-enter SCRUB with FOIGARD. Arch. Here, doctor, I suppose Scrub and you between you may manage him. Lay hold of him, doctor. [FOIGARD lays hold of GIBBET. Gib. What! turned over to the priest al- ready! Look'ee, doctor, you come before your time; I an't condemned yet, I thank ye. Foi. Come, my dear joy, I vill secure your body and your shoul too; I vill make you a good catholic, and give you an abso- lution. Gib. Absolution! can you procure me a pardon, doctor ? Foi. No, joy. Gib. Then you and your absolution may go to the devil ! Arch. Convey him into the cellar, there bind him: take the pistol, and if he offers to resist, shoot him through the head and come back to us with all the speed you can. Scrub. Ay, ay, come, doctor, do you hold him fast, and I'll guard him. [Exit FOIGARD with GIBBET, SCRUB fol- lowing. 189 ACT V, Sc. III. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Mrs. Sul. But how came the doctor Arch. In short, madam [Shrieking with- out.} 'Sdeath! the rogues are at work with the other ladies I'm vexed I parted with the pistol; but I must fly to their assist- ance. Will you stay here, madam, or ven- ture yourself with me? Mrs. Sul. [Taking him by the arm.] Oh, with you, dear sir, with you. [Exeunt. SCENE III Another Apartment in the Same House. Enter HOUNSLOW dragging in LADY BOUNTIFUL and BAGSHOT haling in DORINDA; the rogues with swords drawn. Houn. Come, come, your jewels, mis- tress ! Bag. Your keys, your keys, old gentle- woman ! Enter AIMWELL and CHERRY. Aim. Turn this way, villains! I durst engage an army in such a cause. [He engages them both. Dor. O madam, had I but a sword to help the brave man ! Lady Boun. There's three or four hang- ing up in the hall; but they won't draw. I'll go fetch one, however. [Exit. Enter ARCHER and MRS. SULLEN. Arch. Hold, hold, my lord! every man his bird, pray. [They engage man to man; the rogues are thrown and disarmed. Cher. [Aside.] What! the rogues taken! then they'll impeach my father: I must give him timely notice. [Runs out. Arch. Shall we kill the rogues? Aim. No, no, we'll bind them. Arch. Ay, ay. [To MRS. SULLEN, who stands by him.] Here, madam, lend me your garter. Mrs. Sul. [Aside.] The devil's in this fel- low! he fights, loves, and banters, all in a breath. [Aloud.] Here's a cord that the rogues brought with 'em, I suppose. Arch. Right, right, the rogue's destiny, a rope to hang himself. Come, my lord this is but a scandalous sort of an office [Binding the rogues together], if our adven- tures should end in this sort of hangman- work; but I hope prospect, that- there is something in Enter SCRUB. Well, Scrub, have you secured your Arch. Tartar? Scrub. Yes, sir, I left the priest and him disputing about religion. 190 Aim. And pray carry these gentlemen to reap the benefit of the controversy. [Delivers the prisoners to SCRUB, who them out. Pray, sister, how came my leads Mrs. Sul. lord here? Dor. And man here ? Mrs. Sul. of villainy- pray, how came the gentle- I'll tell you the greatest piece [They talk in dumb show. Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have been more successful in your adventures than the housebreakers. Arch. No matter for my adventure, yours is the principal. Press her this minute to marry you now while she's hurried between the palpitation of her fear and the joy of her deliverance, now while the tide of her spirits is at high-flood throw yourself at her feet, speak some romantic nonsense or other address her, like Alexander in the height of his victory, confound her senses, bear down her reason, and away with her. The priest is now in the cellar, and dare not refuse to do the work. Re-enter LADY BOUNTIFUL. Aim. But how shall I get off without being observed ? Arch. You a lover, and not find a way to get off! Let me see Aim. You bleed, Archer. Arch. 'Sdeath, I'm glad on't; this wound will do the business. I'll amuse the old lady and Mrs. Sullen about dressing my wound, while you carry off Dorinda. Lady Boun. Gentlemen, could we under- stand how you would be gratified for the services Arch. Come, come, my lady, this is no time for compliments; I'm wounded, madam. Lady Boun., Mrs. Sul. How! wounded! Dor. I hope, sir, you have received no hurt? Aim. None but what you may cure [Makes love in dumb show. Lady Boun. Let me see your arm, sir I must have some powder-sugar to stop the blood. O me! an ugly gash; upon my word, sir, you must go into bed. Arch. Ay, my lady, a bed would do very well. [To MRS. SULLEN.] Madam, will you do me the favor to conduct me to a cham- ber. Lady Boun. Do, do, daughter while I get the lint and the probe and the plaster ready. [Runs out one way, AIMWELL carries off DORINDA another. Arch. Come, madam, why don't you obey your mother's commands? Mrs. Sul. How can you, after what is passed, have the confidence to ask me? Arch. And if you go to that, how can you, after what is passed, have the con- THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT V, Sc. IV. fidence to deny me? Was not this blood shed in your defence, and my life exposed for your protection? Look ye, madam, I'm none of your romantic fools, that fight giants and monsters for nothing; my valor is downright Swiss; I'm a soldier of fortune, and must be paid. Mrs. Sul. 'Tis ungenerous in you, sir, to upbraid me with your services! Arch. 'Tis ungenerous in you, madam, not to reward 'em. Mrs. Sul. How! at the expense of my honor ? Arch. Honor! can honor consist with ingratitude? If you would deal like a woman of honor, do like a man of honor. D'ye think I would deny you in such a case? Enter a Servant. Seru. Madam, my lady ordered me to tell you, that your brother is below at the gate. [Exit. Mrs. Sul. My brother! Heavens be praised! Sir, he shall thank you for your services; he has it in his power. Arch. Who is your brother, madam? Mrs. Sul. Sir Charles Freeman. You'll excuse me, sir; I must go and receive him. [Exit. Arch. Sir Charles Freeman! 'sdeath and hell ! my old acquaintance. Now unless Aim- well has made good use of his time, all our fair machine goes souse into the sea like the Eddystone. [Exit. SCENE IV The Gallery in the Same House. Enter AIMWELL and DORINDA. Dor. Well, well, my lord, you have con- quered; your late generous action will, I hope, plead for my easy yielding; though I must own, your lordship had a friend in the fort before. Aim. The sweets of Hybla dwell upon her tongue ! Here, doctor Enter FOIGARD, with a book. Foi. Are you prepared boat? Dor. I'm ready. But first, my lord, one word. I have a frightful example of a hasty marriage in my own family; when I reflect upon't it shocks me. Pray, my lord, con- sider a little Aim. Consider! do you doubt my honor or my love ? /.''./. Neither: I do believe you equally just as brave: and were your whole sex drawn out for me to choose, I should not cast a look upon the multitude if you were absent. But, my lord, I'm a woman; colors, concealments may hide a thousand faults in me, therefore know me better first. I hardly dare affirm I know myself in anything ex- cept my love. Aim. injure ! [Aside.] Such goodness who could I find myself unequal to the task of villain; she has gained my soul, and made it honest like her own. I cannot, cannot hurt her. [Aloud.] Doctor, retire. [Exit FOIGARD.] Madam, behold your lover and your proselyte, and judge of my passion by my conversion ! I'm all a lie, nor dare I give a fiction to your arms; I'm all counter- feit, except my passion. Dor. Aim. Forbid it, Heaven! < I am no lord, but counterfeit ! poor needy man, come with a mean, a scandalous design to prey upon your fortune; but the beauties of your mind and person have so won me from myself that, like a trusty servant, I prefer the interest of my mistress to my own. Dor. Sure I have had the dream of some poor mariner, a sleepy image of a welcome port, and wake involved in storms! Pray, sir, who are you? Aim. Brother to the man whose title I usurped, but stranger to his honor or his fortune. Dor. Matchless honesty ! Once I was proud, sir, of your wealth and title, but now am prouder that you want it: now I can show my love was justly levelled, and had no aim but love. Doctor, come in. Enter FOIGARD at one door, GIPSY at another, who whispers DORINDA. [To FOIGARD.] Your pardon, sir, we shan- not want you now. [To AIMWELL.] Sir, you must excuse me I'll wait on you presently. [Exit with GIPSY. Foi. Upon my shoul, now, dis is foolish. [Exit. Aim. Gone! and bid the priest depart! It has an ominous look. Enter ARCHER. Courage, Tom! Shall I wish you Arch. joy? Aim. Arch. doing ? Aim. No. 'Oons, man, what ha' you been O Archer! my honesty, I fear, has ruined me. Arch. How? Aim. I have discovered myself. Arch. Discovered! and without my con- sent? What! have I embarked my small remains in the same bottom with yours, and you dispose of all without my partnership? O Archer! I own my fault. After conviction 'tis then too late Aim. Arch. for pardon. You may remember, Mr. Aim- well, that you proposed this folly: as you begun, so end it. Henceforth I'll hunt my fortune single so farewell ! 191 ACT V, Sc. IV. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Aim. Stay, my dear Archer, but a minute. Arch. Stay! what, to be despised, ex- posed, and laughed at! No, I would sooner change conditions with the worst of the rogues we just now bound, than bear one scornful smile from the proud knight that once I treated as my equal. Aim. What knight? Arch. Sir Charles Freeman, brother to the lady that I had almost but no matter for that, 'tis a cursed night's work, and so I leave you to make the best on't. [Going. Aim. Freeman! One word, Archer. Still I have hopes; methought she received my confession with pleasure. Arch. 'Sdeath, who doubts it? Aim. She consented after to the match; and still I dare believe she will be just. Arch. To herself, I warrant her, as you should have been. Aim. By all my hopes she comes, and smiling comes ! Re-enter DORINDA, mighty gay. Dor. Come, my dear lord I fly with im- patience to your arms the minutes of my absence were a tedious year. Where's this priest ? Re-enter FOIGARD. Arch. 'Oons, a brave girl! Dor. I suppose, my lord, this gentleman is privy to our affairs? Arch. Yes, yes, madam, I'm to be your father. Dor. Come, priest, do your office. Arch. Make haste, make haste, couple 'em any way. [Takes AIMWELL'S /land.] Come, madam, I'm to give you Dor. My mind's altered; I won't. Arch. Eh! Aim. I'm confounded ! /""i". Upon my shoul, and sho is myshelf. Arch. What's the matter now, madam? /''/. Look ye, sir, one generous action deserves another. This gentleman's honor obliged him to hide nothing from me; my justice engages me to conceal nothing from him. In short, sir, you are the person that you thought you counterfeited; you are the true Lord Viscount Aimwell, and I wish your lordship joy. Now, priest, you may be gone; if my lord is pleased now with the match, let his lordship marry me in the face of the world. Aim., Arch. What does she mean? Dor. Here's a witness for my truth. Enter SIR CHARLES FREEMAN and MRS. SULLEN. Sir Chas. My dear Lord Aimwell, I wish you joy Aim. Of what? Sir Chas. Of your honor and estate. 192 Your brother -died the day before I left Lon- don; and all your friends have writ after you to Brussels; among the rest I did myself the honor. Arch. Hark 'ye, sir knight, don't you banter now ? Sir Chas. 'Tis truth, upon my honor. Aim. Thanks to the pregnant stars that formed this accident ! Arch. Thanks to the womb of time that brought it forth! away with it! Aim. Thanks to my guardian angel that led me to the prize! [Taking DORINDA'S hand. Arch. And double thanks to the noble Sir Charles Freeman. My lord, I wish you joy. My lady, I wish you joy. Egad, Sir Freeman, you're the honestest fellow living! 'Sdeath, I'm grown strange airy upon this matter! My lord, how d'ye? A word, my lord; don't you remember something of a previous agreement, that entitles me to the moiety of this lady's fortune, which I think will amount to five thousand pounds ? Aim. Not a penny, Archer; you would ha' cut my throat just now, because I would not deceive this lady. Arch. Ay, and I'll cut your throat again, if you should deceive her now. Aim. That's what I expected; and to end the dispute, the lady's fortune is ten thou- sand pounds, we'll divide stakes: take the ten thousand pounds or the lady. Dor. How! is your lordship so indif- ferent ? Arch. No, no, no, madam ! his lordship knows very well that I'll take the money; I leave you to his lordship, and so we're both provided for. Enter COUNT BELLAIR. Count Bel. Mesdames et Messieurs, I am your servant trice humble! I hear you be rob here. Aim. The ladies have been in some dan- ger, sir. Count Bel. And, begar, our inn be rob too! Aim. Our inn! by whom? Count Bel. By the landlord, begar! Garzoon, he has rob himself, and run away ! Arch. Robbed himself! Count Bel. Ay, begar, and me too of a hundre pound. Arch. A hundred pounds? Count Bel. Yes, that I owed him. Aim. Our money's gone, Frank. Arch. Rot the money! my wench is gone. [To COUNT BELLAIR.] Savez-vous quelque- chose de Mademoiselle Cherry? Enter a Fellow with a strong-box and a letter. Fell. Is there one Martin here? Arch. Ay, ay who wants him? Fell. I have a box here, and letter for him. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM ACT V, So. IV. Arch. [Taking the box.'} Ha! ha! ha! what's here? Legerdemain! By this light, my lord, our money again! But this unfolds the riddle. {Opening the letter, reads.} Hum, hum, hum! Oh, 'tis for the public good, and must be communicated to the company. [Reads. Mr. Martin, My father being afraid of an impeachment by the rogues that are taken to-night, is gone off; but if you can procure him a pardon, he'll make great discoveries that may be useful to the country. Could I have met you instead of your master to-night, I would have delivered myself into your hands, with a sum that much exceeds that in your strong-box, which I have sent you, with an assurance to my dear Martin that I shall ever be his most faithful friend till death. Cherry Boniface. There's a billet-doux for you! As for the father, I think he ought to be encouraged; and for the daughter pray, my lord, per- suade your bride to take her into her serv- ice instead of Gipsy. Aim. I can assure you, madam, your de- liverance was owing to her discovery. Dor. Your command, my lord, will do without the obligation. I'll take care of her. Sir Chas. This good company meets op- portunely in favor of a design I have in behalf of my unfortunate sister. I intend to part her from her husband gentlemen, will you assist me? Arch. Assist you! 'sdeath, who would not? Count Bel. Assist! garzoon, we all assist! Enter SULLEN. Squire Sul. What's all this? They tell me, spouse, that you had like to have been robbed. Mrs. Sul. Truly, spouse, I was pretty near it, had not these two gentlemen inter- posed. Squire Sul. How came these gentlemen here? Mrs. Sul. That's his way of returning thanks, you must know. Count Bel. Garzoon, the question be apropos for all dat. Sir Chas. You promised last night, sir, that you would deliver your lady to me this morning. Squire Sul. Humph ! Arch. Humph! what do you mean by humph? Sir, you shall deliver her in short, sir, we have saved you and your family; and if you are not civil, we'll unbind the rogues, join with 'em, and set fire to your house. What does the man mean? not part with his wife! Count Bel. Ay, garzoon, de man no under- stan common justice. Mrs. Sul. Hold, gentlemen! All things here must move by consent, compulsion would spoil us. Let my dear and I talk the matter over, and you shall judge it between us. Squire Sul. Let me know first who are to be our judges. Pray, sir, who are you? Sir Chas. I am Sir Charles Freeman, come to take away your wife. Squire Sul. And you, good sir? Aim. Charles, Viscount Aim well, come to take away your sister. Squire Sul. And you, pray, sir? Arch. Francis Archer, esquire, come Squire Sul. To take away my mother, I hope. Gentlemen, you're heartily welcome; I never met with three more obliging people since I was born! And now, my dear, if you please, you shall have the first word. Arch. And the last, for five pound! Mrs. Sul. Spouse! Squire Sul. Rib ! Mrs. Sul. How long have we been mar- ried? Squire Sul. By the almanac, fourteen months; but by my account, fourteen years. Mrs. Sul. 'Tis thereabout by my reckon- ing. Count Bel. Garzoon, their account will agree. Mrs. Sul. Pray, spouse, what did you marry for? Squire Sul. To get an heir to my estate. Sir Chas. And have you succeeded? Squire Sul. No. Arch. The condition fails of his side. Pray, madam, what did you marry for? Mrs. Sul. To support the weakness of my sex by the strength of his, and to enjoy the pleasures of an agreeable society. Sir Chas. Are your expectations an- swered ? Mrs. Sul. No. Count Bel. A clear case! a clear case! Sir Chas. What are the bars to your mutual contentment? Mrs. Sul. In the first place, I can't drink ale with him. Squire Sul. Nor can I drink tea with her. Mrs. Sul. I can't hunt with you. Squire Sul. Nor can I dance with you. Mrs. Sul. I hate cocking and racing. Squire Sul. And I abhor ombre and piquet. Mrs. Sul. Your silence is intolerable. Squire Sul. Your prating is worse. Mrs. Sul. Have we not been a perpetual offence to each other? a gnawing vulture at the heart? Squire Sul. A frightful goblin to the sight? Mrs. Sul. A porcupine to the feeling? 193 EPILOGUE THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM Squire Sul. Perpetual wormwood to the taste? Mrs, Sul. Is there on earth a thing we could agree in? Squire Sul. Yes to part. Mrs. Sul. With all my heart. Squire Sul. Your hand. Mrs. Sul. Here. Squire Sul. These hands joined us, these shall part us. Away ! Mrs. Sul. North. Squire Sul. South. Mrs. Sul. East. Squire Sul. West far as the poles asunder. Count Bel. Begar, the ceremony be vera pretty ! Sir Chas. Now, Mr. Sullen, there wants only my sister's fortune to make us easy. Squire Sul. Sir Charles, you love your sister, and I love her fortune; every one to his fancy. Arch. Then you won't refund; Squire Sul. Not a stiver. Arch. Then I find, madam, you must e'en go to your prison again. Count Bel. What is the portion? Sir Chas. Ten thousand pounds, sir. Count Bel. Garzoon, I'll pay it, and she shall go home wid me. Arch. Ha! ha! ha! French all over. Do you know, sir, what ten thousand pounds English is ? Count Bel. No, begar, not justement. Arch. Why, sir, 'tis a hundred thousand livres. Count Bel. A hundre tousand livres! Ah! garzoon, me canno* do't, your beauties and their fortunes are both too much for me. Arch. Then I will. This night's adven- ture has proved strangely lucky to us all for Captain Gibbet in his walk had made bold, Mr. Sullen, with your study and escritoir, and had taken out all the writings of your estate, all the articles of marriage with this lady, bills, bonds, leases, receipts to an infinite value: I took 'em from him, and I deliver 'em to Sir Charles. [Gives SIR CHARLES FREEMAN a parcel of papers and parchments. Squire Sul. How, my writings! my head aches consumedly. Well, gentlemen, you shall have her fortune, but I can't talk. If you have a mind, Sir Charles, to be merry, and celebrate my sister's wedding and my divorce, you may command my house but my head aches consumedly. Scrub, bring me a dram. Arch. [To MRS. SULLEN.] Madam, there's a country dance to the trifle that I sung to- day; your hand, and we'll lead it up. Here a Dance. 'Twould be hard to guess which of these parties is the better pleased, the couple joined, or the couple parted; the one rejoic- ing in hopes of an untasted happiness, and the other in their deliverance from an ex- perienced misery. Both happy in their several states we find, Those parted by consent, and those con- joined. Consent, if mutual, saves the lawyer's fee, Consent is law enough to set you free. EPILOGUE Designed to be spoken in " The Beaux' Stratagem." If to our play your judgment can't be kind, Let its expiring author pity find: Survey his mournful case with melting eyes, Nor let the bard be damned before he dies. Forbear, you fair, on his last scene to frown, But his true exit with a plaudit crown; Then shall the dying poet cease to fear The dreadful knell, while your applause he hear. At Leuctra so the conquering Theban died, Claimed his friends' praises, but their tears denied: Pleased in the pangs of death he greatly thought Conquest with loss of life but cheaply bought. The difference this, the Greek was one would fight, As brave, though not so gay, as Serjeant Kite; Ye sons of Will's, what's that to those who write? To Thebes alone the Grecian owed his bays, You may the bard above the hero raise, Since yours is greater than Athenian praise. 194 JOSEPH ADDISON CATO AT first sight it seems no very fruitful study to contemplate a versatile man of letters only in what is admittedly one of the less potent phases of his manifold activity. When Dr. Johnson advises him who wishes to attain an English style, " to give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison," he is thinking of his prose, not of his dramatic verse, of The Spectator, not of Cato. And yet the single tragedy of the great essayist has a far larger significance than similar solitary compositions of Thomson, Smollett, and Johnson himself. This significance lies not so much in any intrinsic merit of Addison's classical drama as in its immediate effect. The enthusiastic reception of Cato by the audiences of Queen Anne's time is unquestionably the most convincing revelation granted us of the standard of dramatic ap- preciation in that era. Hence the necessary inclusion of the play in any collection of eighteenth-century dramas. The tragedy of Cato is connected with widely different periods of Ad- dison's comparatively short life (1672-1719). His school days at the Charter- house and his long sojourn in the cloisters and walks of Magdalen College (Oxford) were behind him, but he was not far past the time of youth, when during his wander-years on the Continent (1699-1702) he composed four acts of a play on the death of the famous old Roman. When Captain Richard Steele read these with loud approval to the genial Colley Gibber across the table of a London tavern in 1703, his cherished friend, " Joe," was not yet " the great Mr. Addison." The Latin poems of college-days, his versified Letter from Italy and the prose record of his Travels comprised the literary output of this scholar, now turned of thirty. In these Addison's days of the lean kine, Steele's prediction of the incomplete tragedy seemed well founded : " Whatever spirit Mr. Addison had shown in his writing it, he doubted he would never have courage enough to let his Cato stand the censure of an English audience; that it had only been the amusement of his leisure hours in Italy and was never intended for the stage." For ten years as long a period as Walter Scott just a century later kept by him the unfinished manuscript of Waverley he shrank from completing and pub- lishing his drama. During these ten years he had risen to the primacy in the English world of letters. The wide notoriety of The Campaign, with which 195 CATO he greeted Marlborough's victory of Blenheim in 1704, and the high dis- tinction of official rewards, characteristic of this age of patronage, had been succeeded by the large popularity of The Toiler and The Spectator papers (1709-1712). Yet these successes seemed to lessen little his shrinking from the stage that had been increased to a childish timidity by- the failure of his opera of Rosamond in 1706. External influences availed, however, against his reserve. Political friends, who professed to believe that endangered liberty might be preserved by a single stage-play, importuned Addison, so Dr. Johnson tells us, " in the names of the tutelary deities of Britain to show his courage and zeal by finishing his design." With such promptings loud in his ears, Addison reluctantly concluded his ungrateful task. One voice at least was heard, that of Pope, urging him to be content with printing and not to court popular disfavor on the stage. This advice, according so fully with his own fears, Addison was led to disregard by the wishes of his Whig associates ; and to adapt his own line " deliberating was lost." Preparations for the presentation of Cato in April, 1713, now went on with spirit. The great Betterton, Steele's ideal for the role of Cato in 1703, had now been dead three years, but the lively Gibber. was willing to take the part of Syphax, and Wilks, Farquhar's friend, assumed that of Juba. For the title-role was selected an admirable young actor, Barton Booth ; and for the part of Marcus, a boy of eighteen, Lacy Ryan. Nance Oldfield as Marcia and Mrs. Porter as Lucia were the women of this strong cast. Much care was taken in rehearsal. As the author had waived all share of profits, the actor-managers spared no cost in decorations and costumes. Cato wore a full-bottomed wig of fifty guineas' value, Marcia was resplendent in hoop and brocade, and the gold lace of Juba's waistcoat won high praise. The ubiquitous Steele was engaged to pack the house in Drury Lane ; and he seems to have done his work well, for Whigs and Tories, on the scent of political allusions, were present in large numbers. Men of Addison's own party hoped, as Macaulay says, " that the public would discover some analogy between the followers of Caesar and the Tories, between Sempronius and the apostate Whigs, between Cato struggling to the last for the liberties of Rome and the band of patriots who still stood firm round Halifax and Wharton." Warm Whig clacqueurs from " the city," delighted by the rant of Sempronius, applauded loudly in the wrong places. But all these precau- tions were unnecessary. From the first lines of Pope's worthy prologue to the last word of Garth's frivolous epilogue, all was eager attention. To quote from Pope's vivid account of the performance : " Cato was not so much the wonder of Rome in his days, as he is of Britain in ours. . . . ' Factions strive who shall applaud him most.' The numerous and violent claps of the Whig party on the one side of the theatre were echoed back by the Tories on the other, while the author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find their applause proceeding more from the hand than the head." The Whig triumph was counteracted by the wily Tory leader, Lord 196 CATO Bolingbroke, who called Booth into his box between the acts and rewarded him with a purse of fifty guineas. The play was presented to crowded houses in London for thirty-five consecutive nights, and, in the summer, was carried to Oxford, where it delighted the throng of gownsmen. We are told that the London and Oxford profits together brought to each of the three actor-managers fifteen hundred pounds. It is the deliberate opinion of Macaulay, that " Cato did as much as the Toilers, Spectators, and Freeholders united to raise Addison's fame among his countrymen." In that day of pamphleteering, approval or censure always found expression in tractules ; and in several such monographs, Addison was " dieted with praise, like a pet lamb in a sentimental farce." Yet a hoarse voice was raised in angry dissent that of surly John Dennis, the " Appius " of Pope's Essay on Criticism. His envious soul was offended by the chorus of applause, so unlike the silence that greeted his own dreary tragedies of Whig- gish tendencies, and his critical judgment was outraged by obvious blemishes in the highly lauded play. Classical critic that he is, he doffs his hat at the outset of his shilling philippic to the rules of Aristotle, and aims to show that the " faults and absurdities " of Cato arise either from not observing these rules or from observing them without discretion. The moral is not derived from the action, which carries a pernicious instruction, self-murder ; the amorous actions are improbable on a day of great consequences; the rivalship between the two brothers has no manner of influence upon the action of the play and therefore corrupts its unity, nor has it any conse- quence in itself, since one brother is killed not as the effect of rivalship, but by common fortune of war ; the villainy is comical and unnecessary ; and the character of Cato is "inconvenient," not only because the subject is unfit for tragedy, but because his behavior in the play is inconsistent. But these are not the indictments pressed with the greatest force by this carping critic. In his opinion the chief weakness of Cato lies, first in its neglect of the doctrine of poetic justice a neglect entirely consistent with the attack in The Spec- tator, No. 40, upon " the ridiculous doctrine in modern criticism that writers of tragedy are obliged to an equal distribution of rewards and punishments "- and secondly in a too close adherence to the principle of " unity of place," which leads the dramatist into a dozen palpable absurdities. Every sort of action in the play conspiracy, love-making, the clashing of tongues and of swords, Cato's solitary meditation befalls preposterously in " the large hall in the governor's palace at Utica." Dennis's temper was doubtless coarse, but his criticisms were acute ; and it was well for Addison's serene dignity that he did not attempt a reply, which must have been futile, but, as Pope declared in the ill-advised and scurrilous pamphlet, The Frenzy of John Dennis, " was best avenged, as the sun was in the fable upon the bats and owls, by shining on." The adulation of partial friends and admirers need not long detain us. Over against Steele's too lavish tribute, " That perfect piece called Cato, 197 CATO which has done so great honor to our nation and language, excels as much in the passions of its lovers as in the sublime sentiments of its hero," must be set the unbiased opinion of Dr. Johnson, which leaves so little to be said in the way of summary : " About things on which the public thinks long, it commonly attains to think right; and of Cato it has not been unjustly determined that it is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just senti- ments in elegant language than a representation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here ' excites or assuages emotion ' ; here is ' no magical power of raising fantastic terror or wild anxiety.' The events are expected without solicitude, and are remem- bered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care; we consider not what they are doing or what they are suffering; we wish only to know what they have to say. Cato is a being above our solicitude; a man of whom the gods take care, and whom we leave to their care with heedless con- fidence. To the rest neither gods nor men can have much attention, for there is not one among them that strongly attracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such sentiments and such expressions that there is scarcely a scene in the play which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory." In Cato, Addison's chief aim was to bring English tragedy into accord with classical precedent, as interpreted by the French school of Racine and Boileau. Hence there was to be strict adherence to rules supposedly " founded on reason and nature and established above these 2,000 years " : the unities of action, time, and place, the decorum of characters, the pro- priety of manners, the morality of sentiments. Addison's sympathy with these " known and allowed rules " of the classicists had already been dis- played in his Epilogue to Ambrose Philips' version of the Andromaque of Racine, The Distrest Mother (i/n), and in constant puffs of that model of correctness in The Spectator (Nos. 223, 229, 290, 335). Indeed the stage- success of Philips' borrowed tragedy had been a large factor among the influences that finally overcame Addison's reluctance to give Cato to the world. However Dennis might scoff, prevailing contemporary opinion was voiced by the dramatist's staunch defender, George Sewell, in the flattering declaration that " Cato conformed to the spirit of poetry and to the best rules of criticism." This verdict was approved by Voltaire a generation later: "The first English writer who composed a regular tragedy and infused a spirit of elegance through every part of it was the illustrious Mr. Addison. His Cato is a masterpiece both with regard to the diction and the harmony and beauty of the numbers." This attitude of adulation could endure only so long as classical prece- dents and rules of reason were all-powerful. " While the present humor of idolizing Shakspere continues," so wrote even Addison's right reverend editor, Dr. Hurd, over a hundred years ago, " no quarter will be given to 198 this poem." We have left eighteenth-century landmarks so far behind us that the model tragedy of that age nowhere conforms to our conception of the tragic. During the greater part of the play, the hero moves apart from the action, rather a name, a reputation, than a man. He is not only remote from our sympathies, but above them, since perfection is no fit theme for tragedy, however it may shine in Plutarch's Life of Cato the Younger, the chief source of the drama. If the constant references by others to Cato's prestige and his own pompous self-righteousness excite any feeling in us, it is that of protest, for like the Athenian voter we weary of hearing the popular idol called " the just." Moreover, Cato's only important act, his self- destruction though in accord with the Plutarchan account is not only futile, but is adorned by Addison with sentiments entirely out of char- acter. That others should regret the unwisdom of the suicide is natural ; that Cato's last words should suggest his own large doubt of its necessity is utterly inconsistent with his Stoic principles. Even the admiring Hurd admits with episcopal pomp that " the amiable author, ever attentive to the interests of religion and virtue, chose, for the sake of these, to violate de- corum." Then, too, Cato's benevolent joining of hands and hearts in the final speech is far more in accord with the " God bless you, my children ! " tone of comedy than with the tragic spirit. The love-intrigues that so pleased the audience of 1713 have little interest for the reader of 1913. The characters, who, save Cato, are all of Addison's making, are " splendidly mil." Marcus and Portius, you cannot tell one from t'other. So with Marcia and Lucia. And the princely Juba is no Numidian, but a conventional young Roman of spotless honor. Sempronius the villain is somewhat better than the rest, but he blunders so senselessly and rants so blatantly that his taking-off is hailed as a relief. So undramatic is the structure of the lovers' story, which owes nothing to classical source, that the author makes no attempt to solve the problem of the fraternal rivals for Lucia's hand, but ruthlessly cuts the knot by the death of the unloved brother. Addison has little mastery over incident. Johnson's praise of the " sentiments and expressions " of the play has been echoed with some reserve by later critics. Macaulay declares that " it contains excellent dialogue and declamation " ; Ward deems its language transparently pure ; and Leslie Stephen finds much to admire in its pointed sentences and descriptive passages. But even at its best, the diction lacks the essential traits of organic dramatic verse. Though clear, it is so stately and formal as to devitalize the speakers quite. This sententious moralizing and this rationalized rant are the fitting utterance of rhetoricians, not of men and women swayed by passion. But the chief fault of the verse is its lack of poetic quality. The editor knows no vaunted poem that contains more illustrations of what poetry is not than the " faultily faultless " Cato. Cato, in its day, had high honor. " The town is so fond of it," writes Pope, " that the orange wenches and fruit women in the parks offer the 199 PROLOGUE CATO books at 'the side of the coaches and the prologue and epilogue are cried about the streets by common hawkers." The play was translated into Italian, French, and Latin, and imitated in French and German. Moreover, it held the boards for a century (until its final revival in 1811) with Quin, Sheridan, and Kemble in the title role. John Kemble was the last Cato " the last of the Romans." Time has completely reversed the eighteenth-century verdict. What has become of Cato as a stage-play or as a popular poem? Ichabod! Ichabod ! CATO A Tragedy PROLOGUE By Mr. Pope To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius and to mend the heart, To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold ; For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age ; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wondered how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love, In pitying love, we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws. He bids your breasts with ancient ardor rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confessed in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : No common object to your sight displays, But, what with pleasure heaven itself surveys, A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state ! While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? Ev'n then proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, 200 CATO ACT I, Sc. I. The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state. As her dead father's reverend image past, The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast, The triumph ceased tears gushed from every eye, The world's great victor passed unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome adored. And honored Caesar's less than Cato's sword. Britons, attend : be worth like this approved, And show you have the virtue to be moved. With honest scorn the first famed Cato viewed Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued. Our scene precariously subsists too long On French translation, and Italian song : Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, Be justly warmed with your own native rage. Such plays alone should please a British ear, As Cato's self had not disdained to hear. DRAMATIS PERSONS MEN CATO. Lucius, a Senator. SEMPRONIUS, a Senator. JUBA, Prince of Numidia. MARCIA, Daughter to CATO. SYPHAX, General of the Numidians. POKTIUS, ) MARCUS, \ Scns f CATO - DECIUS, Ambassador from Ccesar. Mutineers, Guards, etc. WOMEN | LUCIA, Daughter to Lucius. SCENE. A LARGE HALL IN THE GOVERNOR'S PALACE OF UTICA. ACT I SCENE I PORTIUS, MARCUS. For. The dawn is overcast, the morning- lowers, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, the important day, big with the fate Of Cato and of Rome. Our father's death Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, And close the scene of blood. Already Caesar Has ravaged more than half the globe, and sees Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword: Should he go further, numbers would be wanting To form new battles, and support his crimes. Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make Among your works ! Mar. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Caesar, In the calm lights of mild philosophy; I'm tortured ev'n to madness, when I think On the proud victor: every time he's named Pharsalia rises to my view! I see The insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field Strowed with Rome's citizens, and drenched in slaughter, His horse's hoofs wet with Patrician blood. Oh, Portius ! is there not some chosen curse, 201 ACT I, Sc. I. CATO Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin? For, Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, And mixed with too much horror to be envied. How does the luster of our father's actions, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness! His sufferings shine, and spread a glory around him; Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause Of honor, virtue, liberty, and Rome. His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head; Oppression, tyranny, and power usurped, Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em. Mar. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do Against a world, a base, degenerate world, That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Caesar? Pent up in Utica he vainly forms A poor epitome of Roman greatness, And, covered with Numidian guards, directs A feeble army, and an empty senate, Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain. By heavens, such virtues, joined with such success, Distract my very soul: our father's fortune Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts. Par. Remember what our father oft has told us: The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errors; Our understanding traces 'em in vain, Lost and bewildered in the fruitless search; Nor sees with how much art the windings run, Nor where the regular confusion ends. Mar. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Oh, Portius! didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly. Passion unpitied, and successless love, Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind! Par. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival ; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside. Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof: Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve, And call up all thy father in thy soul: To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. Mar. Portius, the counsel which I can- not take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weak- ness. Bid me for honor plunge into a war Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death, Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow To follow glory, and confess his father. Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul, Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse, I feel it here: my resolution melts Par. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince! With how much care he forms himself to glory, And breaks the fierceness of his native tem- per To copy out our father's bright example. He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her, His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray it: But still the smothered fondness burns within him. When most it swells, and labors for a vent, The sense of honor and desire of fame Drive the big passion back into his heart. What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir, Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world A virtue wanting in a Roman soul? Mar. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind 'em. Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show A virtue that has cast me at a distance, And thrown me out in the pursuits of honor? Par. Marcus, I know thy generous tem- per well ; Fling but the appearance of dishonor on it, It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze. Mar. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity. For. Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes Ev'n whilst I speak. Do they not swim in tears? Were but my heart as naked to thy view, Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf. Mar. Why then dost treat me with re- bukes, instead Of kind, condoling cares and friendly sorrow? For. O Marcus! did I know the way to ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it. 202 CATO ACT I, Sc. III. Mar. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends! Pardon a weak, distempered soul, that swells With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms, The sport of passions but Sempronius conies: He must not find this softness hanging on me. [Exit. SCENE II SEMPRONIUS, PORTIUS. Sent. Conspiracies no sooner should be formed Than executed. What means Portius here? like not that cold youth. semble, I must dis- And speak a language foreign to my heart. [Aside. Good-morrow, Portius! let us once em- brace, Once more embrace; whilst yet we both are free. To-morrow should friendship, Each might receive we thus express our a slave into his arms: This sun, perhaps, this morning sun's the last, That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty. Por. My father has this morning called together To this poor hall his little Roman senate, (The leavings of Pharsalia) to consult If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent That bears down Rome, and all her gods, before it, Or must at length give up the world to Caesar. Sein. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence. His virtues render our assembly awful, They strike with something like religious fear, And make ev'n Caesar tremble at the head Of armies flushed with conquest: O my Portius, Could I but call that wondrous man my father, Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious To thy friend's vows, I might be blessed indeed ! Por. Alas! Sempronius, wouldst thou talk of love To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? Thou might'st as well court the pale trem- bling vestal, When she beholds the holy flame expiring. Scm. The more I see the wonders of thy race, The more I'm charmed. Thou must take heed, my Portius! The world has all its eyes on Cato's son. Thy father's merit sets thee up to view, And shows thee in the fairest point of light, To make thy virtues or thy faults con- spicuous. Por. Well dost thou seem to check my lingering here On this important hour! I'll straight away, And while the fathers of the senate meet In close debate to weigh the events of war, I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage, With love of freedom, and contempt of life. in their ears their country's I'll thunder cause, And try to rouse up all that's Roman in 'em. 'Tis not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll de- serve it. [Exit. Sem., solus. Curse on the stripling! how he apes his sire! Ambitiously sententious! but I wonder Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius Is well disposed to mischief, were he prompt And eager on it; but he must be spurred, And every moment quickened to the course. Cato has used me ill: he has refused His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. Besides, his baffled arms and ruined cause Are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favor, That showers down greatness on his friends, will raise me To Rome's first honors. If I give up Cato, I claim in my reward his captive daughter. But Syphax comes! SCENE III SYPHAX, SEMPRONIUS. Syph. Sempronius, all is ready; I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, And find 'em ripe for a revolt: they all Complain aloud of Cato's discipline, And wait but the command to change their master. Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste; Ev'n whilst we speak, our conqueror comes on, And gathers ground upon us every moment. Alas! thou know'st not Caesar's active soul, With what a dreadful course he rushes on From war to war: in vain has nature formed Mountains and oceans to oppose his pas- sage; He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march, The Alps and Pyreneans sink before him; Through winds and waves and storms he works his way, Impatient for the battle: one day more Will set the victor thundering at our gates. 203 ACT I, Sc. IV. CATO But tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er young Juba? That still would recommend thee more to Caesar. And challenge better terms. Syph. Alas! he's lost, He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Of Cato's virtues: but I'll try once more (For every instant I expect him here) If yet I can subdue those stubborn prin- ciples Of faith, of honor, and I know not what, That have corrupted his Numidian temper, And struck the infection into all his soul. Sent. Be sure to press upon him every motive. Juba's surrender, since his father's death, Would give up Afric into Cesar's hands, And make him lord of half the burning zone. Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is called together? Gods! thou must be cautious ! Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern Our frauds, unless they're covered thick with art. San. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest way); I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country, And mouth at Caesar till I shake the senate. Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device, A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest ? Clothe thy feigned zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, And teach the wily African deceit! Sein. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba. Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, Inflame the mutiny, and underhand Blow up their discontents, till they break out Unlocked for, and discharge themselves on Cato. Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste: Oh think what anxious moments pass be- tween The birth of plots and their last fatal periods. Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Filled up with horror all, and big with death ! Destruction hangs on every word we speak, On every thought, till the concluding stroke Determines all, and closes our design. [Exit. Syph., solus. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. The time is short, Caesar comes rushing on us But hold! young Juba sees me, and ap- proaches. SCENE IV JUBA, SYPHAX. Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have observed of late thy looks are fallen, O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent; Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns, And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince ? Syph. Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, When discontent sits heavy at my heart. I have not yet so much the Roman in me. Juba. Why dost thou cast out such un- generous terms Against the lords and sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before 'em, And own the force of their superior virtue? Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric, Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands, That does not tremble at the Roman name? Syph. Gods! where's the worth that sets this people up Above your own Numidia's tawny sons! Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow? Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark, Launched from the vigor of a Roman arm ? Who like our active African instructs The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand? Or guides in troops the embattled elephant, Loaden with war? these, these are arts, my prince, In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. Juba. These all are virtues of a meaner rank, Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves. A Roman soul is bent on higher views: To civilize the rude, unpolished world, And lay it under the restraint of laws; To make man mild and sociable to man; To cultivate the wild, licentious savage With wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts The embellishments of life; virtues like these Make human nature shine, reform the soul, And break our fierce barbarians into men. Syph. Patience, kind heavens ! excuse an old man's warmth. What are these wondrous civilizing arts, This Roman polish, and this smooth be- havior, 204 CATO ACT I, Sc. IV. That render man thus tractable and tame? Are they not only to disguise our passions, To set our looks at variance with our thoughts, To check the starts and sallies of the soul, And break off all its commerce with the tongue; In short, to change us into other creatures Than what our nature and the gods de- signed us ? Juba. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy eyes to Cato ! There may'st thou see to what a godlike height The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. While good, and just, and anxious for his friends, He's still severely bent against himself; Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food, and ease, He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat; And when his fortune sets before him all The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish, His rigid virtue will accept of none. Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African That traverses our vast Numidian deserts In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow, But better practises these boasted virtues. Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase, Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, Toils all the day, and at the approach of night On the first friendly bank he throws him down, Or rests his head upon a rock till morn: Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game, And if the following day he chance to find A new repast, or an untasted spring, Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury. Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't dis- cern What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute. But grant that others could with equal glory Look down on pleasures, and the baits of sense; Where shall we find the man that bears affliction, Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato? Heavens, with what strength, what steadi- ness of mind, He triumphs in the midst of all his suffer- ings! How does he rise against a load of woes, And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him ! Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughti- ness of soul: I think the Romans call it stoicism. Had not your royal father thought so highly Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause, He had not fallen by a slave's hand, in- glorious ; Nor would his slaughtered army now have lain On Afric's sands, disfigured with their wounds, To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia. Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh ? My father's name brings tears into my eyes. Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills! Juba. What wouldst thou have me do? Syph. Abandon Cato. Juba. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan By such a loss. Syph. Ay, there's the tie that binds you! You long to call him father. Marcia's charms Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato. No wonder you are deaf to all I say. Juba. Syphax, your zeal becomes im- portunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave, And talk at large; but learn to keep it in, Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it. Syph. Sir, your great father never used me thus. Alas ! he's dead ! but can you e'er forget The tender sorrows, and the pangs of nature, The fond embraces, and repeated blessings, Which you drew from him in your last fare- well? Still must I cherish the dear, sad remem- brance, At once to torture and to please my soul. The good old king at parting wrung my hand, (His eyes brimful of tears) then sighing cried, Prithee, be careful of my son! his grief Swelled up so high, he could not utter more. Juba. Alas, thy story melts away my soul. That best of fathers! how shall I discharge The gratitude and duty which I owe him! Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart. Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy directions: Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms, Vent all thy passion, and I'll stand its shock, Calm and unruffled as a summer sea, 205 ACT I, Sc. VI. CATO When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface. Syph. Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your safety. J ii bii. I do believe thou wouldst: but tell me how? Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Caesar's foes. Juba. My father scorned to do it. Syph. And therefore died. Juba. Better to die ten thousand thou- sand deaths, Than wound my honor. Syph. Rather say, your love. Juba. Syphax, I've promised to preserve my temper. Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame I long have stifled, and would fain conceal? Syph. Believe me, prince, 'tis hard to conquer love, But easy to divert and break its force: Absence might cure it, or a second mistress Light up another flame, and put out this. The glowing dames of Zama's royal court Have faces flushed with more exalted charms, The sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads, Works up more fire and color in their cheeks: Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget The pale, unripened beauties of the north. Juba. "Tis not a set of features, or com- plexion, The tincture of a skin, that I admire. Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex: True, she is fair, (oh, how divinely fair!), But still the lovely maid improves her charms With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul Shines out in everything she acts or speaks, mildness and attractive and with becoming While winning smiles Dwell in her looks, grace Soften the rigor of her father's virtues. Syph. How does your tongue grow wan- ton in her praise! But on my knees I beg you would con- sider Juba. Hah! Syphax, is't not she? she moves this way: And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. My heart beats thick I prithee, Syphax, leave me. Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on 'em both! Now will this woman, with a single glance, Undo what I've been laboring all this while. [Exit. SCENE V JUBA, MARCIA, LUCIA. Juba. Hail, charming maid ! How does thy beauty smooth The face of war, and make even horror smile! At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows ; I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me, And for a while forget the approach of Caesar. Mar. 1 should be grieved, young prince, to think my presence Unbent your thoughts, and slackened 'em to arms, While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field. Juba. O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns And gentle wishes follow me to battle! The thought will give new vigor to my arm, Add strength and weight to my descending sword, And drive it in a tempest on the foe. Mar. My prayers and wishes always shall attend The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue, And men approved of by the gods and Cato. Juba. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares, I'll gaze forever on thy godlike father, Transplanting, one by one, into my life, His bright perfections, till I shine like him. Mar. My father never, at a time like this, Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste Such precious moments. Juba. Thy reproofs are just, Thou virtuous maid; I'll hasten to my troops, And fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue; If e'er I lead them to the field, when all The war shall stand ranged in its just array, And dreadful pomp; then will I think on thee! O lovely maid, then will I think on thee! And, in the shock of charging hosts, re- member What glorious deeds should grace the man who hopes For Marcia's love. [Exit. SCENE VI LUCIA, MARCIA. Luc. Marcia, you're too severe: How could you chide the young good- natured prince, 206 CATO ACT I, Sc. VI. And drive him from you with so stern an air, A prince that loves and dotes on you to death? Mar. 'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me. His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul Speak all so movingly in his behalf. I dare not trust myself to hear him talk. Luc. Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, And steel your heart to such a world of charms ? Mar. How, Lucia, wouldst thou have me sink away In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love, When every moment Cato's life's at stake? Caesar comes armed with terror and revenge, And aims his thunder at my father's head. Should not the sad occasion swallow up My other cares, and draw them all into it? Luc. Why have not I this constancy of mind, Who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure, nature formed me of her softest mould, Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions, And sunk me ev'n below my own weak sex: Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart. Mar. Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me, And let me share thy most retired distress; Tell me who raises up this conflict in thee? Luc. I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee They're Marcia's brothers, and the sons of Cato. Mar. They both behold thee with their sister's eyes, And often have revealed their passion to me. But tell me whose address thou favorest most; I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it. Luc. Which is it Marcia wishes for? Mar. For neither And yet for both; the youths have equal share In Marcia's wishes, and divide their sister: But tell me, which of them is Lucia's choice. Luc. Marcia, they both are high in my esteem, But in my love why wilt thou make me name him ? Thou know'st it is a blind and foolish pas- sion, Pleased and disgusted with it knows not what Mar. O Lucia, I'm perplexed, oh tell me which I must hereafter call my happy brother. Luc. Suppose 'twere Portius, could you blame my choice? O Portius, thou hast stolen away my soul ! With wha* And breathes vows! the softest, the sincerest Complacency, and truth, and manly sweet- ness Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his thoughts. Marcus is over-warm, his fond complaints Have so much earnestness and passion in them, I hear him with a secret kind of horror, And tremble at his vehemence of temper. Mar. Alas, poor youth! how canst thou throw him from thee? Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he bears thee; Whene'er he speaks of thee, his heart's in flames. He sends out all his soul in every word, And thinks, and talks, and looks like one transported. Unhappy youth! how will thy coldness raise Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom! dread Luc. the consequence. Against your brother Portius. You seem to plead Mar. Heaven forbid ! graceful tenderness he loves! 207 Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, The same compassion would have fallen on him. Luc. Was ever virgin love distressed like mine! Portius himself oft falls in tears before me, As if he mourned his rival's ill success, Then bids me hide the motions of my heart, Nor show which way it turns. So much he fears The sad effects that it would have on Marcus. Mar. He knows too well how easily he's fired, And would not plunge his brother in despair, But waits for happier times, and kinder mo- ments. Luc. Alas! too late I find myself involved In endless griefs, and labyrinths of woe, Born to afflict my Marcia's family, And sow dissension in the hearts of brothers. Tormenting thought! it cuts into my soul. Mar. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows, But to the gods permit the event of things. Our lives, discolored with our present woes, May still grow white, and smile with hap- pier hours. So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains Of rushing torrents and descending rains, Works itself clear, and as it runs, refines; Till, by degrees, the floating mirror shines, Reflects each flower that on the border grows, And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows. [Exeunt. ACT II, Sc. I. CATO ACT II SCENE I THE SENATE. SEMPRONIUS, Lucius. Sem. Rome still survives in this assem- bled senate ! Let us remember we are Cato's friends, And act like men who claim that glorious title. Luc. Cato will soon be here, and open to us The occasion of our meeting. Hark! he comes! [A sound of trumpets. May all the guardian gods of Rome direct him! Enter CATO. Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council. Caesar's approach has summoned us together, And Rome attends her fate from our re- solves: How shall we treat this bold, aspiring man ? Success still follows him and backs his crimes; Pharsalia gave him Rome; Egypt has since Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cesar's. Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree What course to take. Our foe advances on us, And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are they still fixed To hold it out, and fight it to the last ? Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought By time and ill success to a submission? Sempronius, speak. San. My voice is still for war. Gods, can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death! No, let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And, at the head of our remaining troops, Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise, fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help; Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, Or share their fate! the corps of half- her senate Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here, deliberating in cold debates, If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of Phar- salia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud To battle! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us ! Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason: True fortitude is seen in great exploits, That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides, All else is towering frenzy and distraction. Are not the lives of those who draw the sword In Rome's defence intrusted to our care? Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, Might not the impartial world with reason say We lavished at our deaths the blood of thousands, To grace our fall, and make our ruin glo- rious ? Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion. Luc. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace. Already have our quarrels filled the world With widows and with orphans: Scythia mourns Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest re- gions Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome: 'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind. It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers, The gods declare against us, and repel Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, (Prompted by blind revenge and wild de- spair) Were to refuse the awards of Providence, And not to rest in heaven's determination. Already have we shown our love to Rome, Now let us show submission to the gods. We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, But free the commonwealth; when this end fails, Arms have no further use: our country's cause, That drew our swords, now wrests 'em from our hands, And bids us not delight in Roman blood, Unprofitably shed; what men could do 208 CATO ACT II, Sc. II. Is done already: heaven and earth will wit- ness, If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. Sent. This smooth discourse and mild be- havior oft Conceal a traitor something whispers me All is not right Cato, beware of Lucius. [Aside to CATO. Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffi- dent: Immoderate valor swells into a fault, And fear, admitted into public councils, Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em both. Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs Are grown thus desperate. We have bul- warks round us; Within our walls are troops inured to toil In Afric's heats, and seasoned to the sun; Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, Ready to rise at its young prince's call. While there is hope, do not distrust the gods; But wait at least till Caesar's near approach Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late To sue for chains and own a conqueror. Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time? No, let us draw her term of freedom out In its full length, and spin it to the last, So shall we gain still one day's liberty; And let me perish, but in Cato's judgment, A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty Is worth a whole eternity in bondage. Enter MARCUS. Mar. Fathers, this moment, as I watched the gates, Lodged on my post, a herald is arrived From Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, The Roman knight; he carries in his looks Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid him enter. [Exit MARCUS. Decius was once my friend, but other pros- pects Have loosed those ties, and bound him fast to Caesar. His message may determine our resolves. SCENE II DECIUS, CATO, ETC. Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato. Cato. Could he send it To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome. Are not your orders to address the senate? Dec. My business is with Cato: Caesar sees The straits to which you're driven; and, as he knows Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. Cato. My li-"e is grafted on the fate of Rome: Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. Tell your dictator this: and tell him, Cato Disdains a life which he has power to offer. Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar; Her generals and her consuls are no more, Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphs. Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend? Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. Dec. Cato, I've orders to expostulate And reason with you, as from friend to friend : Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, And threatens every hour to burst upon it; Still may you stand high in your country's honors, Do but comply, and make your peace with Caesar. Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, As on the second of mankind. Cat o. No more ! I must not think of life on such conditions. Dec. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, And therefore sets this value on your life: Let him but know the price of Cato's friend- ship, And name your terms. Cato. Bid him disband his legions; Restore the commonwealth to liberty, Submit his actions to the public censure, And stand the judgment of a Roman senate: Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom Cato. Nay more, though Cato's voice was ne'er employed To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, Myself will mount the rostrum in his favor, And strive to gain his pardon from the people. Dec. A style like this becomes a con- queror. Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. Dec. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe? Cato. Greater than Caesar, he's a friend to virtue. Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, And at the head of your own little senate; You don't now thunder in the Capitol, With all the mouths of Rome to second you. Cato. Let him consider that who drives us hither: 'Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little, 209 ACT II, Sc. IV. CATO And thinned its ranks. Alas! thy dazzled eye Beholds this man in a false glaring light, Which conquest and success have thrown upon him; Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes That strike my soul with horror but to name 'em. I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch Beset with ills, and covered with misfor- tunes ; But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Cesar, For all his generous cares, and proffered friendship ? Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain: Presumptuous man! the gods take care of Cato. Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul, Bid him employ his care for these my friends, And make good use of his ill-gotten power, By sheltering men much better than him- self. Dec. Your high unconquered heart makes you forget You are a man. You rush on your destruc- tion But I have done. When I relate hereafter The tale of this unhappy embassy, All Rome will be in tears. [Exit DECIUS. SCENE III SEMPRONIUS, Lucius, CATO, ETC. Sem. Cato, we thank thee. The mighty genius of immortal Rome Speaks in thy voice, thy soul breathes liberty: Caesar will shrink to hear the words thou utterest, And shudder in the midst of all his con- quests. Luc. The senate owns its gratitude to Cato, Who with so great a soul consults its safety, And guards our lives, while he neglects his own. Sem. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account. Lucius seems fond of life; but what is life? 'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air From time to time, or gaze upon the sun; Tis to be free. When liberty is gone, Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. Oh, could my dying hand but lodge a sword In Caesar's bosom, and revenge my country, By heavens, I could enjoy the pangs of death, And smile in agony. Luc. Others perhaps May serve their country with as warm a zeal, Though 'tis not kindled into so much rage. Sem. This sober conduct is a mighty vir- tue In lukewarm patriots. Cato. Come! no more, Sempronius, All here are friends to Rome, and to each other. Let us not weaken still the weaker side By our divisions. Sem. Cato, my resentments Are sacrificed to Rome I stand reproved. Cato. Fathers, 'tis time you come to a resolve. Luc. Cato, we all go into your opinion, Caesar's behavior has convinced the senate We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. Sem. We ought to hold it out till death; but, Cato, My private voice is drowned amid the sen- ate's. Cato. Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fill This little interval, this pause of life, (While yet our liberty and fates are doubt- ful) * With resolution, friendship, Roman bravery, And all the virtues we can crowd into it; That heaven may say, it ought to be pro- longed. Fathers, farewell The young Numidian prince Comes forward, and expects to know our counsels. SCENE IV CATO, JUBA. Cato. Juba, the Roman Senate has re- solved, Till time give better prospects, still to keep' The sword unsheathed, and turn its edge on Caesar. Juba. The resolution fits a Roman senate. But, Cato, lend me for a while thy patience, And condescend to hear a young man speak. My father, when some days before his death He ordered me to march for Utica, (Alas! I thought not then his death so near) Wept o'er me, pressed me in his aged arms, And, as his griefs gave way, " My son," said he, " Whatever fortune shall befall thy father, Be Cato's friend; he'll train thee up to great And virtuous deeds: do but observe him well, Thou'lt shun misfortunes, or thou'lt learn to bear 'em." Cato. Juba, thy father was a worthy prince, And merited, alas! a better fate; But heaven thought otherwise. 210 CATO ACT II, Sc. V. Juba. My father's fate, In spite of all the fortitude that shines Before my face, in Cato's great example, Subdues my soul, and fills my eyes with tears. Cato. It is an honest sorrow, and be- comes thee. Juba. My father drew respect from for- eign climes: The kings of Afric sought him for their friend; Kings far remote, that rule, as fame reports, Behind the hidden sources of the Nile, In distant worlds, on t'other side the sun: Oft have their black embassadors appeared, Loaden with gifts, and filled the courts of Zama. Cato. I am no stranger to thy father's greatness. Juba. I would not boast the greatness of my father, But point out new alliances to Cato. Had we not better leave this Utica, To arm Numidia in our cause, and court The assistance of my father's powerful friends ? Did they know Cato, our remotest kings Would pour embattled multitudes about him; Their swarthy hosts would darken all our plains, Doubling the native horror of the war, And making death more grim. Cato. And canst thou think Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar? Reduced, like Hannibal, to seek relief From court to court, and wander up and down, A vagabond in Afric! Juba. Cato, perhaps I'm too officious, but my forward cares Would fain preserve a life of so much value. My heart is wounded, when I see such virtue Afflicted by the weight of such misfortunes. Cato. Thy nobleness of soul obliges me. But know, young prince, that valor soars above What the world calls misfortune and afflic- tion. These are not ills; else would they never fall On heaven's first favorites, and the best of men: The gods, in bounty, work up storms about us, That give mankind occasion to exert Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice Virtues that shun the day, and lie concealed In the smooth seasons and the calms of life. Juba. I'm charmed whene'er thou talk'st! I pant for virtue And all my soul endeavors at perfection. Cato. Dost thou love watchings, absti- nence, and toil, Laborious virtues all? learn them from Cato: Success and fortune must thou learn from Caesar. Juba. The best good fortune that can fall on Juba, The whole success at which my heart aspires, Depends on Cato. Cato. What does Juba say? Thy words confound me. Juba. I would fain retract them, Give 'em back again. They aimed at nothing. Cato. Tell me thy wish, young prince; make not my ear A stranger to thy thoughts. Juba. Oh! they're extravagant; Still let me hide them. Cato. What can Juba ask That Cato will refuse? Juba. I fear to name it. Marcia inherits all her father's virtues. Cato. What wouldst thou say? Juba. Cato, thou hast a daughter. Cato. Adieu, young prince; I would not hear a word Should lessen thee in my esteem: remember The hand of fate is over us, and heaven Exacts severity from all our thoughts: It is not now a time to talk of aught But chains or conquest, liberty or death. SCENE V SYPHAX, JUBA. Syph. How's this, my prince, what! cov- ered with confusion? You look as if yon stern philosopher Had just now chid you. Juba. Syphax, I'm undone! Syph. I know it well. Juba. Cato thinks meanly of me. Syph. And so will all mankind. Juba. I've opened to him The weakness of my soul, my love for Marcia. Syph. Cato's a proper person to intrust A love-tale with! Juba. Oh ! I could pierce my heart, My foolish heart! was ever wretch like Juba? Syph. Alas! my prince, how are you changed of late ! I've known young Juba rise before the sun, To beat the thicket where the tiger slept, Or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts: How did the color mount into your cheeks, When first you roused him to the chase! I've seen you, Even in the Libyan dog-days, hunt him down, Then charge him close, provoke him to the rage Of fangs and claws, and stooping from your horse Rivet the panting savage to the ground. 211 ACT II, Sc. V. CATO Juba. Prithee, no more! Syph. How would the old king smile To see you weigh the paws, when tipped with gold, And throw the shaggy spoils about your shoulders ! Juba. Syphax, this old man's talk (though honey flowed In every word) would now lose all its sweet- ness. Cato's displeased, and Marcia lost forever! Syph. Young prince, I yet could give you good advice. Marcia might still be yours. Juba. What say'st thou, Syphax? By heavens, thou turn'st me all into atten- tion. Syph. Marcia might still be yours. Juba. As how, dear Syphax? Syph. Juba commands Numidia's hardy troops, Mounted on steeds, unused to the restraint Of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the winds: Give but the word, we'll snatch this damsel up And bear her off. Juba. Can such dishonest thoughts Rise up in man! wouldst thou seduce my youth To do an act that would destroy my honor? Syph. Gods! I could tear my beard to hear you talk ! Honor's a fine imaginary notion, That draws in raw and unexperienced men To real mischiefs, while they hunt a shadow. Juba. Wouldst thou degrade thy prince into a ruffian? Syph. The boasted ancestors of these great men, Whose virtues you admire, were all such ruffians. This dread of nations, this almighty Rome, That comprehends in her wide empire's bounds All under heaven, was founded on a rape. Your Scipios, Caesars, Pompeys, and your Catos, (These gods on earth) are all the spurious brood Of violated maids, of ravished Sabines. Juba. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of thine Abounds too much in our Numidian wiles. Syph. Indeed, my prince, you want to know the world; You have not read mankind; your youth ad- mires The throws and swellings of a Roman soul, Cato's bold flights, the extravagance of virtue. Juba. If knowledge of the world makes man perfidious, May Juba ever live in ignorance! Syph. Go, go, you're young. Juba. Gods ! must I tamely bear This arrogance unanswered! thou'rt a traitor, A false old traitor. Syph. 1 have gone too far. [Aside. Juba. Cato shall know the baseness of thy soul. Syph. I must appease this storm, or per- ish in it. [Aside. Young prince, behold these locks that are grown white Beneath a helmet in your father's battles. Juba. Those locks shall ne'er protect thy insolence. Syph. Must one rash word, the infirmity of age, Throw down the merit of my better years? This the reward of a whole life of service! Curse on the boy! how steadily he hears me! [Aside. Juba. Is it because the throne of my forefathers Still stands unfilled, and that Numidia's crown Hangs doubtful yet, whose head it shall en- close, Thou thus presumest to treat thy prince with scorn ? Syph. Why will you rive my heart with such expressions ? Does not old Syphax follow you to war? What are his aims? why does he load with darts His trembling hand, and crush beneath a casque His wrinkled brows? what is it he aspires to? Is it not this, to shed the slow remains, His last poor ebb of blood, in your defense? Juba. Syphax, no more ! I would not hear you talk. Syph. Not hear me talk ! what, when my faith to Juba, My royal master's son, is called in ques- tion? My prince may strike me dead, and I'll be dumb: But whilst I live, I must not hold my tongue, And languish out old age in his displeasure. Juba. Thou know'st the way too well into my heart, I do believe thee loyal to thy prince. Syph. What greater instance can I give? I've offered To do an action, which my soul abhors, And gain you whom you love at any price. Juba. Was this thy motive? I have been too hasty. Syph. And 'tis for this my prince has called me traitor. Juba. Sure thou mistakest; I did not call thee so. 212 CATO ACT II, Sc. VI. Syph. You did indeed, my prince, you called me traitor: Nay, further, threatened you'd complain to Cato. Of what, my prince, would you complain to Cato? That Syphax loves you, and would sacrifice His life, nay, more, his honor in your serv- ice. Jitha. Syphax, I know thou lov'st me, but indeed Thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far. Honor's a sacred tie, the law of kings, The noble mind's distinguishing perfection, That aids and strengthens virtue where it meets her, And imitates her actions, where she is not: It ought not to be sported with. Syph. By heavens, I'm ravished when you talk thus, though you chide me! Alas! I've hitherto been used to think A blind, officious zeal to serve my king The ruling principle that ought to burn And quench all others in a subject's heart. Happy the people, who preserve their honor By the same duties that oblige their prince ! Juba. Syphax, thou now begin'st to speak thyself. Numidia's grown a scorn among the nations For breach of public vows. Our Punic faith Is infamous, and branded to a proverb. Syphax, we'll join our cares, to purge away Our country's crimes, and clear her repu- tation. Syph. Believe me, prince, you make old Syphax weep To hear you talk but 'tis with tears of joy. If e'er your father's crown adorn your brows, Numidia will be blest by Cato's lectures. Juba. Syphax, thy hand! we'll mutually forget The warmth of youth, and frowardness of age: Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves thy person. If e'er the scepter conies into my hand, Syphax shall stand the second in my king- dom. Syph. Why will you overwhelm my age with kindness ? My joy grows burdensome, I shan't support it. Juba. Syphax, farewell, I'll hence, and try to find Some blest occasion that may set me right In Cato's thoughts. I'd rather have that man Approve my deeds, than worlds for my ad- mirers. [Exit. Syph. solus. Young men soon give, and soon forget affronts; Old age is slow in both A false old traitor! Those words, rash boy, may chance to cost thee dear. My heart had still some foolish fondness for thee: But hence! 'tis gone: I give it to the winds: Caesar, I'm wholly thine SCENE VI SYPHAX, SEMPRONIUS. Syph. All hail, Sempronius! Well, Cato's senate is resolved to wait The fury of a siege before it yields. Scin. Syphax, we both were on the verge of fate: Lucius declared for peace, and terms were offered To Cato by a messenger from Caesar. Should they submit, ere our designs are ripe, We both must perish in the common wreck, Lost in a general, undistinguished ruin. Syph. But how stands Cato? Sent. Thou hast seen Mount Atlas: While storms and tempests thunder on its brows, And oceans break their billows at its feet, It stands unmoved, and glories in its height. Such is that haughty man; his towering soul, 'Midst all the shocks and injuries of fortune, Rises superior, and looks down on Caesar. Syph. But what's this messenger? Seni. I've practised with him, And found a means to let the victor know That Syphax and Sempronius are his friends. But let me now examine in my turn: Is Juba fixed? Syph. Yes but it is to Cato. I've tried the force of every reason on him, Soothed and caressed, been angry, soothed again, Laid safety, life, and interest in his sight, But all are vain, he scorns them all for Cato. >>;;;. Come, 'tis no matter, we shall do without him. He'll make a pretty figure in a triumph, And serve to trip before the victor's chariot. Syphax, I now may hope thou hast forsook Thy Juba's cause, and wishest Marcia mine. Syph. May she be thine as fast as thou wouldst have her ! Si' in. Syphax, I love that woman; though I curse Her and myself, yet, spite of me, I love her. Syph. Make Cato sure, and give up Utica, Caesar will ne'er refuse thee such a trifle. But are thy troops prepared for a revolt? Does the sedition catch from man to man, And run among their ranks? Sem. All, all is ready. The factious leaders are our friends, that spread ACT III, Sc. I. CATO Murmurs and discontents among the sol- diers. They count their toilsome marches, long fatigues, Unusual fastings, and will bear no more This medley of philosophy and war. Within an hour they'll storm the senate- house. Syph. Meanwhile I'll draw up my Numid- ian troops Within the square, to exercise their arms, And, as I see occasion, favor thee. I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato Will look aghast, while unforeseen destruc- tion Pours in upon him thus from every side. So, where our wide Numidian wastes extend, Sudden, the impetuous hurricanes descend, Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play, Tear up the sanjds, and sweep whole plains away. The helpless traveller, with wild surprise, Sees the dry desert all around him rise, And smothered in the dusty whirlwind dies. ACT III SCENE I MARCUS, PORTIUS. Mar. Thanks to my stars, I have not ranged about The wilds of life, ere I could find a friend; Nature first pointed out my Portius to me, And early taught me, by her secret force, To love thy person, ere I knew thy merit; Till, what was instinct, grew up into friend- ship. Par. Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft Confederacies in vice, or leagues of pleasure; Ours has severest virtue for its basis, And such a friendship ends not but with life. Mar. Portius, thou know'st my soul in all its weakness; Then prithee spare me on its tender side, Indulge me but in love, my other passions Shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest rules. For. When love's well-timed, 'tis not a fault to love. The strong the brave, the virtuous, and the wise Sink in the soft captivity together. I would not urge thee to dismiss thy pas- sion, (I know 'twere vain) but to suppress its force, Till better times may make it look more graceful. Mar. Alas! thou talk'st like one who never felt The impatient throbs and longings of a soul That pants and reaches after distant good. A lover does not live by vulgar time: Believe me, Portius, in my Lucia's absence Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden; And yet, when I behold the charming maid, I'm ten times more undone; while hope, and fear, And grief, and rage, and love, rise up at once, And with variety of pain distract me. Par. What can thy Portius do to give thee help? Mar. Portius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair one's presence: Then undertake my cause, and plead it to her With all the strength and heats of eloquence Fraternal love and friendship can inspire. Tell her thy brother languishes to death, And fades away, and withers in his bloom; That he forgets his sleep, and loathes his food, That youth, and health, and war, are joyless to him. Describe his anxious days and restless nights, And all the torments that thou seest me suffer. Par. Marcus, I beg thee give me not an office That suits with me so ill. Thou know'st my temper. Mar. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes? And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm, To raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows ? Par. Marcus, thou canst not ask what I'd refuse. But here, believe me, I've a thousand rea- sons Mar. I know thou'lt say my passion's out of season; That Cato's great example and misfortunes Should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts. But what's all this to one who loves like me! Oh, Portius, Portius, from my soul I wish Thou didst but know thyself what 'tis to love! Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy brother. Par. What should I do? If I disclose my passion, Our friendship's at an end: if I conceal it, The world will call me false to a friend and brother. [Aside. Mar. But see where Lucia, at her wonted hour, Amid the cool of yon high marble arch, Enjoys the noon-day breeze! observe her, Portius ! That face, that shape, those eyes, that heaven of beauty! 214 CATO ACT III, Sc. II. Observe her well, and blame me, if thou canst. For. She sees us, and advances Mar. I'll withdraw, And leave you for awhile. Remember, Portius, Thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue. SCENE II LUCIA, PORTIUS. Lnc. Did not I see your brother Marcus here? Why did he fly the place, and shun my presence? Par. Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to show His rage of love; it preys upon his life; He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he dies: His passions and his virtues lie confused, And mixed together in so wild a tumult, That the whole man is quite disfigured in him. Heavens! would one think 'twere possible for love To make such ravage in a noble soul! Oh, Lucia, I'm distrest! my heart bleeds for him; Ev'n now, while thus I stand blest in thy presence, A secret damp of grief comes o'er my thoughts, And I'm unhappy, though thou smil'st upon me. Luc. How wilt thou guard thy honor, in the shock Of love and friendship! think betimes, my Portius, Think how the nuptial tie, that might insure Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a height Thy brother's griefs, as might perhaps de- stroy him. For. Alas, poor youth! what dost thou think, my Lucia? His generous, open, undesigning heart Has begged his rival to solicit for him. Then do not strike him dead with a denial, But hold him up in life, and cheer his soul With the faint glimmering of a doubtful hope: Perhaps, when we have passed these gloomy hours, And weathered out the storm that beats upon us Luc. No, Portius, no! I see thy sister's tears, Thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death, In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves. And, Portius, here I swear, to heaven I swear, To heaven, and all the powers that judge mankind, Never to mix my plighted hands with thine, While such a cloud of mischiefs hangs about us, But to forget our loves, and drive thee out From all my thoughts, as far as I am able. For. What hast thou said! I'm thunder- struck ! recall Those hasty words, or I am lost for ever. Lnc. Has not the vow already passed my lips? The gods have heard it, and 'tis sealed in heaven. May all the vengeance that was ever poured On perjured heads o'erwhelm me, if I break it! Par. Fixed in astonishment, I gaze upon thee; Like one just blasted by a stroke from heaven, Who pants for breath, and stiffens, yet alive, In dreadful looks a monument of wrath! Luc. At length I've acted my severest part, I feel the woman breaking in upon me. And melt about my heart! my tears will flow. But oh I'll think no more! the hand of fate Has torn thee from me, and I must forget thee. Par. Hard-hearted, cruel maid! Luc. Oh stop those sounds, Those killing sounds! why dost thou frown upon me? My blood runs cold, my heart forgets to heave, And life itself goes out at thy displeasure. The gods forbid us to indulge our loves, But oh! I cannot bear thy hate and live! Par. Talk not of love, thou never knew'st its force, I've been deluded, led into a dream Of fancied bliss. Oh Lucia, cruel maid! Thy dreadful vow, loaden with death, still sounds In my stunned ears. What shall I say or do? Quick, let us part! perdition's in thy pres- ence, And horror dwells about thee! hah, she faints ! Wretch that I am! what has my rashness done! Lucia, thou injured innocence! thou best And loveliest of thy sex ! awake, my Lucia, Or Portius rushes on his sword to join thee. Her imprecations reach not to the tomb, They shut not out society in death But, hah ! she moves ! life wanders up and down Through all her face, and lights up every charm. Luc. O Portius, was this well! to frown on her 215 ACT III, Sc. III. CATO That lives upon thy smiles! to call in doubt The faith of one expiring at thy feet, That loves thee more than ever woman loved! i* What do I say? my half-recovered sense Forgets the vow in which my soul is bound. Destruction stands betwixt us! we must part. For. Name not the word, my frighted thoughts run back, And startle into madness at the sound. Luc. What wouldst thou have me do? consider well The train of ills our love would draw be- hind it. Think, Portius, think, thou seest thy dying brother Stabbed at his heart, and all besmeared with blood, Storming at heaven and thee! thy awful sire Sternly demands the cause, the accursed cause, That robs him of his son ! poor Marcia trembles, Then tears her hair, and frantic in her griefs Calls out on Lucia! What could Lucia an- swer? Or how stand up in such a scene of sor- row? For. To my confusion and eternal grief, I must approve the sentence that destroys me. The mist that hung about my mind clears up; And now, athwart the terrors that thy vow Has planted round thee, thou appear'st more fair, More amiable, and risest in thy charms. Loveliest of women ! heaven is in thy soul, Beauty and virtue shine for ever round thee, Brightening each other! thou art all divine! Luc. Portius, no more! thy words shoot through my heart, Melt my resolves, and turn me all to love. Why are those tears of fondness in thy eyes? Why heaves thy heart? Why swells thy soul with sorrow ? It softens me too much farewell, my Por- tius, Farewell, though death is in the word, for- ever. For. Stay, Lucia, stay! what dost thou say ? Forever ? Luc. Have I not sworn? if, Portius, thy success Must throw thy brother on his fate, fare- well Oh, how shall I repeat the word ? forever ! /'.". Thus o'er the dying lamp the un- steady flame Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off by fits, And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. Thou must not go, my soul still hovers o'er thee, And can't get loose. Luc. If the firm Portius shake To hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers! For. 'Tis true; unruffled and serene I've met The common accidents of life, but here Such an unlooked-for storm of ills falls on me, It beats down all my strength. I cannot bear it. We must not part. Luc. What dost thou say? not part? Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made? Are there not heavens, and gods, and thun- der o'er us? But see! thy brother Marcus bends this way! I sicken at the sight. Once more, farewell, Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me, if thou think'st Ever was love, or ever grief, like mine. SCENE III MARCUS, PORTIUS. Mar. Portius, what hopes? how stands she? am I doomed To life or death? For. What wouldst thou have me say? Mar. What means this pensive posture? thou appear'st Like one amazed and terrified. For. I've reason. Mar. Thy downcast looks and thy dis- ordered thoughts Tell me my fate. I ask not the success My cause has found. For. I'm grieved I undertook it. Mar. What! does the barbarous maid in- sult my heart, My aching heart ! and triumph in my pains ? That I could cast her from my thoughts for ever! For. Away! you're too suspicious in your griefs; Lucia, though sworn never to think of love, Compassionates your pains, and pities you! Mar. Compassionates my pains, and pities me! What is compassion when 'tis void of love? Fool that I was to choose so cold a friend To urge my cause ! compassionate my pains ! Prithee what art, what rhetoric didst thou use To gain this mighty boon ? She pities me ! To one that asks the warm return of love, Compassion's cruelty, 'tis scorn, 'tis death For. Marcus, no more ! have I deserved this treatment? Mar. What have I said! O Portius, O for- give me ! A soul exasperated in ills falls out 216 CATO ACT III, So. V. With everything, its friend, its self but, hah! What means that shout, big with the sounds of war? What new alarm? For. A second, louder yet, Swells in the winds, and comes more full upon us. Mar. Oh for some glorious cause to fall in battle! Lucia, thou hast undone me! thy disdain Has broke my heart: 'tis death must give me ease. For. Quick, let us hence; who knows if Cato's life Stands sure? O Marcus, I am warmed; my heart Leaps at the trumpet's voice, and burns for glory. SCENE IV SEMPRONIUS with the leaders of the mutiny. Sent. At length the winds are raised, the storm blows high, Be it your care, my friends, to keep it up In its full fury, and direct it right, Till it has spent itself on Cato's head. Meanwhile I'll herd among his friends, and seem One of the number, that whate'er arrive, My friends and fellow soldiers may be safe. First Lead. We all are safe, Sempronius is our friend, Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato. But, hark! he enters. Bear up boldly to him; Be sure you beat him down, and bind him fast. This day will end our toils, and give us rest; Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our friend. SCENE V CATO, SEMPRONIUS, Lucius, PORTIUS, MARCUS, ETC. Cato. Where are these bold, intrepid sons of war, That greatly turn their backs upon the foe, And to their general send a brave defiance? Sem. Curse on their dastard souls, they stand astonished! [.Aside. Cato. Perfidious men! and will you thus dishonor Your past exploits, and sully all your wars? Do you confess 'twas not a zeal for Rome, Nor love of liberty, nor thirst of honor, Drew you thus far; but hopes to share the spoil Of conquered towns and plundered provinces? Fired with such motives you do well to join With Cato's foes, and follow Caesar's banners. Why did I scape the envenomed aspic's rage, And all the fiery monsters of the desert, To see this day? why could not Cato fall Without your guilt? Behold, ungrateful men, Behold my bosom naked to your swords, And let the man that's injured strike the blow. Which of you all suspects that he is wronged, Or thinks he suffers greater ills than Cato? Am I distinguished from you but by toils, Superior toils, and heavier weight of cares? Painful pre-eminence! Sem. By heavens they droop! Confusion to the villains! all is lost. [Aside. Cato. Have you forgotten Libya's burn- ing waste, Its barren rocks, parched earth, and hills of sand, Its tainted air, and all its broods of poison? Who was the first to explore the untrodden path, When life was hazarded in every step? Or, fainting in the long, laborious march, When on the banks of an unlooked-for stream You sunk the river with repeated draughts, Who was the last in all your host that thirsted? Sem. If some penurious source by chance appeared, Scanty of waters, when you scooped it dry, And offered the full helmet up to Cato, Did he not dash the untasted moisture from him? Did he not lead you through the mid-day sun, And clouds of dust? did not his temples glow In the same sultry winds and scorching heats ? Cato. Hence, worthless men! hence! and complain to Caesar You could not undergo the toils of war, Nor bear the hardships that your leader bore. Luc. See, Cato, see the unhappy men! they weep ! Fear, and remorse, and sorrow for their crime, Appear in every look, and plead for mercy. Cato. Learn to be honest men, give up your leaders, And pardon shall descend on all the rest. Sem. Cato, commit these wretches to my care. First let 'em each be broken on the rack, Then, with what life remains, impaled and left To writhe at leisure round the bloody stake. There let 'em hang, and taint the southern wind. The partners of their crime will learn obedience, When they look up and see their fellow- traitors 217 ACT III, Sc. VII. OATO Stuck on a fork, and blackening in the sun. Luc. Sempronius, why, why wilt thou urge the fate Of wretched men? _SYm. How! wouldst thou clear rebellion? Lucius (good man) pities the poor offenders, That would imbrue their hands in Cato's blood. Cato. Forbear, Sempronius! see they suf- fer death, But in their deaths remember they are men. Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous. Lucius, the base, degenerate age requires Severity, and justice in its rigor; This awes an impious, bold, offending world, Commands obedience, and gives force to laws. When by just vengeance guilty mortals perish, The gods behold their punishment with pleasure, And lay the uplifted thunderbolt aside. 5cm. Cato, I execute thy will with pleasure, Cato. Meanwhile we'll sacrifice to liberty. Remember, O my friends, the laws, the rights, The generous plan of power delivered down, From age to age, by your renowned fore- fathers, (So dearly bought, the price of so much blood) Oh let it never perish in your hands! But piously transmit it to your children. Do thou, great Liberty, inspire our souls, And make our lives in thy possession happy, Or our deaths glorious in thy just defense. SCENE VI SEMPRONIUS and the leaders of the mutiny. jst Lead. Sempronius, you have acted like yourself, One would have thought you had been half in earnest. .Sent. Villain, stand off! base, grovelling, worthless wretches, Mongrels in faction, poor faint-hearted traitors ! zd Lead. Nay, now you carry it too far, Sempronius : Throw off the mask, there are none here but friends. Sew. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, They're thrown neglected by: but if it fails, They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do. Here, take these factious monsters, drag 'em forth To sudden death. Enter Guards. ist Lead. Nay, since it comes to this Sem. Despatch 'em quick, but first pluck out their tongues, Lest with their dying breath they sow sedi- tion. SCENE VII SYPHAX, SEMPRONIUS. Syph. Our first design, my friend, has proved abortive; Still there remains an after-game to play: My troops are mounted; their Numidian steeds Snuff up the wind, and long to scour the desert: Let but Sempronius head us in our flight, We'll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard, And hew down all that would oppose our passage. A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. Sem. Confusion! I have failed of half my purpose: Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind! Syph. How! will Sempronius turn a woman's slave? Sem. Think not thy friend can ever feel the soft Unmanly warmth and tenderness of love. Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty maid, And bend her stubborn virtue to my pas- sion: When I have gone thus far, I'd cast her off. Syph. Well said! that's spoken like thy- self, Sempronius. What hinders then, but that thou find her out, And hurry her away by manly force? Sem. But how to gain admission? for access Is given to none but Juba and her brothers. Syph. Thou shalt have Juba's dress and Juba's guards : The doors will open, when Numidia's prince Seems to appear before the slaves that watch them. Sem. Heavens, what a thought is there! Marcia's my own! How will my bosom swell with anxious joy, When I behold her struggling in my arms, With glowing beauty and disordered charms, While fear and anger, with alternate grace, Pant in her breast, and vary in her face! So Pluto, seized of Proserpine, conveyed To hell's tremendous gloom the affrighted maid, There grimly smiled, pleased with the beau- teous prize, Nor envied Jove his sunshine and hU skies. 218 CATO ACT IV, Sc. III. ACT IV SCENE I LUCIA, MARCIA. Luc. Now tell me, Marcia, tell me from thy soul, If thou believ'st 'tis possible for woman To suffer greater ills than Lucia suffers? Mar. O Lucia, Lucia, might my big-swoln heart Vent all its griefs, and give a loose to sor- row: Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep pace With all thy woes, and count out tear for tear. Luc. I know thou'rt doomed, alike, to be beloved By Juba and thy father's friend, Sem- pronius; But which of these has power to charm like Portius? Mar. Still must I beg thee not to name Sempronius ? Lucia, I like not that loud, boisterous man; Juba to all the bravery of a hero Adds softest love, and more than female sweetness; Juba might make the proudest of our sex, Any of woman-kind, but Marcia, happy. Luc. And why not Marcia? come, you strive in vain To hide your thoughts from one who knows too well The inward glowings of a heart in love. Mar. While Cato lives, his daughter has no right To love or hate, but as his choice directs. Luc. But should this father give you to Sempronius ? Mar. I dare not think he will: but if he should Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures? I hear the sound of feet! they march this way! Let us retire, and try if we can drown Each softer thought in sense of present dan- ger. When love once pleads admission to our hearts, (In spite of all the virtue we can boast) The woman that deliberates is lost. SCENE II SEMPRONIUS, dressed like JUBA, with Numidian guards. Sem. The deer is lodged. I've tracked her to her covert. Be sure you mind the word, and when I give it, Rush in at once, and seize upon your prey. Let not her cries or tears have force to move you. How will the young Numidian rave, to see His mistress lost! if aught could glad my soul, Beyond the enjoyment of so bright a prize, 'Twould be to torture that young gay bar- barian. But, hark, what noise ! death to my hopes ! 'tis he, 'Tis Juba's self! there is but one way left He must be murdered, and a passage cut Through those his guards Hah! dastards, do you tremble! Or act like men, or by yon azure heaven Enter JUBA. Juba. What do I see? who's this that dare usurp The guards and habit of Numidia's prince? Sem. One that was born to scourge thy arrogance, Presumptuous youth ! Juba. What can this mean? Sempro- nius! Sem. My sword shall answer thee. Have at thy heart. Juba. Nay, then beware thy own, proud, barbarous man! [SEMPRONIUS falls. His guards surrender. Sem. Curse on my stars! am I then doomed to fall By a boy's hand, disfigured in a vile Numidian dress, and for a worthless woman? Gods, I'm distracted! this my close of life! Oh for a peal of thunder that would make Earth, sea, and air, and heaven, and Cato tremble ! [Dies. Juba. With what a spring his furious soul broke loose. And left the limbs still quivering on the ground ! Hence let us carry off those slaves to Cato, That we may there at length unravel all This dark design, this mystery of fate. SCENE III LUCIA, MARCIA. Luc. Sure 'twas the clash of swords; my troubled heart Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sor- rows, It throbs with fear and aches at every sound. Marcia, should thy brothers for my sake! 1 die away with horror at the thought. Mar. See, Lucia, see! here's blood! here's blood and murder! Hah, a Numidian! heavens preserve the prince; The face lies muffled up within the garment. But hah! death to my sight, a diadem, 219 ACT IV, Sc. III. CATO And purple robes ! O Gods ! 'tis he, 'tis he ! Juba. the loveliest youth that ever warmed A virgin's heart, Juba lies dead before us! Luc. Now, Marcia, now call up to thy assistance Thy wonted strength and constancy of mind; Thou canst not put it to a greater trial. Mar. Lucia, look there, and wonder at my patience. Have I not cause to rave, and beat my breast, To rend my heart with grief, and run dis- tracted ? Luc. What can I think or say to give thee comfort ? Mar. Talk not of comfort, 'tis for lighter ills: Behold a sight that strikes all comfort dead. 'Enter JUBA, listening. I will indulge my sorrows, and give way To all the pangs and fury of despair, That man, that best of men, deserved it from me. Juba. What do I hear! and was the false Sempronius That best of men? Oh had I fallen like him, And could have thus been mourned, I had been happy ! Luc. Here will I stand, companion in thy woes, And help thee with my tears! when I behold A loss like thine, I half forget my own. Mar. 'Tis not in fate to ease my tor- tured breast. This empty world, to me a joyless desert, Has nothing left to make poor Marcia happy. Juba. I'm on the rack! was he so near her heart? Mar. Oh! he was all made up of love and charms, Whatever maid could wish or man admire: Delight of every eye! when he appeared, A secret pleasure gladdened all that saw him; But when he talked, the proudest Roman blushed To hear his virtues, and old age grew wise. Juba. I shall run mad Mar. O Juba! Juba! Juba! Juba. What means that voice? did she not call on Juba? Mar. Why do I think on what he was! he's dead! He's dead, and never knew how much I loved him. Lucia, who knows but his poor bleeding heart, Amidst its agonies, remembered Marcia, And the last words he uttered called me cruel! Alas! he knew not, hapless youth, he knew not Marcia's whole soul was full of love and Juba. Juba. Where am I ? do I live ! or am indeed What Marcia thinks! all is Elysium round me! Mar. Ye dear remains of the most loved of men! Nor modesty nor virtue here forbid A last embrace, while thus Juba. See, Marcia, see, [Throwing himself before her. The happy Juba lives! he lives to catch That dear embrace, and to return it too With mutual warmth and eagerness of love. Mar. With pleasure and amaze, I stand transported ! Sure 'tis a dream ! dead and alive at once ! If thou art Juba, who lies there? Juba. A wretch, Disguised like Juba, on a cursed design. The tale is long, nor have I heard it out; Thy father knows it all. I could not bear To leave thee in the neighborhood of death, But flew, in all the haste of love, to find thee; I found thee weeping, and confess this once, Am rapt with joy to see my Marcia's tears. Mar. I've been surprised in an unguarded hour, But must not now go back: the love, that lay Half smothered in my breast, has broke through all Its weak restraints, and burns in its full luster; I cannot, if I would, conceal it from thee. Juba. I'm lost in ecstasy! and dost thou love, Thou charming maid? Mar. And dost thou live to ask it? Juba. This, this is life indeed! life worth preserving, Such life as Juba never felt till now! Mar. Believe me, prince, before I thought thee dead, I did not know myself how much I loved thee. Juba. Oh fortunate mistake! Mar. Oh happy Marcia! Juba. My joy! my best beloved! my only wish! How shall I speak the transport of my soul? Mar. Lucia, thy arm! oh let me rest upon it! The vital blood, that had forsook my heart, Returns again in such tumultuous tide, It quite o'ercomes me. Lead to my apart- ment. O prince! I blush to think what I have said, But fate has wrested the confession from me; Go on, and prosper in the paths of honor. Thy virtue will excuse my passion for thee, 220 CATO ACT IV, Sc. IV. And make the gods propitious to our love. [Exeunt MARCIA and LUCIA. Juba. I am so blest, I fear 'tis all a dream. Fortune, thou now hast made amends for all Thy past unkindness. I absolve my stars. What though Numidia add her conquered towns And provinces to swell the victor's triumph! Juba will never at his fate repine; Let Caesar have the world, if Marcia's mine. SCENE IV A March at a Distance. CATO, Lucius. Luc. 1 stand astonished! what, the bold Sempronius ! That still broke foremost through the crowd of patriots, As with a hurricane of zeal transported, And virtuous even to madness Cato. Trust me, Lucius, Our civil discords have produced such crimes, Such monstrous crimes, I am surprised at nothing. O Lucius ! I am sick of this bad world ! The day-light and the sun grow painful to me. Enter PORTIUS. But see where Portius comes! What means this haste? Why are thy looks thus changed? For. My heart is grieved. I bring such news as will afflict my father. Cato. Has Caesar shed more Roman blood ? For. Not so. The traitor Syphax, as within the square He exercised his troops, the signal given, Flew off at once with his Numidian horse To the south gate, where Marcus holds the watch. I saw, and called to stop him, but in vain, He tossed his arm aloft, and proudly told me, He would not stay and perish like Sem- pronius. Cato. Perfidious men! but haste, my son, and see Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman's part. [Exit FOR. Lucius, the torrent bears too hard upon me: Justice gives way to force: the conquered world Is Caesar's: Cato has no business in it. Luc. While pride, oppression, and injus- tice reign, The world will still demand her Cato's pres- ence. In pity to mankind, submit to Caesar, And reconcile thy mighty soul to life. Cato. Would Lucius have me live to swell the number Of Caesar's slaves, or by a base submission Give up the cause of Rome, and own a tyrant ? Luc. The victor never will impose on Cato. Ungenerous terms. His enemies confess The virtues of humanity are Caesar's. Cato. Curse on his virtues! they've un- done his country. Such popular humanity is treason But see young Juba! the good youth ap- pears Full of the guilt of his perfidious subjects. Luc. Alas! poor prince! his fate deserves compassion. Enter JUBA. blush and am confounded to Juba. I appear Before thy presence, Cato. Cato. What's thy crime? Juba. I'm a Numidian. Cato. And a brave one too. Thou hast a Roman soul. Juba. Hast thou not heard Of my false countrymen? Cato. Alas ! young prince, Falsehood and fraud shoot up in every soil, The product of all climes Rome has its Caesars. Juba. 'Tis generous thus to comfort the distressed. Cato. 'Tis just to give applause where 'tis deserved; Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of fortune, Like purest gold, that, tortured in the fur- nace, Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight. Juba. What shall ravished heart O'erflows with secret joy: I'd rather gain Thy praise, O Cato, than Numidia's empire. Re-enter PORTIUS. For. Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief ! My brother Marcus Cato. Hah! what has he done? Has he forsook his post? has he given way? Did he look tamely on, and let 'em pass? For. Scarce had I left my father, but I met him Borne on the shields of his surviving sol- diers, Breathless and pale, and covered o'er with wounds. Long, at the head of his few faithful friends, He stood the shock of a whole host of foes. I answer thee? my 221 ACT IV, Sc. IV. CATO Till, obstinately brave, and bent on death. Oppressed with multitudes, he greatly fell. Cato. I'm satisfied. For. Nor did he fall before His sword had pierced through the false heart of Syphax. Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground. Cato. Thanks to the gods! my boy has done his duty. Portius, when I am dead, be sure thou place His urn near mine. Par. Long may they keep asunder. Luc. O Cato! arm thy soul with all its patience ; See where the corpse of thy dead son ap- proaches ! The citizens and senators, alarmed, Have gathered round it, and attend it weep- ing. CATO, meeting the corpse. Welcome, my son! here lay him down, my friends, Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds. How beautiful is death, when earned by virtue ! Who would not be that youth? what pity is it That we can die but once to serve our country ! Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends ? I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood Secure, and flourished in a civil war. Portius, behold thy brother, and remem- ber Thy life is not thine own, when Rome de- mands it. Juba. Was ever man like this ! [Aside. Cato. Alas ! my friends ! Why mourn you thus? let not a private loss Afflict your hearts. Tis Rome requires our tears, The mistress of the world, the seat of em- pire, The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods, That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth, And set the nations free, Rome is no more. Oh liberty! Oh virtue! Oh my country! Juba. Behold that upright man! Rome fills his eyes With tears, that flowed not o'er his own dead son. [Aside. Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued, The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's. For him the self-devoted Decii died, The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios con- quered; Ev'n Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh! my friends ! How is the toil of fate, the work of ages, The Roman empire fallen! Oh cursed am- bition ! Fallen into Caesar's hands! Our great fore- fathers Had left him nought to conquer but his country. Juba. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush to see Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of em- pire. (',;/.'. Caesar ashamed! has not he seen Pharsalia? Luc. Cato, 'tis time thou save thyself and us. Cato. Lose not a thought on me; I'm out of danger. Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand. Caesar shall never say, I conquered Cato. But, oh! my friends, your safety fills my heart With anxious thoughts: a thousand secret terrors Rise in my soul: how shall I save my friends! 'Tis now, O Caesar, I begin to fear thee. Luc. Caesar has mercy, if we ask it of him. Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you! let him know Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it. Add, if you please, that I request it of him, The virtue of my friends may pass un- punished. Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake. Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, Or seek the conqueror? Juba. If I forsake thee Whilst I have life, may heaven abandon Juba! Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, Will one day make thee great; at Rome, hereafter, 'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend. Portius, draw near! my son, thou oft hast seen Thy sire engaged in a corrupted state, Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou seest me Spent, overpowered, despairing of success; Let me advise thee to retreat betimes To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, Where the great Censor toiled with his own hands, And all our frugal ancestors were blessed In humble virtues, and a rural life. There live retired, pray for the peace of Rome: Content thyself to be obscurely good. 222 CATO ACT V, Sc. II. When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, The post of honor is a private station. Par. I hope my father does not recom- mend A life to Portius that he scorns himself. Cato. Farewell, my friends! if there be any of you Who dare not trust the victor's clemency, Know, there are ships prepared by my com- mand, (Their sails already opening to the winds) That shall convey you to the wished-for port. Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you? The conqueror draws near. Once more fare- well! If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet In happier climes, and on a safer shore, Where Caesar never shall approach us more. [Pointing to his dead son. There the brave youth, with love of virtue fired, Who greatly in his country's cause expired, Shall know he conquered. The firm patriot there, (Who made the welfare of mankind his care) Though still, by faction, vice, and fortune crost, Shall find the generous labor was not lost. ACT V SCENE I CATO solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: in his hand Plato's Book on the Immortality of the Soul. A drawn sword on the table by him. It must be so Plato, thou reason'st well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught? why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself, that points out an here- after, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect, lies be- fore me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, (And that there is all nature cries aloud Through all her works) he must delight in virtue: And that which he delights in, must be happy. But when! or where! This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures This must end 'em. [.Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this ir.'orms me I shall never die. The soul secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? Nature, oppressed and harassed out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her, That my awakened soul may take her flight, Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of 'em, Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. SCENE II CATO, PORTIUS. hah ! how's this, my son ? Cato. But, why this intrusion? Were not my orders that I would be private? Why am I disobeyed? Par. Alas! my father! What means this sword, this instrument of death ? Let me convey it hence! Cato. Rash youth, forbear! Par. Oh let the prayers, the entreaties of your friends, Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you. Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? wouldst thou give me up A slave, a captive, into Caesar's hands? Retire, and learn obedience to a father, Or know, young man! Par. Look not thus sternly on me; You know I'd rather die than disobey you. Cato. 'Tis well! again I'm master of my- self. Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates, And bar each avenue, thy gathering fleet* 223 ACT V, Sc. IV. CATO O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port; Cato shall open to himself a passage, And mock thy hopes For. Oh, sir! forgive your son, Whose grief hangs heavy on him! Oh my father ! How am I sure it is not the last time I e'er shall call you so! be not displeased, Oh be not angry with me whilst I weep, And, in the anguish of my heart beseech you To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul! Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. [Embracing him. Weep not, my son. All will be well again. The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please, Will succor Cato, and preserve his children. For. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart. Cato. Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct. Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting Among thy father's friends; see them em- barked; And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. [Exit. For. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives. SCENE III PORTIUS, MARCIA. For. O Marcia, O my sister, still there's hope! Our father will not cast away a life So needful to us all, and to his country. He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish Thoughts full of peace. He has despatched me hence With orders, that bespeak a mind composed, And studious for the safety of his friends. Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers. Mar. O ye immortal powers, that guard the just, Watch round his couch, and soften his re- pose, Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul With easy dreams; remember all his virtues! And show mankind that goodness is your care. SCENE IV LUCIA, MARCIA. Luc. Where is your father, Marcia, where is Cato? Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retired to rest. Lucia, I feel a gently-dawning hope Rise in my soul. We shall be happy still. Luc. Alas! I tremble when I think on Cato, In every view, in every thought I tremble! Cato is stern, and awful as a god; He knows not how to wink at human frailty, Or pardon weakness that he never felt. Mar. Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome, He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, Compassionate, and gentle to his friends. Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best, The kindest father! I have ever found him Easy, and good, and bounteous to my wishes. Luc. Tis his consent alone can make us blest. Marcia, we both are equally involved In the same intricate, perplexed distress. The cruel hand of fate, that has destroyed Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament- Mar. And ever shall lament, unhappy youth ! Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's thoughts ? Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius, Or how he has determined of thyself? Mar. Let him but live! commit the rest to heaven. Enter Lucius. Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the vir- tuous man ! Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father: Some power invisible supports his soul, And bears it up in all its wonted greatness. A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon him: 1 saw him stretched at ease, his fancy lost In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his couch, He smiled, and cried, " Caesar, thou canst not hurt me." Mar. His mind still labors with some dreadful thought. Luc. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods of sorrow? Dry up thy tears, my child, we all are safe While Cato lives his presence will protect us. Enter JUBA. Juha. Lucius, the horsemen are returned from viewing The number, strength, and posture of our foes, Who now encamp within a short hour's march. On the high point of yon bright western tower 224 CATO ACT V, Sc. IV. We ken them from afar, the setting sun Plays on their shining arms and burnished helmets, And covers all the field with gleams of fire. Luc. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father. Caesar is still disposed to give us terms, And waits at distance till he hears from Cato. Enter PORTIUS. Portius, thy looks speak somewhat of im- portance, What tidings dost thou bring? methinks I see Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes. For. As I was hasting to the port, where now My father's friends, impatient for a passage, Accuse the lingering winds, a sail arrived From Pompey's son, who through the realms of Spain Calls out for vengeance on his father's death, And rouses the whole nation up to arms. Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome Assert her rights and claim her liberty. But, hark! what means that groan! Oh give me way, And let me fly into my father's presence. [Exit PORTIUS. Luc. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome, And in the wild disorder of his soul Mourns o'er his country, Hah! a second groan ! Heaven guard us all Mar. Alas! 'tis not the voice Of one who sleeps! 'tis agonizing pain, 'Tis death is in that sound Re-enter PORTIUS. For. Oh sight of woe! Marcia, what we feared is come to pass! Cato is fallen upon his sword Luc. O Portius, Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, And let us guess the rest. Par. I've raised him up, And placed him in his chair, where, pale and faint, He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him, Demands to see his friends. His servants weeping, Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither. [The back scene opens and discovers CATO. Mar. O heaven, assist me in this dread- ful hour To pay the last sad duties to my father. Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy ex- ploits, O Caesar! Luc. Now is Rome fallen indeed! [CATO brought forward in his chair. Cato. Here set me down Portius, come near me are my friends em- barked? Can anything be thought of for their service? Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain. O Lucius, art thou here? thou art too good ! Let this our friendship live between our children; Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia. Alas ! poor man, he weeps ! Marcia, my daughter Oh bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia. A senator of Rome, while Rome survived, Would not have match'd his daughter with a king, But Caesar's arms have thrown down all distinction; Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman. I'm sick to death Oh when shall I get loose From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sorrow ! And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in On my departing soul. Alas ! I fear I've been too hasty ! O ye powers that search The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, If I have done amiss, impute it not! The best may err, but you are good, and oh ! [Dies. Luc. There fled the greatest soul that ever warmed A Roman breast. O Cato! O my friend! Thy will shall be religiously observed. But let us bear this awful corpse to Caesar, And lay it in his sight, that it may stand A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath; Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends. From hence, let fierce contending nations know What dire effects from civil discord flow. 'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms, And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms, Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife, And robs the guilty world of Cato's life. 225 RICHARD STEELE THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS RICHARD STEELE, like Farquhar, Goldsmith, and Sheridan, was born in Ireland and like them had that charm which in one manifestation or other is generally associated with the Irish character. Whether he is regarded in his personal relations with Addison and Gibber, and, best of all, with " dear Prue," or in his varied activities as tract-writer, dramatist, essayist, and Member of Parliament, or in his chronic plight as defendant in lawsuits for debt, he always commands our sympathy and wins our love. He is also none the less endeared to us because, while constantly and sincerely working for reform in English manners and morals in literature and life, he fell largely because of good fellowship and improvidence into many of the errors he condemned. His " dear ruler," his creditors, and his own conscience speedily lifted him up to the standard he had in open profession set for himself ; to- day our charity covers a multitude of his sins. Born in Dublin in 1672 and left an orphan about five years later, Steele was cared for by his uncle, Henry Gascoigne, through whose influence he was admitted to the Charterhouse in 1684. Here began two years later that friendship with Addison which was continued in Oxford and which lasted till the unhappy break only two months before Addison's death. It is char- acteristic of the two men that the proper and somewhat conventional Addison should obtain both degrees and proceed to a fellowship and that the erratic Steele should leave the university without a degree and enlist in the Duke of Ormond's guards (1694). From now on his life was full and varied. His loyal poem on the death of Queen Mary, The Procession (1695), won him an ensign's commission, and by 1700 he had been promoted to a captaincy. While in the army he furnished his first public record of the difficulty he always found in living up to his religious ideals. The struggle was par- ticularly hard in the midst of his military associates, as was shown when much against his principles he fought a duel. Accordingly, in order to strengthen himself and others in godly living, he wrote The Christian Hero (1701), in which he showed that help comes not from the classical phi- losophers and heroes, but from Christ and St. Paul, who taught that "the true guide in conduct is conscience" (Routh). Whatever spiritual benefit 226 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS Steele may have received from this pamphlet was immediately if not com- pletely balanced by the realization " that from being thought no undelightful companion, he was reckoned a disagreeable fellow." Partly, therefore, " to enliven his character " in the eyes of his scoffing fellows and partly to help in the reform of the stage, he wrote his first comedy, The Funeral or Grief a la Mode (1701), which won what Gibber called a " more than expected success." It was one of the earliest plays to show the influence for good that the aroused Puritan conscience of England had effected, especially as voiced in the grating tones of Jeremy Collier's Short View of the Profaneness and Immorality of the English Stage (1698). This famous treatise was not so much the cause of the reform as the sign that the people were disgusted with the licentious Restoration comedy. It was a sign, too, which the erring dramatists heeded, so that Colley Gibber justly said that Collier's " calling our Dramatick Writers to this strict Account had a very wholesome Effect upon those who writ after this time. They were now a great deal more upon their Guard ; Indecencies were no longer Wit; and by degrees the Fair Sex came again to fill the Boxes on the first Day of a new Comedy without Fear or Censure." Gibber had already, two years before the appearance of Collier's counterblast, shown his practical rather than any distinctly moral sense by trimming his sails to the veering wind when he wrote Love's Last Shift (1696). In this play he reached towards the new without parting company with the old comedy, for he de- voted four acts in appealing to the " coarse palates " of the gallants and the fifth in bringing about the very doubtful reformation of the "honest rake." Vanbrugh's sequel, The Relapse (1697), shows with what little seriousness this reformation was taken. Steele, however, was actuated by higher motives and his first play was not marred by pinchbeck morality. He is continuing in the theatre the reform he began in his tract, though, of course, the tone is not so serious. He keeps to the province of the Wycherley and Congreve comedy, that of the domestic relations, but his purpose is entirely different. The blind husband sees the iniquity of his wife, who is duly punished, the victims of her villainy are restored to their rights, and virtue is triumphant. The deceived husband is no longer an object of profane mirth and the sin- ners are not treated as fine fellows. The comic material, as throughout in Steele's comedies, is supplied by the subordinate characters, who furnish amusing satire such as Steele gave forth abundantly in The Taller and The Spectator. So we have the ridiculous funeral director and his mutes, who persist in looking cheerful though hired to be dismal ; the pettifogging law- yer's clerk, and the raw recruits, fit companions for Falstaff's ragged regi- ment. Having succeeded in making, as he said, " Virtue and Vice appear just as they ought to be," Steele proceeded two years later to " write a comedy in the severity [Collier] required." This was The Lying Lover or The Ladies' Friendship (1703). Using Corneille's Le Menteur as a basis, Steele 227 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS inserted a scene to convey the lesson he would teach by showing the remorse which follows murder committed in drunkenness. Of this scene he says: " The anguish [Young Bookwit] there expresses and the mutual sorrow between an only child and a tender father in that distress, are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of morality." Here is the first unmistakable evidence of the new sentimental comedy, if not in English drama, at any rate in Steele. The straining after the pathetic, as in the remorse of the son and the anguish of the father, is a mark of what was replacing the abhorred wit of the Restoration period. There was, too, much less genuine fun in this play than in the first; certain minor characters are only moderately amusing. We are not surprised to learn that the play, as Steele admits, was " damned for its piety." In the interval between Steele's second and third plays, Gibber produced The Careless Husband (1704), which shows the progress both in moral re- form and in sentimentalism in the drama. The moral tone is finer than in Love's Last Shift, and the reformation is felt to be permanent. The senti- mental interest is plainly shown in the pathetic situations, as when the noble wife refuses to listen to evidence of her husband's wrongdoing, and to re- proach him for infidelity even upon her own discovery of it, but receives him bitterly repentant of his sins. Steele's last play of this period, The Tender Husband or The Accomplished Fools (1705), violates all dramatic propriety for the sake of the sentimental effect. A man employs his mistress in the disguise of a gallant to test his wife's virtue; the experiment is succeeding all too well for the man's peace of mind when he indignantly bursts from con- cealment; after a vain attempt at bravado the wife faints, implores forgive- ness, and is received into the tender husband's arms. Poetic justice has be- come gushing sentimentality and a mock is made of genuine morality. Much healthier and more in keeping with dramatic propriety are the comic scenes, which have also a moral purpose after the fashion of Steele's later journal- istic satire. They deal with the relations of parents to children and depict the wholly admirable Biddy Tipkin, who, with her head crammed with French romances, will be wooed only by a lover as valiant and fine as Oroon- dates so that there is no doing anything with her, and the equally amusing Humphry Gubbin, who breaks from his father's tyranny and marries to suit himself. Humphry harks back to Ben in Congreve's Love for Love and looks forward to Goldsmith's Tony Lumpkin ; his father is of the same type as Fielding's Squire Western. The Tender Husband was not a financial success, and Steele had to turn to other occupations to keep the bailiff from the door. Two appointments, one as Gentleman Waiter to Prince George of Denmark at 100 a year (1706), the other as Gazetteer at 300 a year with a tax of 45 (1707), did not furnish enough for one of his mercurial dis- position. His first marriage in 1705 and his second to Mistress Mary Scurlock in 1707 brought him a nominally large but not always a collectable 228 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS income. The pressure of debt and his inventive genius led to his founding The Toiler, The Spectator, and their successors. In these papers Steele reached a greater public than he did in the theatre, and even in the reform of the drama his essays had more weight than his plays. Gibber testified in his Preface to Ximena (1719): "How often have we known the most excellent audience drawn together at a day's warn- ing, by the influence or warrant of a single Tatler, in a season when our best endeavors without it could not defray the charge of the performance!" It was particularly in his essays on the domestic relations that he was a civilizing force, as he had also tried to be in his plays. His delightful letters to " dear Prue," so charming in their naivete, in their revelation of the man's foibles and failings and above all of his surpassing goodness of heart testify to his perfect sincerity and sympathy. This sympathy at times runs into " lachrymose sensibility " and becomes part of the sentimentality which was already developing in the comedies and which was to find full expression in his last play. His journalistic work led him into politics, which influenced The Guardian (1713) and dominated The Englishman (1713). He was elected to Parlia- ment (1713), expelled within a year for seditious articles, and re-elected and knighted in 1715. He was brought again into closer touch with the theatre by being made supervisor of Drury Lane Theatre (1715), a connection which he held with only slight interruptions till his death in retirement in 1729- There are references to The Conscious Lovers, Steele's last complete play, as early as 1720. The first title announced was The Unfashionable Lovers, or, as others said, The Fine Gentleman. When it was acted on November 7, 1722, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Younger, Booth, Wilks, and Gibber were in the cast; and to its being in "every part excellently performed" Steele ascribed its " universal acceptance." It had the unusual run of eighteen consecutive nights and later in the season of eight more. By this time the sentimental comedy was established in popular favor, and Steele's play is a good speci- men of the type. The moral note is struck in the Preface : " Nor do I make any difficulty to acknowledge that the whole was writ for the sake of the scene of the Fourth Act, wherein Mr. Bevil evades the quarrel with his friend, and hope it may have some effect upon the Goths and Vandals that frequent the theatre, or a polite audience may supply their absence." The more general moral purpose is expressed in the Prologue, where Welsted en- treats the Britons for aid in reforming the theatre: " 'Tis yours with breeding to refine the age, To chasten wit and moralize the stage." As Routh has well pointed out, we have in this play a brief exposition of all Steele's " best ideas on life and character," the sketch of servants under- 229 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS going the corruption of lackeydom; "satire on marriages of convenience, duelling, and the chicanery of the law ; and a glance at the opposition between the hereditary gentry and the rising commercial class " ; while in Bevil, Jr.,_ we have the portrayal of the ideal young man. There is no hero in Steele's early comedies quite so admirable as this one. His fine sense of honor which forbids his proposing marriage to his beloved because he has not re- ceived his father's approval strikes us as quixotic, especially since he has made no effort to secure this approval. The moral obliquities he resorts to in order to remain obedient to his father and faithful to his beloved betray the inherent weakness of honor based on mere sentimentality. He is so anxious to be upright that he bends over backward. On the other hand, we must admire his stand on the matter of duelling, for it is Steele and not merely Bevil that is speaking. It took more courage then to refuse than to fight a duel. All Bevil's noble conduct is, however, charged with senti- mentalism that suggests priggishness. Equally sentimental are his speeches : "This charming vision of Mirza! Such an author consulted in a morning sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day better than the glass does a lady's person." And at the end of this noble soliloquy he resolves on his " honest dissimulation " to deceive his father ! And what a flood of senti- ment is poured forth in the dialogue between him and Indiana in Act II, as when he says: "If pleasure be worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to him, who has a true task of life, to ease an aching heart; to see the human countenance lighted up into smiles of joy, on the receipt of a bit of ore which is superfluous and otherwise useless in a man's own pocket? " Just as excellent and only less sentimental is the heroine Indiana. She loves but dares not say so ; she endures Bevil's silence with the patience of Griselda ; his apparent disregard of everything but her physical welfare she accepts with that exalted faith which sees nothing but perfect probity in his conduct. She also submits willingly to be investigated by the potential enemy of her happiness, and almost at his first word breaks into ready tears ; she pities herself as " wretched, helpless, friendless," even though Bevil has treated her and her devoted aunt with unexampled kindness ; she finally rises to a frenzy of expostulation against Fate which results in her identity being revealed and her woes coming to an end. The comic business is, as usual, supplied by the minor characters. Tom and Phillis, already faintly sketched in No. 87 of The Guardian, are admir- able, and they furnish all that remains of the sparkling dialogue of the Restoration comedy. Cimberton is a sort of high-class booby, who cor- responds in his sheer vulgarity to Humphry Gubbin of The Tender Husband. He is so outrageous as to be really comic. One should not condemn him with the tremendous solemnity of John Dennis, if for no other reason than that he furnishes the opportunity for satirizing the prudery of Mrs. Sea- land. The parodying of legal jargon in the mouths of Bramble and Target must have given a melancholy joy to Steele, who was all too familiar with 230 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS the sound of it in the court-room. Indeed, these pettifogging lawyers, who recall the clerk in The Funeral, are really dragged in for the sake of the satire, for they do not develop the plot. It is the comic matter that constitutes the main difference between The Conscious Lovers and its source, the Andria of Terence. Phillis is much developed beyond her shadowy prototype Mysis, and Tom is far more amusing than Davus, who is the conventionally clever servant of Latin comedy. The part of Cimberton and the moderately comic situations in which he moves are wholly original. Other differences are in the averted duel, which is built on an incipient quarrel in Terence; in the accident by which the love affair of the hero is discovered by his father, more simply and reasonably introduced in the Latin than in the English version ; in the highly moral relations of the modern hero and heroine, very proper in sentimental comedy ; in the scene taken to disclose the identity of the heroine and thereby to bring the play to a happy issue, which is more naturally accomplished by Terence than by Steele. The plot of the Latin play is more compact and the sequence of events more natural; but the English play has livelier action and richer characterization. John Dennis attacked this comedy with much personal virulence tempered with some just criticism. Fielding with his usual good sense put his finger on the essential weakness of the play, when he made Parson Adams say of it and Addison's tragedy : " I never read of any plays fit for a Christian to read, but Cato and The Conscious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter there are some things almost solemn enough for a sermon." To such a pass has the drama arrived in the twenty-two years since The Way of the World was published. It was to become worse before Goldsmith and Sheridan rescued it from the thraldom of smug morality and sentimentalism. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS " Illud genus narrationis, quod in personis positum est, debet habere sermonis festivitatem, animorum dis,similitudinem, gravitatem, lenitatem, spem, metum, suspicionem, desiderium, dissimulationem, misericordiam, reruro varietates, fortunae commutationem, insperatum incommodum, subitam leti- tiam, jucundum exitum rerum." * CICERO, Rhetor, ad Herenn. Lib. i. 1 The kind of narrative which is presented on the stage ought to be marked by gaiety of dialogue, diversity of character, seriousness, tenderness, hope, fear, suspicion, desire, pity, variety of events, changes of fortune, un- expected disaster, sudden joy, and a happy ending. 231 ACT I, Sc. I. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS DRAMATIS PERSONS SIR JOHN BEVIL. MR. SEALAND. BEVIL, JUN., m love with INDIANA. MYRTLE, in love with LUCINDA. CIMBERTON, a Coxcomb. HUMPHRY, on old Servant to SIR JOHN. TOM, Sen-ant to BEVIL, JUN. DANIEL, a Country Boy, Sen-ant to INDIANA. MRS. SEALAND, second Wife to SEALAND. ISABELLA, Sister to SEALAND. INDIANA, SEALAND'S Daughter, by his first Wife. Luci^BA, SEALAND'S Daughter, by his second Wife. PHILLIS, Maid to LUCINDA. SCENE. LONDON. ACT THE FIRST SCENE I SIR JOHN BEVIL'S House. Enter SIR JOHN BEVIL and HUMPHRY. Sir J. Bev. Have you ordered that I should not be interrupted while I am dressing ? Humph. Yes, sir; I believed you had something of moment to say to me. Sir J. Bev. Let me see, Humphry; I think it is now full forty years since I first took thee to be about myself. Humph. I thank you, sir, it has been an easy forty years; and I have passed 'em without much -sickness, care, or labor. Sir J. Bev. Thou hast a brave constitu- tion; you are a year or two older than I am, sirrah. Humph. You have ever been of that mind, sir. Sir J. Bev. You knave, you know it; I took thee for thy gravity and sobriety, in my wild years. Humph. Ah, sir! our manners were formed from our different fortunes, not our different age. Wealth gave a loose to your youth, and poverty put a restraint upon mine. Sir J. Bev. Well, Humphry, you know I have been a kind master to you; I have used you, for the ingenuous nature I ob- served in you from the beginning, more like an humble friend than a servant. Humph. I humbly beg you'll be so tender of me as to explain your commands, sir, without any farther preparation. Sir J. Bev. I'll tell thee, then: In the first place, this wedding of my son's in all probability (shut the door) will never be at all. Humph. How, sir! not be at all? for what reason is it carried on in appearance? Sir J. Bev. Honest Humphry, have pa- tience; and I'll tell thee all in order. I have, myself, in some part of my life, lived (in- deed) with freedom, but, I hope, without re- proach. Now, I thought liberty would be as little injurious to my son; therefore, as soon as he grew towards man, I indulged him in living after his own manner. I knew not how, otherwise, to judge of his inclination; for what can be concluded from a behavior under restraint and fear? But what charms me above all expression is, that my son has never, in the least action, the most distant hint or word, valued himself upon that great estate of his mother's, which, according to our marriage settlement, he has had ever since he came to age. Humph. No, sir; on the contrary, he seems afraid of appearing to enjoy it, before you or any belonging to you. He is as dependent and resigned to your will as if he had not a farthing but what must come from your immediate bounty. You have ever acted like a good and generous father, and he like an obedient and grateful son. Sir J. Bev. Nay, his carriage is so easy to all with whom he converses, that he is never assuming, never prefers himself to others, nor ever is guilty of that rough sincerity which a man is not called to, and certainly disobliges most of his acquaint- ance; to be short, Humphry, his reputation was so fair in the world, that old Sealand, the great India merchant, has offered his only daughter, and sole heiress to that vast estate of his, as a wife for him. You may be sure I made no difficulties, the match was agreed on, and this very day named for the wedding. Humph. What hinders the proceed-'ng? Sir J. Bev. Don't interrupt me. You know I was last Thursday at the mas- querade; my son, you may remember, soon found us out. He knew his grandfather's habit, which I then wore; and though it was the mode, in the last age, yet the masquers, you know, followed us as if we had been the most monstrous figures in that whole assembly. Humph. I remember, indeed, a young man of quality in the habit of a clown, that was particularly troublesome. 232 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT I, Sc. I. Sir J. Bev. Right; he was too much what he seemed to be. You remember how im- pertinently he followed and teased us, and would know who we were. Humph. I know he has a mind to come into that particular. [Aside. Sir J. Bev. Ay, he followed us till the gentleman who led the lady in the Indian mantle presented that gay creature to the rustic, and bid him (like Cymon in the fable) grow polite by falling in love, and let that worthy old gentleman alone, mean- ing me. The clown was not reformed, but rudely persisted, and offered to force off my mask; with that, the gentleman, throwing off his own, appeared to be my son, and in his concern for me, tore off that of the nobleman; at this they seized each other; the company called the guards, and in the surprise the lady swooned away; upon which my son quitted his adversary, and had now no care but of the lady. When raising her in his arms, " Art thou gone," cried he, " for ever ? forbid it, Heaven ! " She revives at his known voice, and with the most familiar, though modest, gesture, hangs in safety over his shoulder weeping, but wept as in the arms of one before whom she could give herself a loose, were she not under observa- tion; while she hides her face in his neck, he carefully conveys her from the company. Humph. I have observed this accident has dwelt upon you very strongly. Sir J. Bev. Her uncommon air, her noble modesty, the dignity of her person, and the occasion itself, drew the whole assembly to- gether; and I soon heard it buzzed about she was the adopted daughter of a famous sea- officer who had served in France. Now this unexpected and public discovery of my son's so deep concern for her Humph. Was what, I suppose, alarmed Mr. Sealand, in behalf of his daughter, to break off the match? Sir J. Bev. You are right. He came to me yesterday and said he thought himself disengaged from the bargain; being credibly informed my son was already married, or worse, to the lady at the masquerade. I palliated matters, and insisted on our agree- ment; but we parted with little less than a direct breach between us. Humph. Well, sir; and what notice have you taken of all this to my young master? Sir J. Bev. That's what I wanted to de- bate with you. I have said nothing to him yet but look you, Humphry, if there is so much in this amour of his, that he denies upon my summons to marry, I have cause enough to be offended; and then by my insisting upon his marrying to-day, I shall know how far he is engaged to this lady in masquerade, and from thence only shall be able to take my measures. In the meantime I would have you find out how far rogue, his man, is let into his secret. that He, I know, will play tricks as much to cross me, as to serve his master. Humph. Why do you think so of him, sir? I believe he is no worse than I was for you, at your son's age. Sir J. Bev. I see it in the rascal's looks. But I have dwelt on these things too long; I'll go to my son immediately, and while I'm gone, your part is to convince his rogue, Tom, that I am in earnest. I'll leave him to you. [Exit- SIR JOHN BEVIL. Humph. Well, though this father and son live as well together as possible, yet their fear of giving each other pain is attended with constant mutual uneasiness. I'm sure I have enough to do to be honest, and yet keep well with them both. But they know I love 'em, and that makes the task less painful however. Oh, here's the prince of poor coxcombs, the representative of all the better fed than taught. Ho! ho! Tom, whither so gay and so airy this morning? Enter TOM, singing. Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentle- men are another kind of people than you domestic ordinary drudges that do business; we are raised above you. The pleasures of board wages, tavern dinners, and many a clear gain; vails, alas! you never heard or dreamt of. Humph. Thou hast follies and vices enough for a man of ten thousand a year, though 'tis but as t'other day that I sent for you to town to put you into Mr. Sea- land's family, that you might learn a little before I put you to my young master, who is too gentle for training such a rude thing as you were into proper obedience. You then pulled off your hat to everyone you met in the street, like a bashful great awk- ward cub as you were. But oaken cudgel, when you were your great booby, be- came you much better than that dangling stick at your button, now you are a fop. That's fit for nothing, except it hangs there to be ready for your master's hand when you are impertinent. Tom. Uncle Humphry, you know my master scorns to strike his servants. You talk as if the world was now just as it was when my old master and you were in your youth; when you went to dinner be- cause it was so much o'clock, when the great blow was given in the hall at the pantry door, and all the family came out of their holes in such strange dresses and formal faces as you see in the pictures in our long gallery in the country. Humph. Why, you wild rogue! Tom. You could not fall to your dinner till a formal fellow in a black gown said 233 ACT I, Sc. I. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS something over the meat, as if the cook had not made it ready enough. Humph. Sirrah, who do you prate after? Despising men of sacred characters ! I hope you never heard my good young master talk so like a profligate. Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me, when I first came to town, about being orderly, and the doctrine of wearing shams to make linen last clean a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing a frock within doors. Humph. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons because I supposed at that time your mas- ter and you might have dined at home every day, and cost you nothing; then you might have made a good family servant. But the gang you have frequented since at choco- late houses and taverns, in a continual round of noise and extravagance - Tom. I don't know what you heavy in- mates call noise and extravagance; but we gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut a figure, sir, think it a fine life, and that we must be very pretty fellows who are kept only to be looked at. Humph. Very well, sir, I hope the fashion of being lewd and extravagant, despising of decency and order, is almost at an end, since it is arrived at persons of your quality. Tom. Master Humphry, ha! ha! you were an unhappy lad to be sent up to town in such queer days as you were. Why, now, sir, the lackeys are the men of pleasure of the age, the top gamesters; and many a laced coat about town have had their educa- tion in our party-colored regiment. We are false lovers; have a taste of music, poetry, billet-doux, dress, politics; ruin damsels; and when we are weary of this lewd town, and have a mind to take up, whip into our masters' wigs and linen, and marry for- tunes. Humph. Hey-day ! Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the highest dignities and distinctions; step but into the Painted Chamber, and by our titles you'd take us all for men of quality. Then, again, come down to the Court of Requests, and you see us all laying our broken heads together for the good of the nation; and though we never carry a ques- tion nemine contradicente, yet this I can say, with a safe conscience (and I wish every gentleman of our cloth could lay his hand upon his heart and say the same), that I never took so much as a single mug of beer for my vote in all my life. Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your extravagance; I'll hear you prate no longer. I wanted to see you to enquire how things go with your master, as far as you under- stand them; I suppose he knows he is to be married to-day. Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed as gay as the sun; but, between you and I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart under all that gaiety. As soon as he was dressed I retired, but overheard him sigh in the most heavy manner. He walked thought- fully to and fro in the room, then went into his closet; when he came out he gave me this for know Humph. person. Tom. The his mistress, whose maid, you Is passionately fond of your fine poor fool is so tender, and loves to hear me talk of the world, and the plays, operas, and ridottos for the winter, the parks and Belsize for our summer diver- sions; and "Lard!" says she, "you are so wild, but you have a world of humor." Humph. Coxcomb! Well, but why don't you run with your master's letter to Mrs. Lucinda, as he ordered you? Tom. Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily come at as you think for. Humph. Not easily come at? Why, sir- rah, are not her father and my old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are to be one flesh before to-morrow morning? Tom. It's no matter for that; her mother, it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to it; and you must know, Mr. Humphry, that in that family the grey mare is the better horse. Humph. What dost thou mean? Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pre- tends to have a will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff, starched philosopher, and a wise fool, for her daugh- ter; for which reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered no message nor let- ter from my master to come near her. Humph. And where had you this intelli- gence ? Tom. From a foolish fond soul that can keep nothing from me; one that will deliver this letter too, if she is rightly managed. Humph. What! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis? Tom. Even she, sir; this is the very hour, you know, she usually comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to your house- keeper, forsooth, but in reality to have a glance at Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. Tom. Nothing else in nature; you must know, I love to fret and play with the little wanton. Humph. Play with the little wanton! What will this world come to! Tom. I met her this morning in a new manteau and petticoat, not a bit the worse for her lady's wearing; and she has always new thoughts and new airs with new clothes then she never fails to steal some glance or gesture from every visitant at 234 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT I, Sc. I. their house; and is, indeed, the whole town of d-hand. But here she conies; in one motion she speaks and de- scribes herself better than all the words in the world can. Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your own affair is over, you will be so good as to mind your master's with her. Tom. Dear Humphry, you know my mas- ter is my friend, and those are people I never forget. Humph. Sauciness itself! but I'll leave you to do your best for him. _ [Exit. Enter PHILLIS. Phil. Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugar- key at home? Lard, one is almost ashamed to pass along the streets ! The town is quite empty, and nobody of fashion left in it; and the ordinary people do so stare to see anything dressed like a woman of condi- tion, as it were on the same floor with them, pass by. Alas! alas! it is a sad thing to walk. O fortune! fortune! Tom. What! a sad thing to walk? Why, Madam Phillis, do you wish yourself lame? Phil. No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were generally carried in a coach or chair, and of a fortune neither to stand nor go, but to totter, or slide, to be short-sighted, or stare, to fleer in the face, to look distant, to observe, to overlook, yet all become me; and, if I was rich, I could twire and loll as well as the best of them. Oh, Tom ! Tom ! is it not a pity that you should be so great a coxcomb, and I so great a coquet, and yet be such poor devils as we are? Tom. Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble servant for that - Phil. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much you are my humble servant, and know what you said to Mrs. Judy, upon seeing her in one of her lady's cast manteaus: That any one would have thought her the lady, and that she had or- dered the other to wear it till it sat easy; for now only it was becoming. To my lady it was only a covering, to Mrs. Judy it was a habit. This you said, after somebody or other. Oh, Tom! Tom! thou art as false and as base as the best gentleman of them all; but, you wretch, talk to me no more on the old odious subject don't, I say. Tom. I know not how to resist your commands, madam. [In a submissive tone, retiring. Phil. Commands about parting are grown mighty easy to you of late. Tom. Oh, I have her; I have nettled and put her into the right temper to be wrought upon and set a-prating. [Aside.'] Why, truly, to be plain with you, Mrs. Phillis, I can take little comfort of late in frequenting your house. Phil. Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of a sudden offends your nicety at our house? Tom. I don't care to speak particulars, but I dislike the whole. Phil. I thank you, sir, I am a part of that whole. Mistake me not, good Phillis. Good Phillis! Saucy enough. But Tom. Phil. however Tom. I say, it is that thou art a part, which gives me pain for the disposition of the whole. You must know, madam, to be serious, I am a man, at the bottom, of prodigious nice honor. You are too much exposed to company at your house. To be plain, I* don't like so many, that would be your distress's lovers, whispering to you. Phil. Don't think to put that upon me. You say this, because I wrung you to the heart when I touched your guilty con- science about Judy. Tom. Ah, Phillis! Phillis! if you but knew my heart! Phil. I know too much on't. Tom. Nay, then, poor Crispo's fate and mine are one. Therefore give me leave to say, or sing at least, as he does upon the same occasion " Se vedette," &c. [Siw^.] Phil. What, do you think I'm to be fobbed off with a song? I don't question but you have sung the same to Mrs. Judy too. Tom. Don't disparage your charms, good Phillis, with jealousy of so worthless an object; besides, she is a poor hussy, and if you doubt the sincerity of my love, you will allow me true to my interest. You are a fortune, Phillis. Phil. What would the fop be at now? In good time, indeed, you shall be setting up for a fortune! Tom. Dear Mrs. Phillis, you have such a spirit that we shall never be dull in marriage when we come together. But I tell you, you are a fortune, and you have an estate in my hands. [He pulls out a purse, she eyes it. Phil. What pretence have I to what is in your hands, Mr. Tom? Tom. As thus: there are hours, you know, when a lady is neither pleased or displeased; neither sick or well; when she lolls or loiters; when she's without desires from having more of everything than she knows what to do with. Phil. Tom. Well, what then? When she has not life enough to keep her bright eyes quite open, to look at her own dear image in the glass. Phil. Explain thyself, and don't be so fend of thy own prating. Tom. There are also prosperous and 235 ACT I, Sc. II. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS good-natured moments: as when a knot or a patch is happily fixed; when the complex- ion particularly flourishes. i'liil. Well, what then? I have not pa- tience! Tom. Why, then or on the like occa- sions we servants who have skill to know how to time business, see when such a pretty folded thing as this [Shows a tetter.] may be presented, laid, or dropped, as best suits the present humor. And, madam, because it is a long wearisome journey to run through all the several stages of a lady's temper, my master, who is the most reason- able man in the world, presents you this to bear your charges on the road. [Gives her the purse. Now you think me a corrupt hussy. O fie, I only think you'll take the Phil. Tom. letter. Phil. Nay, I know you do, but I know my own innocence; I take it for my mis- tress's sake. Tom. I know it, my pretty one, I know it. Phil. Yes, I say I do it, because I would not have my mistress deluded by one who gives no proof of his passion; but I'll talk more of this as you see me on my way home. No, Tom, I assure thee, I take this trash of thy master's, not for the value of the thing, but as it convinces me he has a true respect for my mistress. I remember a verse to the purpose They may be false who languish and com- plain, But they who part with money never feign. [Exeunt. SCENE II BEVIL, JUN.'S Lodgings. BEVIL, JUN., reading. Bev. Jun. These moral writers practise virtue after death. This charming vision of Mirza! Such an author consulted in a morning sets the spirit for tl . vicissitudes of the day better than the glass does a man's person. But what a day have I to go through! to put on an easy look with an aching heart ! If this lady my father urges me to marry should not refuse me, my dilemma is insupportable. But why should I fear it? Is not she in equal distress with me? Has not the letter I have sent her this morning confessed my inclination to another? Nay, have I not moral assur- ances of her engagements, too, to my friend Myrtle? It's impossible but she must give in to it; for, sure, to be denied is a favor any man may pretend to. It must be so Well, then, with the assurance of being re- jected, I think I may confidently say to my father, I am ready to marry her. Then let me resolve upon, what I am not very good at, though it is an honest dissimulation. Enter TOM. Sir John Bevil, sir, is in the next Dunce! Why did not you bring Tom. I told him, sir, you were in your closet. Bev. Jun. I thought you had known, sir, it was my duty to see my father anywhere. [Going himself to the door. Tom. The devil's in my master! he has Tom. room. Bev. Jun. him in? always more wit than I have. [Aside. BEVIL, JUN., introducing SIR JOHN. Bev. Jun. Sir, you are the most gallant, the most complaisant of all parents. Sure, 'tis not a compliment to say these lodgings are yours. Why would you not walk in, I was loth to interrupt you sir? Sir J. Bev. unseasonably on your wedding-day. Bev. Jun. One to whom I am beholden for my birthday might have used less cere- Bev. Well, son, I have intelli- mony. Sir J. gence you have writ to your mistress this morning. It would please my curiosity to know the contents of a wedding-day letter; for courtship must then be over. Bev. Jun. I assure you, sir, there was no insolence in it upon the prospect of such a vast fortune's being added to our family; but much acknowledgment of the lady's greater desert. Sir 7. Bev. But, dear Jack, are you in earnest in all this? And will you really marry her? Bev. Jun. Did I ever disobey any com- mand of yours, sir? nay, any inclination that I saw you bent upon? Sir J. Bev. Why, I can't say you have, son; but methinks in this whole business, you have not been so warm as I could have wished you. You have visited her, it's true, but you have not been particular. Everyone knows you can say and do as handsome things as any man; but you have done nothing but lived in the general been com- plaisant only. Bev. Jun. As I am ever prepared to marry if you bid me, so I am ready to let it alone if you will have me. [HUMPHRY enters, unobserved. Sir J. Bev. Look you there now ! why, what am I to think of this so absolute and so indifferent a resignation? Bev. Jun. Think? that I am still your son, sir. Sir, you have been married, and I have not. And you have, sir, found the inconvenience there is when a man weds 230 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT I, Sc. II. with too much love in his head. I have been told, sir, that at the time you married, you made a mighty bustle on the occasion. There was challenging and fighting, scaling walls, locking up the lady, and the gallant under an arrest for fear of killing all his rivals. Now, sir, I suppose you having found the ill consequences of these strong passions and prejudices, in preference of one woman to another, in case of a man's becoming a widower Sir J. Bev. How is this? Bev. Jun. I say, sir, experience has made you wiser in your care of me; for, sir, since you lost my dear mother, your time has been so heavy, so lonely, and so tasteless, that you are so good as to guard me against the like unhappiness, by marrying me prudentially by way of bargain and sale. For, as you well judge, a woman that is espoused for a fortune, is yet a better bargain, if she dies; for then a man still enjoys what he did marry, the money, and is disencumbered of what he did not marry, the woman. Sir J. Bev. But pray, sir, do you think Lucinda, then, a woman of such little merit? Bev. Jun. Pardon me, sir, I don't carry it so far neither; I am rather afraid I shall like her too well; she has, for one of her for- tune, a great many needless and superfluous good qualities. Sir J. Bev. I am afraid, son, there's something I don't see yet, something that's smothered under all this raillery. Bev. Jun. Not in the least, sir. If the lady is dressed and ready, you see I am. I suppose the lawyers are ready too. Humph. This may grow warm if I don't interpose. [Aside.} Sir, Mr. Sealand is at the coffee-house, and has sent to speak with you. Sir J. Bev. Oh! that's well! Then I war- rant the lawyers are ready. Son, you'll be in the way, you say. Bev. Jun. If you please, sir, I'll take a chair, and go to Mr. Sealand's, where the young lady and I will wait your leisure. Sir J. Bev. By no means. The old fellow will be so vain if he sees Bev. Jun. Ay; but the young lady, sir, will think me so indifferent. Humph. Ay, there you are right; press your readiness to go to the bride he won't let you. [Aside to BEV. JUN. Bev. Jun. Are you sure of that? [Aside to HUMPH. Humph. How he likes being prevented. [Aside. Sir J. Bev. No, no. You are an hour or two too early. [Looking on his watch. Bev. Jun. You'll allow me, sir, to think it too late to visit a beautiful, virtuous young woman, in the pride and bloom of life, ready to give herself to my arms; and to place her happiness or misery, for the future, in being agreeable or displeasing to 3all a chair. Bev. No, no, no, dear Jack; this Sealand is a moody old fellow. There's no dealing with some people but by managing with indifference. We must leave to him the conduct of this day. It is the last of his commanding his daughter. Bev. Jun. Sir, he can't take it ill, that I am impatient to be hers. Sir J. Bev. Pray let me govern in this matter; you can't tell how humor some old fellows are. There's no offering reason to some of 'em, especially when they are rich. If my son should see him before I've brought old Sealand into better temper, the match would be impracticable. [Aside. Humph. Pray, sir, let me beg you to let Mr. Bevil go. See whether he will or not. [Aside to SIR JOHN] [Then to BEV.] Pray, sir, command yourself; since you see my master is positive, it is better you should not go. Bev. Jun. My father commands me, as to the object of my affections; but I hope he will not, as to the warmth and height of them. Sir J. Bev. So! I must even leave things as I found them; and in the meantime, at least, keep old Sealand out of his sight- Well, son, I'll go myself and take orders in your affair. You'll be in the way, I sup- pose, if I send to you. I'll leave your old friend with you Humphry, don't let him stir, d'ye hear? Your servant, your serv- [Exit SIR JOHN. sad time on't, sir, be- ant. Humph. I have a tween you and my master. I see you are unwilling, and I know his violent inclina- tions for the match. I must betray neither, and yet deceive you both, for your common good. Heaven grant a good end of this mat- ter. But there is a lady, sir, that gives your father much trouble and sorrow. You'll pardon me. Bev. Jun. Humphry, I know thou art a friend to both, and in that confidence I dare tell thee, that lady is a woman of honor and virtue. You may assure yourself I never will marry without my father's con- sent. But give me leave to say, too, this declaration does not come up to a promise that I will take whomsoever he pleases. Humph. Come, sir, I wholly understand you. You would engage my services to free you from this woman whom my master in- tends you, to make way, in time, for the woman you have really a mind to. Bev. Jun. Honest Humphry, you have al- ways been a useful friend to my father and myself; I beg you continue your good offices, and don't let us come to the necessity of a dispute; for, if we should dispute, I must 237 ACT I, Sc. II. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS either part with more than life, or lose the best of fathers. Humph. My dear master, were I but worthy to know this secret, that so near concerns you, my life, my all should be engaged to serve you. This, sir, I dare promise, that I am sure I will and can be secret: your trust, at worst, but leaves you where you were; and if I cannot serve you, I will at once be plain and tell you so. Bev. Jun. That's all I ask. Thou hast made it now my interest to trust thee. Be patient, then, and hear the story of my heart. Humph. I am all attention, sir. Bei'. Jun. You may remember, Humphry, that in my last travels my father grew un- easy at my making so long a stay at Toulon. Humph. I remember it; he was appre- hensive some woman had laid hold of you. Bcr. Jun. His fears were just; for there I first saw this lady. She is of English birth: her father's name was Danvers a younger brother of an ancient family, and originally an eminent merchant of Bristol, who, upon repeated misfortunes, was re- duced to go privately to the Indies. In this retreat, Providence again grew favorable to his industry, and, in six years' time, re- stored him to his former fortunes. On this he sent directions over that his wife and little family should follow him to the Indies. His wife, impatient to obey such welcome or- ders, would not wait the leisure of a con- voy, but took the first occasion of a single ship, and, with her husband's sister only, and this daughter, then scarce seven years old, undertook the fatal voyage for here, poor creature, she lost her liberty and life. She and her family, with all they had, were, unfortunately, taken by a privateer from Toulon. Being thus made a prisoner, though as such not ill-treated, yet the fright, the shock, and cruel disappointment, seized with such violence upon her unhealthy frame, she sickened, pined, and died at sea. Humph. Poor soul ! O the helpless in- fant! Bev. Her sister yet survived, and had the care of her. The captain, too, proved to have humanity, and became a father to her; for having himself married an English woman, a- d being childless, he brought home into Toulon this her little country- woman, presenting her, with all her dead mother's movables of value, to his wife, to be educated as his own adopted daughter. Humph. Fortune here seemed again to smile on her. Bei'. Only to make her frowns more terrible; for, in his height of fortune, this captain, too, her benefactor, unfortunately was killed at sea; and dying intestate, his estate fell wholly to an advocate, his brother, who, coming soon to take posses- sion, there found (among his other riches) this blooming virgin at his mercy. Humph. He durst not, sure, abuse his power 1 Bev. No wonder if his pampered blood was fired at the sight of her in short, he loved; but when all arts and gentle means had failed to move, he offered, too, his menaces in vain, denouncing vengeance on her cruelty, demanding her to account for all her maintenance from her childhood; seized on her little fortune as his own inheritance, and was dragging her by vio- lence to prison, when Providence at the in- stant interposed, and sent me, by miracle, to relieve her. Humph. 'Twas Providence, indeed. But pray, sir, after all this trouble, how came this lady at last to England? Bev. The disappointed advocate, finding she had so unexpected a support, on cooler thoughts, descended to a composition, which I, without her knowledge, secretly dis- charged. Humph. That generous concealment made the obligation double. Bev. Having thus obtained her liberty, I prevailed, not without some difficulty, to see her safe to England; where, no sooner arrived, but my father, jealous of my being imprudently engaged, immediately proposed this other fatal match that hangs upon my quiet. Humph. I find, sir, you are irrecoverably fixed upon this lady. Bev. As my vital life dwells in my heart and yet you see what I do to please my father: walk in this pageantry of dress, this splendid covering of sorrow But, Hum- phry, you have your lesson. Humph. Now, sir, I have but one ma- terial question Bev. Ask it freely. Humph. Is it, then, your own passion for this secret lady, or hers for you, that gives you this aversion to the match your father has proposed you? Bev. I shall appear, Humphry, more ro- mantic in my answer than in all the rest of my story; for though I dote on her to death, and have no little reason to believe she has the same thoughts for me, yet in all my acquaintance and utmost privacies with her, I never once directly told her that I loved. Humph. How was it possible to avoid it? Bev. My tender obligations to my father have laid so inviolable a restraint upon my conduct that, till I have his consent to speak, I am determined, on that subject, to be dumb for ever. Humph. Well, sir, to your praise be it spoken, you are certainly the most un- fashionable lover in Great Britain. 238 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT II, Sc. 1. Enter TOM. Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle's at the next door, and, if you are at leisure, will be glad to wait on you. Bev. Whenever he pleases - hold, Tom! did you receive no answer to my letter? Tom. Sir, I was desired to call again; for I was told her mother would not let her be out of her sight; but about an hour hence, Mrs. Lettice said, I should certainly have one. Bev. Very well. Humph. Sir, I will [Exit TOM. take another oppor- tunity. In the meantime, I only think it proper to tell you that, from a secret I know, you may appear to your father as forward as you please, to marry Lucinda without the least hazard of its coming to a conclusion Sir, your most obedient servant. Bev. Honest Humphry, continue but my friend in this exigence, and you shall al- ways find me yours. [Exit HUMPH.] I long to hear how my letter has succeeded with Lucinda but I think it cannot fail; for, at worst, were it possible she could take it ill, her resentment of my indifference may as probably occasion a delay as her taking it right. Poor Myrtle, what terrors must he be in all this while? Since he knows she is offered to me, and refused to him, there is no conversing or taking any measures with him for his own service. But I ought lo bear with my friend, and use him as one in adversity All his disquiets by my own I prove, The greatest grief's perplexity in love. [Exit. ACT THE SECOND SCENE I BEVIL, JUN.'S Lodgings. Enter BEVIL, JUN. and TOM. Tom. Sir, Mr. Myrtle. Bev. Jun. Very well do you step again, and wait for an answer to my letter. [Exit TOM. Enter MYRTLE. Bev. Jun. Well, Charles, why so much care in thy countenance? Is there any- thing in this world deserves it? You, who used to be so gay, so open, so vacant! Myrt. I think we have of late changed complexions. You, who used to be much the graver man, are now all air in your be- havior. But the cause of my concern may, for aught I know, be the same object that gives you all this satisfaction. In a word, I am told that you are this very day and your dress confirms me ried to Lucinda. it to be mar- Bev. Jun. You are not misinformed. Nay, put not on the terrors of a rival till you hear me out. I shall disoblige the best of fathers if I don't seem ready to marry Lucinda; and you know I have ever told you you might make use of my secret reso- lution never to marry her for your own service as you please; but I am now driven to the extremity of immediately refusing or complying unless you help me to escape the match. Myrt. Escape? Sir, neither her merit or her fortune are below your acceptance Escaping do you call it? /)<:. Jun. Dear sir, do you wish I should desire the match? Myrt. No; but such is my humorous and sickly state of mind since it has been able to relish nothing but Lucinda, that though I must owe my happiness to your aversion to this marriage, I can't bear to hear her spoken of with levity or unconcern. Bev. Jun. Pardon me, sir, I shall trans- gress that way no more. She has under- standing, beauty, shape, complexion, wit Myrt. Nay, dear Bevil, don't speak of her as if you loved her neither. Bev. Jun. Why, then, to give you ease at once, though I allow Lucinda to have good sense, wit, beauty, and virtue, I know an- other in whom these qualities appear to me more amiable than in her. Myrt. There you spoke like a reasonable and good-natured friend. When you ac- knowledge her merit, and own your pre- possession for another, at once you gratify my fondness and cure my jealousy. Bev. Jun. But all this while you take no notice, you have no apprehension, of an- other man that has twice the fortune of either of us. Myrt. Cimberton! hang him, a formal, philosophical, pedantic coxcomb; for the sot, with all these crude notions of divers things, under the direction of great vanity and very little judgment, shows his strongest bias is avarice; which is so predominant in him that he will examine the limbs of his mis- tress with the caution of a jockey, and pays no more compliment to her personal charms than if she were a mere breeding animal. Bev. Jun. Are you sure that is not af- fected? I have known some women sooner set on fire by that sort of negligence than by Myrt. No, no; hang him, the rogue has no art; it is pure, simple insolence and stupidity. Bev. Jun. Yet, with all this, I don't take him for a fool. Myrt. I own the man is not a natural; he has a very quick sense, though very slow understanding. He says, indeed, many things that want only the circumstances of 239 ACT II, Sc. II. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS time and place to be very just and agree- able. Bev. Jun. Well, you may be sure of me if you can disappoint him; but my intelli- gence says the mother has actually sent for the conveyancer to draw articles for his marriage with Lucinda, though those for mine with her are, by her father's order, ready for signing; but it seems she has not thought fit to consult either him or his daughter in the matter. Myrt. Pshaw! a poor troublesome woman. Neither Lucinda nor her father will ever be brought to comply with it. Besides, I am sure Cimberton can make no settlement upon her without the concurrence of his great uncle, Sir Geoffry, in the west. />'.:. Jun. Well, sir, and I can tell you that's the very point that is now laid before her counsel, to know whether a firm settle- ment can be made without this uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray consider, sir, when my affair with Lucinda comes, as it soon must, to an open rupture, how are you sure that Cimberton's fortune may not then tempt her father, too, to hear his proposals ? Myrt. There you are right, indeed; that must be provided against. Do you know who are her counsel ? Bev. Jun. Yes, for your service I have found out that, too. They are Serjeant Bramble and Old Target by the way, they are neither of them known in the family. Now, I was thinking why you might not put a couple of false counsel upon her to delay and confound matters a little; besides, it may probably let you into the bottom of her whole design against you. Myrt. As how, pray? Bev. Jun. Why, can't you slip on a black wig and a gown, and be Old Bramble yourself? Myrt. Ha! I don't dislike it. But what shall I do for a brother in the case? Bev. Jun. What think you of my fellow, Tom? The rogue's intelligent, and is a good mimic. All his part will be but to stutter heartily, for that's old Target's case. Nay, it would be an immoral thing to mock him were it not that his impertinence is the occasion of its breaking out to that degree. The conduct of the scene will chiefly lie upon you. Myrt. I like it of all things. If you'll send Tom to my chambers, I will give him full instructions. This will certainly give me occasion to raise difficulties, to puzzle or confound her project for a while at least. Bev. Jun. I'll warrant you success. So far we are right, then. And now, Charles, your apprehension of my marrying her is all you have to get over. Myrt. Dear Bevil, though I know you are my friend, yet when I abstract myself from my own interest in the thing, I know no objection she can make to you, or you to her, and therefore hope Bev. Jun. Dear Myrtle, I am as much obliged to you for the cause of your sus- picion, as I am offended at the effect; but, be assured, I am taking measures for your certain security, and that all things with regard to me will end in your entire satis- faction. Myrt. Well, I'll promise you to be as easy and as confident as I can, though I cannot but remember that I have more than life at stake on your fidelity. [Going. Bev. Jun. Then depend upon it, you have no chance against you. Myrt. Nay, no ceremony, you know I must be going. [Exit MYRT. Bev. Jun. Well, this is another instance of the perplexities which arise, too, in faith- ful friendship. We must often in this life go on in our good offices, even under the displeasure of those to whom we do them, in compassion to their weaknesses and mis- takes. But all this while poor Indiana is tortured with the doubt of me. She has no support or comfort but in my fidelity, yet sees me daily pressed to marriage with another. How painful, in such a crisis, must be every hour she thinks on me! I'll let her see at least my conduct to her is not changed. I'll take this opportunity to visit her; for though the religious vow I have made to my father restrains me from ever marrying without his approbation, yet that confines me not from seeing a virtuous woman that is the pure delight of my eyes and the guiltless joy of my heart. But the best condition of human life is but a gentler misery To hope for perfect happiness is vain, And love has ever its allays of pain. [Exit. SCENE II INDIANA'S Lodgings. Enter ISABELLA and INDIANA. Isab. Yes, I say 'tis artifice, dear child. I say to thee again and again 'tis all skill and management. Jin!. Will you persuade me there can be an ill design in supporting me in the con- dition of a woman of quality? attended, dressed, and lodged like one; in my appear- ance abroad and my furniture at home, every way in the most sumptuous manner, and he that does it has an artifice, a design in it? Isab. Yes, yes. In/I. And all this without so much as explaining to me that all about me comes from him ! Isab. Ay, ay, the more for that. That 240 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT II, Sc. II. keeps the title to all you have the more in him! He scorns the If he is an of dressing-plate which will be home to-morrow." Why, dear him. Ind. The thought Isab. Then he he he Ind. Well, be not so eager, ill man, let us look into his stratagems. Here is another of them. [Showing a letter.] Here's two hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes, with these words: " To pay for the set brought aunt, now here's another piece of skill for you, which I own I cannot comprehend; and it is with a bleeding heart I hear you say anything to the disadvantage of Mr. Bevil. When he is present I look upon him as one to whom I owe my life and the support of it; then, again, as the man who loves me with sincerity and honor. When his eyes are cast another way, and I dare survey him, my heart is painfully divided between shame and love. Oh! could I tell you I sub. Ah! you need not; I imagine all this for you. Ind. This is my state of mind in his presence; and when he is absent, you are ever dinning my ears with notions of the arts of men; that his hidden bounty, his respectful conduct, his careful provision for me, after his preserving me from utmost misery, are certain signs he means nothing but to make I know not what of me. Isab. Oh! You have a sweet opinion of him, truly. Ind. I have, when I am with him, ten thousand things, besides my sex's natural decency and shame, to suppress my heart, that yearns to thank, to praise, to say it loves him. I say, thus it is with me while I see him; and in his absence I am enter- tained with nothing but your endeavors to tear this amiable image from my heart; and in its stead, to place a base dissembler, an artful invader of my happiness, my in- nocence, my honor. Isab. Ah, poor soul! has not his plot taken? don't you die for him? has not the way he has taken, been the most proper with you? Oh! oh! He has sense, and has judged the thing right. Ind. Go on then, since nothing can an- swer you; say what you will of him. Heigh! ho! Isnl>. Heigh! ho! indeed. It is better to say so, as you are now, than as many others are. There are, among the destroyers of women, the gentle, the generous, the mild, the affable, the humble, who all, soon after their success in their designs, turn to the contrary of those characters. I will own to you, Mr. Bevil carries his hypocrisy the best of any man living, but still he is a man, and therefore a hypocrite. They have usurped an exemption from shame for any baseness, any cruelty towards us. They em- brace without love; they make vows without conscience of obligation; they are partners, nay, seducers to the crime, wherein they pretend to be less guilty. Ind. That's truly observed. [Aside.] But what's all this to Bevil? Isab. This it is to Bevil and all mankind. Trust not those who will think the worse of you for your confidence in them; serpents who lie in wait for doves. Won't you be on your guard against the e who would betray you? Won't you doubt those who would contemn you for believing 'em? Take it from me, fair and natural dealing is to in- vite injuries; 'tis bleating to escape wolves who would davour you! Such is the world [Aside.] and such (since the behavior of one man to myself) have I believed 'all the rest of the sex. Ind. 1 will not doubt the truth of Bevil, I will not doubt it. He has not spoke it by an organ that is given to lying. His eyes are , 11 that have ever told me that he was mine. I know his virtue, I know his filial t ety, and ought to trust his man- agement with a father to whom he has un- common obligations. What have I to be concerned for? my lesson is very short. If he takes me for ever, my purpose of life is only to please him. If he leaves me (which Heaven avert) I know he'll do it nobly, and I shall have nothing to do but to learn to die, after worse than death has happened to me. Isab. Ay, do, persist in your credulity! flatter yourself that a man of his figure and fortune will make himself the jest of the town, and marry a handsome beggar for love. Ind. The town ! I must tell you, madam, the fools that laugh at Mr. Bevil will but make themselves more ridiculous; his ac- tions are the result of thinking, and he has sense enough to make even virtue fashion- able. /S'il>. O' my conscience he has turned her head. Come, come, if he were the honest fool you take him for, why has he kept you here these three weeks, without sending you to Bristol in search of your father, your family, and your relations? Ind. I am convinced he still designs it, and that nothing keeps him here, but the necessity of not coming to a breach with his father in regard to the match he has proposed him. Beside, has he not writ to Bristol? and has not he advice that my father has not been heard of there almost these twenty years? Ixab. All sham, mere evasion; he is afraid, if he should carry you thither, your honest relations may take you out of his 241 ACT II, Sc. II. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS hands, and so blow up all his wicked hopss at once. InJ. Wicked hopes! did I ever give him any such? Isab. Has he ever given you any honest ones? Can you say, in your conscience, he has ever once offered to marry you? !>;.:. No! but by his behavior I am con- vinced he will offer it, the moment 'tis in his power, or consistent with his honor, to make such a promise good to me. Isab. His honor ! Ind. I will rely upon it; therefore de- sire you will not make my life uneasy, by these ungrateful jealousies of one, to whom I am, and wish to be, obliged. For from his integrity alone, I have resolved to hope for happiness. Isab. Nay, I have done my duty; if you won't see, at your peril be it! Ind. Let it be This is his hour of visit- ing me. Isab. Oh! to be sure, keep up your form; don't see him in a bed-chamber [Apart.]. This is pure prudence, when she is liable, wherever he meets her, to be conveyed where'er he pleases. Ind. All the rest of my life is but waiting till he comes. I live only when I'm with him. [Exit. Isab. Well, go thy ways, thou wilful innocent! I once had almost as much love for a man, who poorly left me to marry an estate; and I am now, against my will, what they call an old maid but I will not let the peevishness of that condition grow upon me, only keep up the suspicion of it, to prevent this creature's being any other than a vir- gin, except upon proper terms. [Exit. Re-enter INDIANA, speaking to a Servant. Ind. Desire Mr. Bevil to walk in De- sign! impossible! A base designing mind could never think of what he hourly puts in practice. And yet, since the late rumor of his marriage, he seems more reserved than formerly he sends in too, before he sees me, to know if I am at leisure such new respect may cover coldness in the heart; it cer- tainly makes me thoughtful I'll know the worst at once; I'll lay such fair occasions in his way, that it shall be impossible to avoid an explanation, for these doubts are insupportable ! But see, he comes, and clears them all. Enter BEVIL. Bev. Madam, your most obedient I am afraid I broke in upon your rest last night; 'twas very late before we parted, but 'twas your own fault. I never saw you in such agreeable humor. Ind. I am extremely glad we were both pleased; for I thought I never saw you bet- ter company. Bev. Me, madam! you rally; I said very little. Ind. But I am afraid you heard me say a great deal; and, when a woman is in the talking vein, the most agreeable thing a man can do, you know, is to have patience to hear her. Bev. Then it's pity, madam, you should ever be silent, that we might be always agreeable to one another. Ind. If I had your talent or power, to make my actions speak for me, I might in- deed be silent, and yet pretend to something more than the agreeable. Bev. If I might be vain of anything in my power, madam, 'tis that my understand- ing, from all your sex, has marked you out as the most deserving object of my esteem. Intl. Should I think I deserve this, 'twere enough to make my vanity forfeit the very esteem you offer me. Bev. How so, madam ? Ind. Because esteem is the result of reason, and to deserve it from good sense, the height of human glory. Nay, I had rather a man of honor should pay me that, than all the homage of a sincere and humble love. Bev. Jim. You certainly distinguish right, madam; love often kindles from external merit only. Ind. But esteem rises from a higher source, the merit of the soul. Bev. Jun. True and great souls only can deserve it. [Bowing respectfully. Ind. Now I think they are greater still, that can so charitably part with it. Bev. Jun. Now, madam, you make me vain, since the utmost pride and pleasure of my life is, that I esteem you as I ought. Ind. [Aside.] As he ought! still more per- plexing! he neither saves nor kills my hope. Bev. Jun. But, madam, we grow grave, methinks. Let's find some other subject Pray how did you like the opera last night? Ind. First give me leave to thank you for my tickets. Bev. Jun. Oh ! your servant, madam. But pray tell me, you now, who are never par- tial to the fashion, I fancy must be the properest judge of a mighty dispute among the ladies, that is, whether Crispo or Griselda is the more agreeable entertainment. Ind. With submission now, I cannot be a proper judge of this question. Bev. How so, madam? Ind. Because I find I have a partiality for one of them. Bev. Jun. Pray which is that? Ind. I do not know; there's something in that rural cottage of Griselda, her forlorn condition, her poverty, her solitude, her 242 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT II, Sc. II. resignation, her innocent slumbers, and that lulling dolce sogno that's sung over her; it had an effect upon me that in short I never was so well deceived, at any of them. Bev. Jun. Oh! for the dispute. Now then, I can account Griselda, it seems, is the distress of an injur 1 innocent woman, Crispo, that only of a man in the same con- dition; therefore the men are mostly con- cerned for Crispo, and, by a natural indul- gence, both sexes for Griselda. Ind. So that judgment, you think, ought to be for one, though fancy and complaisance have got ground for the other. Well! I believe you will never give me leave to dispute with you on any subject; for I own, Crispo has its charms for me too. Though in the main, all the pleasure the best opera gives us is but mere sensation. Me- thinks it's pity the mind can't have a little more share in the entertainment. The music's certainly fine, but, in my thoughts, there's none of your composers come up to old Shakespeare and Otway. . Bcr. How, madam ! why if a woman of to say this in the drawing- your room- Enter a Servant. Serv. Sir, here's Signor Carbonelli says he waits your commands in the next room. Bev. Apropos! you were saying yester- day, madam, you had a mind to hear him. Will you give him leave to entertain you now? Ind. By all means; desire the gentleman to walk in. [Exit Servant. Bev. I fancy you will find something in this hand that is uncommon. Ind. You are always finding ways, Mr. Bevil, to make life seem less tedious to me. Enter Music Master. When the gentleman pleases. [After a Sonata is played, BEVIL waits on the Master to the door, etc. Bev. You smile, madam, to see me so complaisant to one whom I pay for his visit. Now, I own, I think it is not enough barely to pay those whose talents are superior to our own (I mean such talents as would be- come our condition, if we had them). Me- thinks we ought to do something more than barely gratify them for what they do at our command, only because their fortune is below us. Ind. You say I smile. I assure you it was a smile of approbation; for, indeed, I cannot but think it the distinguishing part of a gentleman to make his superiority of fortune as easy to his inferiors as he can. Now once more to try him. [Aside.] I was saying just now, I believed you would never let me dispute with you, and I dare say it will always be so. However, I must have your opinion upon a subject which created a debate between my aunt and me, just before you came hither; she would needs have it that no man ever does any extraordinary kindness or service for a woman, but for his own sake. Bev. Well, madam! Indeed I can't but be of her mind. Ind. What, though he should maintain and support her, without demanding any- thing of her, on her part? Bev. Why, madam, is making an ex- pense in the service of a valuable woman (for such I must suppose her), though she should never do him any favor, nay, though she should never know who did her such service, such a mighty heroic busi- ness? Ind. Certainly! I should think he must be a man of an uncommon mould. Bev. Dear madam, why so? 'tis but, at best, a better taste in expense. To bestow upon one, whom he may think one of the ornaments of the whole creation, to be con- scious, that from his superfluity, an inno- cent, a virtuous spirit is supported above the temptations and sorrows of life! That he sees satisfaction, health, and gladness in her countenance, while he enjoys the happiness of seeing her (as that I will suppose too, or he must be too abstracted, too insensible), I say, if he is allowed to delight in that prospect; alas, what mighty matter is there in all this ? Ind. No mighty matter in so disinter- ested a friendship ! Bev. Disinterested! I can't think I im so; your hero, madam, is no more than what every gentleman ought to be, and I believe very many are. He is only one who takes more delight in reflections than in sensations. He is more pleased with thinking than eating; that's the utmost you can say of him. Why, madam, a greater expense than all this, men lay out upon an unnecessary stable of horses. Ind. Bev. Can you be sincere in what you say ? You may depend upon it, if you know any such man, he does not love dogs inordinately. Ind. No, that he does not. /-.'(,-. Nor cards, nor dice. Ind. No. /'..-. Nor bottle companions. Ind. No. Bev. Nor loose women. ///./. No, I'm sure he does not. Bev. Take my word then, if your admired hero is not liable to any of these kind of demands, there's no such pre-eminence in this as you imagine. Nay, this way of expense you speak of is what exalts and raises him that has a taste for it; and, at 243 ACT III, Sc. I. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS the same time, his delight is incapable of satiety, disgust, or penitence. In.:. But still I insist his having no private interest in the action, makes it prodigious, almost incredible. /'.:. Dear madam, I never knew you more mistaken. Why, who can be more a usurer than he who lays out his money in such valuable purchases ? If pleasure be worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to him, who has a true taste of life, to ease an aching heart; to see the human countenance lighted up into smiles of joy, on the receipt of a bit of ore which -^ superfluous and otherwise useless in a man's own pocket? What could a man do better with his cash? This is the effect of an humane disposition, where there is only a general tie of nature and common neces- sity. What then must it be when we serve an object of merit, of admiration! Ind. Well! the more you argue against it the more I shall admire the generosity. Bev. Nay, nay Then, madam, 'tis time to fly, after a declaration that my opinion strengthens my adversary's argument. .1 had best hasten to my appointment with Mr. Myrtle, and begone while we are friends, and before things are brought to an extremity. [Exit, carelessly. Enter ISABELLA. Isab. Well, madam, what think you of him now, pray ? hid. I protest, I begin to fear he is wholly disinterested in what he does for me. On my heart, he has no other view but the mere pleasure of doing it, and has neither good or bad designs upon me. Isab. Ah ! dear niece ! don't be in fear of both ! I'll warrant you, you will know time enough that he is not indifferent. Ind. .You please me when you tell me so; for, if he has any wishes towards me, I know he will not pursue them but with honor. Isab. 1 wish I ' were as confident of one as t'other. I saw the respectful downcast of his eye, when you catcht him gazing at you during the music. He, I warrant, was surprised, as if he had been taken stealing your watch, look! Oh! the undissembled guilty Ind. But did you observe any such thing, really? I thought he looked most charm- ingly graceful ! How engaging is modesty in a man, when one knows there is a great mind within. So tender a confusion! and yet, in other respects, so much himself, so collected, so dauntless, so determined ! Isab. Ah! niece! there is a sort of bash- fulness which is the best engine to carry on a shameless purpose. Some men's modesty serves their wickedness, as hypoc- risy gains the respect due to piety. But I will own to you, there is one hopeful symptom, if there could be such a thing as a disinterested lover. But it's all a per- plexity till till till Ind. Till what? Isab. Till I know whether Mr. Myrtle and Mr. Bevil are really friends or foes. And that I will be convinced of before I sleep; for you shall not be deceived. Ind. I'm sure I never shall, if your fears can guard me. In the meantime I'll wrap myself up in the integrity of my own heart, nor dare to doubt of his. As conscious honor all his actions steers, So conscious innocence dispels my fears. [.Exeunt. ACT THE THIRD SCENE I SEALAND'S House. Enter TOM, meeting PHILLIS. Tom. Well, Phillis! What, with a face as if you had never seen me before! What a work have I to do now? She has seen some new visitant at their house whose airs she has catcht, and is resolved to practise them upon me. Numberless are the changes she'll dance through before she'll answer this plain question: videlicet, have you de- livered my master's letter to your lady ? Nay, I know her too well to ask an account of it in an ordinary way; I'll be in my airs as well as she. [Aside.] Well, madam, as unhappy as you are at present pleased to make me, I would not, in the general, be any other than what I am. I would not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit taller, a bit shorter than I am at this instant. {.Looking steadfastly at her. Phil. Did ever anybody doubt, Master Thomas, but that you were extremely sat- isfied with your sweet self? Tom. I am, indeed. The thing I have least reason to be satisfied with is my for- tune, and I am glad of my poverty. Per- haps if I were rich I should overlook the finest woman in the world, that wants noth- ing but riches to be thought so. Phil. How prettily was that said! But I'll have a great deal more before I'll say one word. I A side. Tom. I should, perhaps, have been stu- pidly above her had I not been her equal; and by . ot being her equal, never had opportunity of being her slave. I am my master's servant for hire I am my mis- tress's from choice, would she but approve my passion. I'hil. I think it's the first time I ever heard you s*>eak of it with any sense of the anguish, if you really do suffer any. 244 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT III, Sc. I. Tom. Ah, Phjllis! can you doubt, after what you have seen? Phil. I know not what I have seen, nor what I have heard; but since I'm at leisure, you may tell me when you fell in love with me; how you fell in love with me; and what you have suffered or are ready to suf- fer for me. Tom. Oh, the unmerciful jade! when I'm in haste about my master's letter. But I must go through it. [Aside.] Ah! too well I remember when, and how, and on what occasion I was first surprised. It was on the 1st of April, 1715, I came into Mr. Sealand's service; I was then a hobble- dehoy, and you a pretty little tight girl, a favorite handmaid of the housekeeper. At that time we neither of us knew what was in us. I remember I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair of stairs, to rub the sashes clean; the person employed on the inner side was your charming self, whom I had never seen before. Phil. 1 think I remember the silly acci- dent. What made ye, you oaf, ready to fall down into the street? Tom. You know not, I warrant you you could not guess what surprised me. You took no delight when you immediately grew wanton in your conquest, and put your lips close, and breathed upon the glass, and when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, and hid your beau- teous form! When I again drew near, you spit, and rubbed, and smiled at my un- doing. Phil. What silly thoughts you men have! Tom. We were Pyramus and Thisbe but ten times harder was my fate. Pyramus could peep only through a wall; I saw her, saw my Thisbe in all her beauty, but as much kept from her as if a hundred walls between for there was more: there was her will against me. Would she but yet relent! O Phillis! Phillis! shorten my torment, and declare you pity me. I'hil. I believe it's very suff enable; the pain is not so exquisite but that you may bear it a little longer. Tom. Oh ! my charming Phillis, if all depended on my fair one's will, I could with glory suffer but, dearest creature, consider our miserable state. I'hil. How ! Miserable ! Tom. We are miserable to be in love, and under the command of others than those we love; with that generous passion in the heart, to be sent to and fro on errands, called, checked, and rated for the meanest trifles. Oh, Phillis I you don't know how many china cups and glasses my passion for you has made me break. You have broke my fortune as well as my heart. I'hil. Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own to you that I believe your master writes and you speak the best of any men in the world. Never was woman so well pleased with a letter as my young lady was with his; and this is an answer to it. [Gives him a letter. Tom. This was well done, my dearest; consider, we must strike out some pretty livelihood for ourselves by closing their affairs. It will be nothing for them to give us a little being of our own, some small tenement, out of their large possessions. Whatever they give us, it will be more than what they keep for themselves. One acre with Phillis would be worth a whole county without her. Phil. O, could I but believe you! Tom. If not the utterance, believe the touch of my lips. [Kisses her. Phil. There's no contradicting you. How closely you argue, Tom! Tom. And will closer, in due time. But I must hasten with this letter, to hasten towards the possession of you. Then, Phillis, consider how I must be revenged, look to it, of all your skittishness, shy looks, and at best but coy compliances. I'll il. Oh, Tom, you grow wanton, and sensual, as my lady calls it; I must not en- dure it. Oh! fob! you are a man an odious, filthy, male creature you should behave, if you had a right sense or were a man of sense, like Mr. Cimberton, with distance and indifference; or, let me see, some other becoming hard word, with seeming in-in-in- advertency, and not rush on one as if you were seizing a prey. But hush! the ladies are coming. Good Tom, don't kiss me above once, and be gone. Lard, we have been fool- ing and toying, and not considered the main business of our masters and mistresses. Tom. Why, their business is to be fool- ing and toying as soon as the parchments are ready. Phil. Well remembered, parchments; my lady, to my knowledge, is preparing writ- ings between her coxcomb cousin, Cimber- ton, and my mistress, though my master has an eye to the parchments already pre- pared between your master, Mr. Bevil, and my mistress; and, I believe, my mistress herself has signed and sealed, in her heart, to Mr. Myrtle. Did I not bid you kiss me but once, and be gone? But I know you won't be satisfied. Tom. No, you smooth creature, how should I? [Kissing her hand. Phil. Well, since you are so humble, or so cool, as to ravish my hand only, I'll take my leave of you like a great lady, and you a man of quality. [They salute formally. Tom. Pox of all this state. [Offers to kiss her more closely. 245 ACT III, So. I. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS Phil. No, prithee, Tom, mind your busi- ness. We must follow that interest which will take, but endeavor at that which will be most for us, and we like most. Oh, here's my young mistress! [ToM taps her neck behind, and kisses his fingers."] Go, ye liquorish fool. [.Exit TOM. Enter LUCINDA. Who was that you was hurrying One that I had no mind to part Luc. away? Phil. with. Luc. Phil. Why did you turn him away then? For your ladyship's service to carry your ladyship's letter to his master. I could hardly get the rogue away. Luc. Why, has he so little love for his master ? I'hil. No; but he hath so much love for his mistress. Luc. But I thought I heard him kiss you. Why did you suffer that? Phil. Why, madam, we vulgar take it to be a sign of love We servants, we poor people, that have nothing but our persons to bestow or treat for, are forced to deal and bargain by way of sample, and there- fore as we have no parchments or wax necessary in our agreements, we squeeze with our hands and seal with our lips, to ratify vows and promises. Luc. But can't you trust one another without such earnest down? Phil. We don't think it safe, any more than you gentry, to come together without deeds executed. Luc. Thou art a pert merry hussy. Phil. I wish, madam, your lover and you were as happy as Tom and your servant are. Luc. You grow impertinent. Phil. I have done, madam; and I won't ask you what you intend to do with Mr. Myrtle, what your father will do with Mr. Bevil, nor what you all, especially my lady, mean by admitting Mr. Cimberton as par- ticularly here as if he were married to you already; nay, you are married actually as far as people of quality are. Luc. How is that? I'hil. You have different beds in the same house. Luc. Pshaw! I have a very great value for Mr. Bevil, but have absolutely put an end to his pretensions in the letter I gave you for him. But my father, in his heart, still has a mind to him, were it not for this woman they talk of; and I am apt to imagine he is married to her, or never de- signs to marry at all. Phil. Then Mr. Myrtle Luc. He had my parents' leave to apply to me, and by that he has won me and my affections; who is to have this body of mine without 'em, it seems, is nothing to me. My mother says 'tis indecent for me to let my thoughts stray about the person of my husband; nay, she says a maid, rigidly virtuous, though she may have been where her lover was a thousand times, should not have made observations enough to know him from another man when she sees him in a third place. I'hil. That is more than the severity of a nun, for not to see when one may is hardly possible; not to see when one can't is very easy. At this rate, madam, there are a great many whom you have not seen who Luc. Mamma says the first time you see your husband should be at that instant he is made so. When your father, with the help of the minister, gives you to him, then you are to see him; then you are to observe and take notice of him; because then you are to obey him. Phil. But does not my lady remember you are to love as well as obey? Luc. To love is a passion, 'tis a desire, and we must have no desires. Oh, I can- not endure the reflection! With what in- sensibility on my part, with what more than patience have I been exposed and offered to some awkward booby or other in every county of Great Britain! 1'liil. Indeed, madam, I wonder I never heard you speak of it before with this in- dignation. Luc. Every corner of the land has pre- sented me with a wealthy coxcomb. As fast as one treaty has gone off, another has come on, till my name and person have been the tittle-tattle of the whole town. What is this world come to? no shame left to be bartered for like the beasts of the field, and that in such an instance as coming together to an entire familiarity and union of soul and body. Oh! and this without being so much as well-wishers to each other, but for increase of fortune. I'liil. But, madam, all these vexations will end very soon in one for all. Mr. Cimberton is your mother's kinsman, and three hundred years an older gentleman than any lover you ever had; for which reason, with that of his prodigious large estate, she is resolved on him, and has sent to consult the lawyers accordingly; nay, has (whether you know it or no) been in treaty with Sir Geoffry, who, to join in the settlement, has accepted of a sum to do it, and is every moment expected in town for that purpose. Luc. How do you get all this intelli- gence ? Phil. beyond 246 By an art I have, I thank my stars, all the waiting-maids in Great THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT III, Sc. I. Britain the art of listening, madam, for your ladyship's service. Luc. I shall soon know as much as you do; leave me, leave me, Phillis, begone. Here, here! I'll turn you out. My mother says I must not converse with my servants, though I must converse with no one else. [Exit PHIL.] How unhappy are we who are born to great fortunes! No one looks at us with indifference, or acts towards us on the foot of plain dealing; yet, by all I have been heretofore offered to or treated for I have been used with the most agreeable of all abuses flattery. But now, by this phlegmatic fool I'm used as nothing, or a mere thing. He, forsooth, is too wise, too learned to have any regard to desires, and I know not what the learned oaf calls senti- ments of love and passion Here he conies with my mother It's much if he looks at me, or if he does, takes no more notice of me than of any other movable in the room. Enter MRS. SEALAND, and MR. CIMBERTON. Mrs. Seal. How do I admire this noble, this learned taste of yours, and the worthy regard you have to our own ancient and honorable house in consulting a means to keep the blood as pure and as regularly descended as may be. dm. Why, really, madam, the young women of this age are treated with dis- courses of such a tendency, and their imaginations so bewildered in flesh and blood, that a man of reason can't talk to be understood. They have no ideas of hap- piness, but what are more gross than the gratification of hunger and thirst. Luc. With how much reflection he is a coxcomb ! [Aside. dm. And in truth, madam, I have con- sidered it as a most brutal custom that persons of the first character in the world should go as ordinarily, and with as little shame, to bed as to dinner with one another. They proceed to the propagation of the species as openly as to the preservation of the individual. Luc. She that willingly goes to bed to thee must have no shame, I'm sure. [Aside. Mrs. Seal. Oh, cousin Cimberton! cousin Cimberton! how abstracted, how refined is your sense of things ! But, indeed, it is too true there is nothing so ordinary as to say, in the best governed families, my master and lady are gone to bed; one does not know but it might have been said of one's self. [Hiding her face with her fan. dm. Lycurgus, madam, instituted other- wise; among the Lacedaemonians the whole female world was pregnant, but none but the mothers themselves knew by whom; their meetings were secret, and the amorous congress always by stealth; and no such professed doings between the sexes as are tolerated among us under the audacious word, marriage. Mrs. Seal. Oh, had I lived in those days and been a matron of Sparta, one might with less indecency have had ten children, according to that modest institution, than one, under the confusion of our modern, barefaced manner. Luc. And yet, poor woman, she has gone through the whole ceremony, and here I stand a melancholy proof of it. [Aside. Mrs. Seal. We will talk then of business. That girl walking about the room there is to be your wife. She has, I confess, no ideas, no sentiments, that speak her born of a thinking mother. Cimb. I have observed her; her lively look, free air, and disengaged countenance speak her very Luc. Very what? Cimb. If you please, madam to set her a little that way. Mrs. Seal. Lucinda, say nothing to him, you are not a match for him; when you are married, you may speak to such a husband when you're spoken to. But I am dispos- ing of you above yourself every way. Cimb. Madam, you cannot but observe the inconveniences I expose myself to, in hopes that your ladyship will be the con- sort of my better part. As for the young woman, she is rather an impediment than a help to a man of letters and speculation. Madam, there is no reflection, no philosophy, can at all times subdue the sensitive life, but the animal shall sometimes carry away the man. Ha! ay, the vermilion of her lips. Luc. Pray, don't talk of me thus. Cimb. The pretty enough pant of her bosom. Luc. Sir! madam, don't you hear him? Cimb. Her forward chest. Luc. Intolerable ! Cimb. High health. Luc. The grave, easy impudence of him! Cimb. Proud heart. Luc. Stupid coxcomb ! Cimb. I say, madam, her impatience, while we are looking at her, throws out all attractions her arms her neck what a spring in her step! . Luc. Don't you run me over thus, you strange unaccountable! Cimb. What an elasticity in her veins and arteries ! Luc. I have no veins, no arteries. Mrs. Seal. Oh, child! hear him, he talks finely; he's a scholar, he knows what you have. Cimb. The speaking invitation of her shape, the gathering of herself up, and the 247 ACT III, Sc. I. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS indignation you see in the pretty little thing Now, I am considering her, on this occasion, but as one that is to be pregnant. I. nc. The familiar, learned, unseasonable puppy! [Aside. Cimb. And pregnant undoubtedly she will be yearly. I fear I shan't, for many years, have discretion enough to give her one fallow season. Luc. Monster! there's no bearing it. The hideous sot! there's no enduring it, to be thus surveyed like a steed at sale. Cimb. At sale! She's very illiterate But she's very well limbed too; turn her in; I see what she is. [Exit LUCINDA, in a rage. Mrs. Seal. Go, you creature, I am ashamed of you. Cimb. No harm done you know, madam, the better sort of people, as I observed to you, treat by their lawyers of weddings [Adjusting himself at the glass.] and the woman in the bargain, like the mansion house in the sale of the estate, is thrown in, and what that is, whether good or bad, is not at all considered. Mrs. Seal. I grant it; and therefore make no demand for her youth and beauty, and every other accomplishment, as the common world think 'em, because she is not polite. Cimb. Madam, I know your exalted understanding, abstracted, as it is, from vulgar prejudices, will not be offended, when I declare to you, I marry to have an heir to my estate, and not to beget a col- ony, or a plantation. This young woman's beauty and constitution will demand pro- vision for a tenth child at least. Mrs. Seal. With all that wit and learn- ing, how considerate! What an economist! [Aside.'} Sir, I cannot make her any other than she is; or say she is much better than the other young women of this age, or fit for much besides being a mother; but I have given directions for the marriage settlements, and Sir Geoffry Cimberton's counsel is to meet ours here, at this hour, concerning his joining in the deed, which, when executed, makes you capable of set- tling what is due to Lucinda's fortune. Herself, as I told you, I say nothing of. Cimb. No, no, no, indeed, madam, it is not usual; and I must depend upon my own reflection and philosophy not to overstock my family. Mrs. Seal. I cannot help her, cousin Cimberton; but she is, for aught I see, as well as the daughter of anybody else. Cimb. That is very true, madam. Enter a Servant, who whispers MRS. SEALAND. Mrs. Seal. The lawyers are come, and now we are to hear what they have re- solved as to the point whether it's neces- sary that Sir Geoffry should join in the settlement, as being what they call in the remainder. But, good cousin, you must have patience with 'em. These lawyers, I am told, are of a different kind; one is what they call a chamber counted, the other a pleader. The conveyancer is slow, from an imperfection in his speech, and therefore shunned the bar, but extremely passionate and impatient of contradiction. The other is as warm as he; but has a tongue so voluble, and a head so conceited, he will suffer nobody to speak but himself. Cimb. You mean old Serjeant Target and Counsellor Bramble? I have heard of 'em. Mrs. Seal. The same. Show in the gen- tlemen. [Exit Servant. Re-enter Servant, introducing MYRTLE and TOM disguised as BRAMBLE and TARGET. Mrs. Seal. Gentlemen, this is the party concerned, Mr. Cimberton; and I hope you have considered of the matter. Tar. Yes, madam, we have agreed that it must be by indent dent dent dent Bram. Yes, madam, Mr. Serjeant and my- self have agreed, as he is pleased to inform you, that it must be an indenture tripartite, and tripartite let it be, for Sir Geoffry must needs be a party; old Cimberton, in the year 1619, says, in that ancient roll in Mr. Ser- jeant's hands, as recourse thereto being had, will more at large appear Tar. Yes, and by the deeds in your hands, it appears that Bram. Mr. Serjeant, I beg of you to make no inferences upon what is in our custody; but speak to the titles in your own deeds. I shall not show that deed till my client is in town. Cimb. You know best your own methods. Mrs. Seal. The single question is, whether the entail is such that my cousin, Sir Geoffry, is necessary in this affair? Bram. Yes, as to the lordship of Tre- triplet, but not as to the messuage of Grimgribber. Tar. I say that Gr gr that Gr gr Grimgribber, Grimgribber is in us; that is to say the remainder thereof, as well as that of Trtr Triplet. Bram. You go upon the deed of Sir Ralph, made in the middle of the last cen- tury, precedent to that in which old Cimber- ton made over the remainder, and made it pass to the heirs general, by which your client comes in; and I question whether the remainder even to Tretriplet is in him But we are willing to waive that, and give him a valuable consideration. But we shall not purchase what is in us for ever, as Grimgribber is, at the rate, as we guard against the contingent of Mr. Cimberton 248 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT IV, Sc. I. are not ripe for that yet, having no son Then we know Sir Geoffry is the first of the collateral male line in this family yet Tar. Sir, Gr gr ber is Bram. I apprehend you very well, and your argument might be of force, and we would be inclined to hear that in all its parts But, sir, I see very plainly what you are going into. I tell you, it is as probable a contingent that Sir Geoffry may die be- fore Mr. Cimberton, as that he may outlive him. Tar. Sir, we but I must say Bram. Sir, I allow you the whole extent of that argument; but that will go no farther than as to the claimants under old Cimberton. I am of opinion that, according to the instruction of Sir Ralph, he could not dock the entail, and then create a new estate for the heirs general. Tar. Sir, I have not patience to be told that, when Gr gr ber Bram. I will allow it you, Mr. Serjeant; but there must be the word heirs for ever, to make such an estate as you pretend. Cimb. I must be impartial, though you are counsel for my side of the question. Were it not that you are so good as to allow him what he has not said, I should think it very hard you should answer him without hearing him But, gentlemen, I believe you have both considered this matter, and are firm in your different opinions. 'Twere bet- ter, therefore, you proceeded according to the particular sense of each of you, and gave your thoughts distinctly in writing. And do you see, sirs, pray let me have a copy of what you say in English. Bram. Why, what is all we have been saying? In English! Oh! but I forgot my- self, you're a wit. But, however, to please you, sir, you shall have it, in as plain terms as the law will admit of. Cimb. But I would have it, sir, without delay. Bram. That, sir, the law will not admit of. The Courts are sitting at Westminster, and I am this moment obliged to be at every one of them, and 'twould be wrong if I should not be in the hall to attend one of 'em at least; the rest would take it ill else. Therefore, I must leave what I have said to Mr. Serjeant's consideration, and I will digest his arguments on my part, and you shall hear from me again, sir. [Exit BRAMBLE. '/'.;). Agreed, agreed. Cimb. Mr. Bramble is very quick; he parted a little abruptly. Tar. He could not bear my argument; I pinched him to the quick about that Gr gr ber. Mrs. Seal. I saw that, for he durst not so much as hear you. I shall send to you, Mr. Serjeant, as soon as Sir Geoffry comes to town, and then I hope all may be adjusted. Tar. I shall be at my chambers, at my usual hours. [Exit. Cimb. Madam, if you please, I'll now at- tend you to the tea table, where I shall hear from your ladyship reason and good sense, after all this law and gibberish. Mrs. Seal. 'Tis a wonderful thing, sir, that men of professions do not study to talk the substance of what they have to say in the language of the rest of the world. Sure, they'd find their account in it. dm. They might, perhaps, madam, with people of your good sense; but with the generality 'twould never do. The vulgar would have no respect for truth and knowl- edge, if they were exposed to naked view. Truth is too simple, of all art bereaved: Since the world will why let it be deceived. [Exeunt. ACT THE FOURTH SCENE I BEVIL, JUN.'S Lodgings. BEVIL, JUN., with a letter in his hand, followed by TOM. Tom. Upon my life, sir, I know nothing of the matter. I never opened my lips to Mr. Myrtle about anything of your honor's letter to Madam Lucinda. Bev. What's the fool in such a fright for? I don't suppose you did. What I would know is, whether Mr. Myrtle showed any suspicion, or asked you any questions, to lead you to say casually that you had carried any such letter for me this morning. Tom. Why, sir, if he did ask me any questions, how could I help it? Bev. I don't say you could, oaf ! I am not questioning you, but him. What did he say to you ? Tom. Why, sir, when I came to his cham- bers, to be dressed for the lawyer's part your honor was pleased to put me upon, he asked me if I had been at Mr. Sealand's this morning? So I told him, sir, I often went thither because, sir, if I had not said that he might have thought there was some- thing more in my going now than at an- other time. Bev. Very well ! The fellow's caution, I find, has given him this jealousy. [Aside.'} Did he ask you no other questions? Tom. Yes, sir; now I remember, as we came away in the hackney coach from Mr. Sealand's, Tom, says he, as I came in to your master this morning, he bade you go for an answer to a letter he had sent. Pray did you bring him any? says he. Ah! says I, sir, your honor is pleased to joke with 249 ACT IV, Sc. I. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS me; you have a mind to know whether I can keep a secret or no? /uv. And so, by showing him you could, you told him you had one? Tom. Sir [Confused. Bev. What mean actions does jealousy make a man stoop to! How poorly has he used art with a servant to make him betray his master ! Well ! and when did he give you this letter for me? Tom. Sir, he writ it before he pulled off his lawyer's gown, at his own chambers. Ber. Very well; and what did he say when you brought him my answer to it? Tom. He looked a little out of humor, ir, and said it was very well. Bev. I knew he would be grave upon't; wait without. Tom. Hum! 'gad, I don't like this; I am afraid we are all in the wrong box here. [Ex-it TOM. Bev. I put on a serenity while my fellow was present; but I have never been more thoroughly disturbed. This hot man ! to write me a challenge, on supposed artificial dealing, when I professed myself his friend ! I can live contented without glory; but I cannot suffer shame. What's to be done ? But first let me consider Lucinda's letter again. [Reads. " SIR, " I hope it is consistent with the laws a woman ought to impose upon herself, to acknowledge that your manner of declining a treaty of marriage in our family, and de- siring the refusal may come from me, has something more engaging in it than the courtship of him who, I fear, will fall to my lot, except your friend exerts himself for our common safety and happiness. I have reasons for desiring Mr. Myrtle may not know of this letter till hereafter, and am your most obliged humble servant, " LUCINDA SEALAND." Well, but the postscript [Reads. " I won't, upon second thoughts, hide any- thing from you. But my reason for conceal- ing this is, that Mr. Myrtle has a jealousy in his temper which gives me some terrors; but my esteem for him inclines me to hope that only an ill effect which sometimes ac- companies a tender love, and what may be cured by a careful and unblamable conduct." Thus has this lady made me her friend and confidant, and put herself, in a kind, under my protection. I cannot tell him immediately the purport of her letter, except I could cure him of the violent and untractable passion of jealousy, and so serve him, and her, by disobeying her, in the article of secrecy, more than I should by complying with her directions. But then this duelling, which custom has imposed upon every man who would live with reputation and honor in the world how must I preserve myself from im- putations there? He'll, forsooth, call it or think it fear, if I explain without fighting. But his letter I'll read it again " SIR, " You have used me basely in correspond- ing and carrying on a treaty where you told me you were indifferent. I have changed my sword since I saw you; which advertisement I thought proper to send you against the next meeting between you and the injured " CHARLES MYRTLE." Enter TOM. Tom. Mr. Myrtle, sir. Would your honor please to see him? Bev. Why, you stupid creature! Let Mr. Myrtle wait at my lodgings ! Show him up. [Exit TOM.] Well! I am resolved upon my carriage to him. He is in love, and in every circumstance of life a little distrust- ful, which I must allow for but here he is. Enter TOM, introducing MYRTLE. Sir, I am extremely obliged to you for this honor. [To TOM.] But, sir, you, with your very discerning face, leave the room. [Exit TOM.] Well, Mr. Myrtle, your commands with me? Myrt. The time, the place, our long ac- quaintance, and many other circumstances which affect me on this occasion, oblige me, without farther ceremony or conference, to desire you would not only, as you already have, acknowledge the receipt of my letter, but also comply with the request in it. I must have farther notice taken of my mes- sage than these half lines " I have yours," " I shall be at home." Bev. Sir, I own I have received a letter from you in a very unusual style; but as I design everything in this matter shall be your own action, your own seeking, I shall under- stand nothing but what you are pleased to confirm face to face, and I have already for- got the contents of your epistle. Myrt. This cool manner is very agree- able to the abuse you have already made of my simplicity and frankness; and I see your moderation tends to your own advantage and not mine to your own safety, not con- sideration of your friend. Bev. My own safety, Mr. Myrtle? Myrt. Your own safety, Mr. Bevil. Bev. Look you, Mr. Myrtle, there's no disguising that I understand what you would be at; but, sir, you know I have often dared to disapprove of the decisions a tyrant cus- tom has introduced, to the breach of all laws, both divine and human. 250 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT IV, Sc. I. Myrt. Mr. Bevil, Mr. Bevil, it would be a good first principle, in those who have so tender a conscience that way, to have as much abhorrence of doing injuries, as Bev. As what? Myrt. As fear of answering for 'em. Bev. As fear of answering for 'em! But that apprehension is just or blamable ac- cording to the object of that fear. I have often told you, in confidence of heart, I abhorred the daring to offend the Author of life, and rushing into His presence I say, by the very same act, to commit the crime against Him, and immediately to urge on to His tribunal. Myrt. Mr. Bevil, I must tell you, this coolness, this gravity, this show of con- science, shall never cheat me of my mistress. You have, indeed, the best excuse for life, the hopes of possessing Lucinda. But con- sider, sir, I have as much reason to be weary of it, if I am to lose her; and my first attempt to recover her shall be to let her see the dauntless man who is to be her guardian and protector. Bev. Sir, show me but the least glimpse of argument, that I am authorised, by my own hand, to vindicate any lawless insult of this nature, and I will show thee to chastise thee hardly deserves the name of courage slight, inconsiderate man ! There is, Mr. Myrtle, no such terror in quick anger; and you shall, you know not why, be cool, as you have, you know not why, been warm. Myrt. Is the woman one loves so little an occasion of anger? You perhaps, who know not what it is to love, who have your ready, your commodious, your foreign trin- ket, for your loose hours; and from your fortune, your specious outward carriage, and other lucky circumstances, as easy a way to the possession of a woman of honor; you know nothing of what it is to be alarmed, to be distracted with anxiety and terror of losing more than life. Your marriage, happy man, goes on like common business, and in the interim you have your rambling captive, your Indian princess, for your soft moments of dalliance, your convenient, your ready Indiana. Bev. You have touched me beyond the patience of a man; and I'm excusable, in the guard of innocence (or from the infirmity of human nature, which can bear no more), to accept your invitation, and observe your let- terSir, I'll attend you. Enter TOM. Tom. Did you call, sir? I thought you did; I heard you speak aloud. Bev. Yes; go call a coach. Tom. Sir master Mr. Myrtle friends gentlemen what d'ye mean? I am but a servant, or Bev. Call a coach. [Exit TOM.] [A long pause, walking sullenly by each other.] [Aside.} Shall I (though provoked to the uttermost) recover myself at the entrance of a third person, and that my servant too, and not have respect enough to all I have ever been receiving from infancy, the obliga- tion to the best of fathers, to an unhappy virgin too, whose life depends on mine? [Shutting the door.] [To MYRTLE.] I have, thank Heaven, had time to recollect myself, and shall not, for fear of what such a rash man as you think of me, keep longer un- explained the false appearances under which your infirmity of temper makes you suffer; when perhaps too much regard to a false point of honor makes me prolong that suffering. Myrt. I am sure Mr. Bevil cannot doubt but I had rather have satisfaction from his innocence than his sword. Bev. Why, then, would you ask it first that way ? Myrt. Consider, you kept your temper yourself no longer than till I spoke to the disadvantage of her you loved. Bev. True; but let me tell you, I have saved you from the most exquisite distress, even though you had su---""ded in the dis- pute. I know you so well, that I am sure to have found this letter about a man you had killed would have been worse than death to yourself Read it. [Aside.] When he is thoroughly mortified, and shame has got the better of jealousy, when he has seen himself throughly, he will deserve to be assisted towards obtaining Lucinda. Myrt. With what a superiority has he turned the injury on me, as the aggressor? I begin to fear I have been too far trans- ported A treaty in our family! is not that saying too much? I shall relapse. But I find (on the postscript) something like jealousy. With what face can I see my benefactor, my advocate, whom I have treated like a betrayer? [Aside.] Oh ! Bevil, with what words shall I Bev. There needs none; to convince is much more than to conquer. Myrt. But can you Bev. You have o'erpaid the inquietude you gave me, in the change I see in you towards me. Alas! what machines are we! thy face is altered to that of another man; to that of my companion, my friend. Myrt. That I could be such a precipitant wretch ! Bev. Pray, no more. Myrt. Let me reflect how many friends have died, by the hands of friends, for want of temper; and you must give me leave to say again, and again, how much I am be- 251 ACT IV, Sc. II. holden to that superior spirit you have sub- dued me with. What had become of one of us, or perhaps both, had you been as weak as I was, and as incapable of reason? /)'.;. I congratulate to us both the es- cape from ourselves, and hope the memory of it will make us dearer friends than ever. Myrt. Dear Bevil, your friendly conduct has convinced me that there is nothing manly but what is conducted by reason, and agree- able to the practice of virtue and justice. And yet how many have been sacrificed to that idol, the unreasonable opinion of men! Nay, they are so ridiculous in it, that they often use their swords against each other with dissembled anger and real fear. Betrayed by honor, and compelled by shame, They hazard being, to preserve a name: Nor dare inquire into the dread mistake, Till plunged in sad eternity they wake. [Exeunt. SCENE II St. James's Park. Enter SIR JOHN BEVIL and MR. SEALAND. Sir J. Bev. Give me leave, however, Mr. Sealand, as we are upon a treaty for uniting our families, to mention only the business of an ancient house. Genealogy and descent are to be of some consideration in an affair of this sort. Mr. Seal. Genealogy and descent! Sir, there has been in our family a very large one. There was Galfrid the father of Ed- ward, the father of Ptolomey, the father of Crassus, the father of Earl Richard, the father of Henry the Marquis, the father of Duke John Sir J. Bev. land ? all these great names in your family ? Mr. Seal. These? yes, sir. I have heard my father name 'em all, and more. Sir J. Bev. Ay, sir? and did he say they were all in your family? Mr. Seal. Yes, sir, he kept 'em all. He was the greatest cocker in England. He said Duke John won him many battles, and never lost one. Sir J. Bev. Oh, sir, your servant! you are laughing at my laying any stress upon descent; but I must tell you, sir, I never knew anyone but he that wanted that ad- vantage turn it into ridicule. Mr. Seal. And I never knew any one who had many better advantages put that into his account. But, Sir John, value yourself as you please upon your ancient house, I am to talk freely of everything you are pleased to put into your bill of rates on this occasion; yet, sir, I have made no objections What, do you rave, Mr. Sea- to your son's family. 1 doubt. 'Tis his morals that Sir /. Bev. Sir, I can't help saying, that what might injure a citizen's credit may be no stain to a gentleman's honor. Mr. Seal. Sir John, the honor of a gen- tleman is liable to be tainted by as small a matter as the credit of a trader. We are talking of a marriage, and in such a case, the father of a young woman will not think it an addition to the honor or credit of her lover that he is a keeper Sir J. Bev. Mr. Sealand, don't take upon you to spoil my son's marriage with any woman else. Mr. Seal. Sir John, let him apply to any woman else, and have as many mistresses as he pleases. Sir J. Bev. My son, sir, is a discreet and sober gentleman. Mr. Seal. Sir, I never saw a man that wenched soberly and discreetly, that ever left it off; the decency observed in the prac- tice hides, even from the sinner, the iniquity of it. They pursue it, not that their appe- tites hurry 'em away, but, I warrant you, because 'tis their opinion they may do it. Sir J. Bev. Were what you suspect a truth do you design to keep your daughter a virgin till you find a man unblemished that way? Mr. Seal. Sir, as much a cit as you take me for, I know the town and the world; and give me leave to say, that we merchants are a species of gentry that have grown into the world this last century, and are as hon- orable, and almost as useful, as you landed folks, that have always thought yourselves so much above us; for your trading, for- sooth, is extended no farther than a load of hay or a fat ox. You are pleasant people, indeed, because you are generally bred up to be lazy; therefore, I warrant you, industry is dishonorable. Sir J. Bev. Be not offended, sir; let us go back to our point. Mr. Seal. Ohl not at all offended; but I don't love to leave any part of the account unclosed. Look you, Sir John, comparisons are odious, and more particularly so on occa- sions of this kind, when we are projecting races that are to be made out of both sides of the comparisons. Sir J. Bev. But, my son, sir, is, in the eye of the world, a gentleman of merit. Mr. Seal. I own to you, I think him so. But, Sir John, I am a man exercised and experienced in chances and disasters. I lost, in my earlier years, a very fine wife, and with her a poor little infant. This makes me, perhaps, over cautious to preserve the second bounty of providence to me, and be as careful as I can of this child. You'll pardon me, my poor girl, sir, is as valuable to me as your boasted son to you. Sir J. Bev. Why, that's one very good 252 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT IV, Sc. II. reason, Mr. Sealand, why I wish my son had her. Mr. Seal. There is nothing but this strange lady here, this incognita, that can be objected to him. 'Here and there a man falls in love with an artful creature, and gives up all the motives of life to that one passion. Sir J. Bev. A man of my son's under- standing cannot be supposed to be one of them. Mr. Seal. Very wise men have been so enslaved; and, when a man marries with one of them upon his hands, whether moved from the demand of the world or slighter reasons, such a husband soils with his wife for a month perhaps then good be w'ye, madam, the show's over Ah ! John Dryden points out such a husband to a hair, where he says, " And while abroad so prodigal the dolt is, Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is." Now, in plain terms, sir, I shall not care to have my poor girl turned a-grazing, and that must be the case when Sir J. Bev. But pray consider, sir, my son Mr. Seal. Look you, sir, I'll make the matter short. This unknown lady, as I told you, is all the objection I have to him; but, one way or other, he is, or has been, cer- tainly engaged to her. I am therefore re- solved, this very afternoon, to visit her. Now from her behavior, or appearance, I shall soon be let into what I may fear or hope for. Sir J. Bev. Sir, I am very confident there can be nothing inquired into relating to my son, that will not, upon being understood, turn to his advantage. Mr. Seal. I hope that as sincerely as you believe it. Sir John Bevil, when I am satis- fied, in this great point, if your son's con- duct answers the character you give him, I shall wish your alliance more than that of any gentleman in Great Britain; and so your servant. [Exit. Sir J. Bev. He is gone in a way but barely civil; but his great wealth, and the merit of his only child, the heiress of it, are not to be lost for a little peevishness. Enter HUMPHRY. Oh! Humphry, you are come in a seasonable minute. I want to talk to thee, and to tell thee that my head and heart are on the rack about my son. Humph. Sir, you may trust his discretion; I am sure you may. Sir J. Be-'. Why, I do believe I may, and yet I'm in a thousand fears when I lay this vast wealth before me; when I consider his prepossessions, either generous to a folly, in an honorable love, or abandoned, past redemption, in a vicious one; and, from the one or the other, his insensibility to the fairest prospect towards doubling our estate: a father, who knows how useful wealth is, and how necessary, even to those who de- spise it I say a father, Humphry, a father cannot bear it. Humph. Be not transported, sir; you will grow incapable of taking any resolution in your perplexity. Sir J. Bev. Yet, as angry as I am with him, I would not have him surprised in anything. This mercantile rough man may go grossly into the examination of this matter, and talk to the gentlewoman so as to Humph. No, I hope, not in an abrupt manner. Sir J. Bev. No, I hope not! Why, dost thou know anything of her, or of him, or of anything of it, or all of it? Humph. My dear master, I know so much that I told him this very day you had reason to be secretly out of humor about her. Sir J. Bev. Did you go so far? Well, what said he to that? Humph. His words were, looking upon me steadfastly: "Humphry," says he, "that woman is a woman of honor." Sir J. Bev. How! Do you think he is married to her, or designs to marry her? Humph. I can say nothing to the latter; but he says he can marry no one without your consent while you are living. Sir J. Bev. If he said so much, I know he scorns to break his word with me. Humph. I am sure of that. Sir J. Bev. You are sure of that well! that's some comfort. Then I have nothing to do but to see the bottom of this matter during this present ruffle Oh, Humphry Humph. You are not ill, I hope, sir. Sir J. Bev. Yes, a man is very ill that's in a very ill-humor. To be a father is to be care for one whom you oftener dis- oblige than please by that very care Oh ! that sons could know the duty to a father before they themselves are fathers But, perhaps, you'll say now that I am one of the happiest fathers in the world; but, I assure you, that of the very happiest is not a condition to be envied. Humph. Sir, your pain arises, not from the thing itself, but your particular sense of it. You are overfond, nay, give me leave to say, you are unjustly apprehensive from your fondness. My master Bevil never dis- obliged you, and he will, I know he will, do everything you ought to expect. Sir J. Bev. He won't take all this moncv with this girl For ought I know, he will, forsooth, have so much moderation as to think he ought not to force his liking for any consideration. 253 ACT IV, Sc. III. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS Humph. He is to marry her, not you; he is to live with her, not you, sir. Sir J. Bev. I know not what to think. But, I know, nothing can be more miserable than to be in this doubt Follow me; I must come to some resolution. [Exeunt. SCENE III BEVIL, JUN.'S Lodgings. Enter TOM and PHILLIS. Tom. Well, madam, if you must speak with Mr. Myrtle, you shall; he is now with my master in the library. Phil. But you must leave me alone with him, for he can't make me a present, nor I so handsomely take anything from him be- fore you; it would not be decent. Tom. It will be very decent, indeed, for me to retire/ and leave my mistress with another man. Phil. He is a gentleman, and will treat one properly. Tom. I believe so; but, however, I won't be far off, and therefore will venture to trust you. I'll call him to you. [Exit TOM. riiil. What a deal of pother and sputter here is between my mistress and Mr. Myrtle from mere punctilio! I could, any hour of the day, get her to her lover, and would do it but she, forsooth, will allow no plot to get him; but, if he can come to her, I know she would be glad of it. I must, therefore, do her an acceptable violence, and surprise her into his arms. I am sure I go by the best rule imaginable. If she were my maid, I should think her the best servant in the world for doing so by me. Enter MYRTLE and TOM. Oh sir! You and Mr. Bevil are fine gentle- men to let a lady remain under such diffi- culties as my poor mistress, and no attempt to set her at liberty, or release her from the danger of being instantly married to Cimberton. Myrt. Tom has been telling But what is to be done? I'liil. What is to be done when a man can't come at his mistress! Why, can't you fire our house, or the next house to us, to make us run out, and you take us? Myrt. How, Mrs. Phillis? Phil. Ay; let me see that rogue deny to fire a house, make a riot, or any other little thing, when there were no other way to come at me. Tom. I am obliged to you, madam. Phil. Why, don't we hear every day of people's hanging themselves for love, and Myrt. What manly thing would you have me undertake, according to your ladyship's notion of a man? Phil. Only be at once what, one time or other, you may be, and wish to be, or must be. Myrt. Dear girl, talk plainly to me, and consider I, in my condition, can't be in very good humor you say, to be at once what I must be. Phil. Ay, ay; I mean no more than to be an old man; I saw you do it very well at the masquerade. In a word, old Sir Geoffry Cimberton is every hour expected in town, to join in the deeds and settlements for marrying Mr. Cimberton. He is half blind, half lame, half deaf, half dumb; though, as to his passions and desires, he is as warm and ridiculous as when in the heat of youth. Tom. Come to the business, and don't keep the gentleman in suspense for the pleasure of being courted, as you serve me. Phil. I saw you at the masquerade act such a one to .perfection. Go, and put on that very habit, and come to our house as Sir Geoffry. There is not one there but myself knows his person; I was born in the parish where he is Lord of the Manor. I have seen him often and often at church in the country. Do not hesitate, but come hither; they will think you bring a certain security against Mr. Myrtle, and you bring Mr. Myrtle. Leave the rest to me; I leave this with you, and expect They don't, I told you, know you; they think you out of town, which you had as good be for ever, if you lose this opportunity I must be gone; I know I am wanted at home. Myrt. My dear Phillis! [Catches and kisses her, and gives her money. Phil. O fie! my kisses are not my own; you have committed violence; but I'll carry 'em to the right owner. [ToM kisses her.] Come, see me downstairs [To TOM.], and leave the lover to think of his last game for the prize. [Exeunt TOM and PHILLIS. Myrt. I think I will instantly attempt this wild expedient. The extravagance of it will make me less suspected, and it will give me opportunity to assert my own right to Lucinda, without whom I cannot live. But I am so mortified at this conduct of mine towards poor Bevil. He must think meanly of me I know not how to reassume my- self, and be in spirit enough for such an adventure as this; yet I must attempt it, if it be only to be near Lucinda under her present perplexities; and sure The next delight to transport, with the fair, won't they venture the hazard of being hanged for love r Oh ! were I a man 254 Is to relieve her in her hours of care. [Exit. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT V, Sc. I. ACT THE FIFTH SCENE I SEALAND'S House. Enter PHILLIS, with lights, before MYRTLE, disguised like old SIR GEOFFRY; supported by MRS. SEALAND, LUCINDA, and CIMBER- TON. Mrs. Seal. Now I have seen you thus far, Sir Geoffry, will you excuse me a moment while I give my necessary orders for your accommodation? [Exit MRS. SEAL. Myrt. I have not seen you, cousin Cim- berton, since you were ten years old; and as it is incumbent on you to keep up our name and family, I shall, upon very reasonable terms, join with you in a settlement to that purpose. Though I must tell you, cousin, this is the first merchant that has married into our house. Luc. Deuce on 'em! am I a merchant be- cause my father is? [Aside. Myrt. But is he directly a trader at this time ? > C'i nib. There's no hiding the disgrace, sir; he trades to all parts of the world. Myrt. We never had one of our family before who descended from persons that did anything. Cimb. Sir, since it is a girl that they have, I am, for the honor of my family, willing to take it in again, and to sink her into our name, and no harm done. Myrt. 'Tis prudently and generously re- solved Is this the young thing? Cimb. Yes, sir. Phil. Good madam, don't be out of hu- mor, but let them run to the utmost of their extravagance. Hear them out. [To Luc. Myrt. Can't I see her nearer? My eyes are but weak. Phil. Beside, I am sure the uncle has something worth your notice. I'll take care to get off the young one, and leave you to observe what may be wrought out of the old one for your good. [To Luc. Exit. Cimb. Madam, this old gentleman, your great uncle, desires to be introduced to you, and to see you nearer! Approach, sir. Myrt. By your leave, young lady. [Puts on spectacles.] Cousin Cimberton! She has exactly that sort of neck and bosom for which my sister Gertrude was so much admired in the year sixty-one, before the French dresses first discovered anything in women below the chin. Luc. [Aside.} What a very odd situation am I in! though I cannot but be diverted at the extravagance of their humors, equally unsuitable to their age Chin, quotha I don't believe my passionate lover there knows whether I have one or not. Ha! ha! Myrt. Madam, I would not willingly of- fend, but I have a better glass. [Pulls out a large one. Enter PHILLIS. Phil. [To CIMBERTON.] Sir, my lady de- sires to show the apartment to you that she intends for Sir Geoffry. Cimb. Well, sir! by that time you have sufficiently gazed and sunned yourself in the beauties of my spouse there. I will wait on you again. [Exit CIMB. and PHIL. Myrt. Were it not, madam, that I might be troublesome, there is something of im- portance, though we are alone, which I would say more safe from being heard. Luc. There is something in this old fel- low, methinks, that raises my curiosity. [Aside. Myrt. To be free, madam, I as heartily contemn this kinsman of mine as you do, and am sorry to see so much beauty and merit devoted by your parents to so insensible a possessor. Luc. Surprising! I hope, then, sir, you will not contribute to the wrong you are so generous as to pity, whatever may be the interest of your family. Myrt. This hand of mine shall never be employed to sign anything against your good and happiness. Luc. I am sorry, sir, it is not in my power to make you proper acknowledg- ments; but there is a gentleman in the world whose gratitude will, I am sure, be worthy of the favor. Myrt. All the thanks I desire, madam, are in your power to give. Luc. Name them and command them. Myrt. Only, madam, that the first time you are alone with your lover, you will, with open arms, receive him. Luc. As willingly as his heart could wish it. Myrt. Thus, then, he claims your prom- ise. O Lucinda! Luc. Oh! a cheat! a cheat! a cheat! Myrt. Hush! 'tis I, 'tis I, your lover, Myrtle himself, madam. Luc. O bless me ! what a rashness and folly to surprise me so But hush my mother. Enter MRS. SEALAND, CIMBERTON, and PHILLIS. Mrs. Seal. How now! what's the matter? I. HC. O madam ! as soon as you left the room my uncle fell into a sudden fit, and and so I cried out for help to support him and conduct him to his chamber. Mrs. Seal. That was kindly done! Alas! sir, how do you find yourself? Myrt. Never was taken in so odd a way 255 ACT V, Sc. II. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS in my life pray lead me! Oh! I was talking here (pray carry me) to my cousin Cim- berton's young lady. Mrs. Seal. [Aside.] My cousin Cimberton's young lady! How zealous he is, even in his extremity, for the match! A right Cirn- berton. [CIMBERTON and LUCINDA lead him, as one in pain. Cimb. Pox! Uncle, you will pull my ear off. Luc. Pray, uncle! you will squeeze me to death. Mrs. Seal. No matter, no matter he knows not what he does. Come, sir, shall I help you out? Myrt. By no means! I'll trouble nobody but my young cousins here. [They lead him off. Phil. But pray, madam, does your lady- ship intend that Mr. Cimberton shall really marry my young mistress at last? I don't think he likes her. Mrs. Seal. That's not material! Men of his speculation are above desires but be it as it may. Now I have given old Sir Geoffry the trouble of coming up to sign and seal, with what countenance can I be off? Phil. As well as with twenty others, madam. It is the glory and honor of a great fortune to live in continual treaties, and still to break off: it looks great, madam. Mrs. Seal. True, Phillis yet to return our blood again into the Cimbertons is an honor not to be rejected But were not you saying that Sir John Bevil's creature, Humphry, has been with Mr. Sealand? Phil. Yes, madam; I overheard them agree that Mr. Sealand should go himself and visit this unknown lady that Mr. Bevil is so great with; and if he found nothing there to fright him, that Mr. Bevil should still marry my young mistress. Mrs. Seal. How! nay, then, he shall find she is my daughter as well as his. I'll fol- low him this instant, and take the whole family along with me. The disputed power of disposing of my own daughter shall be at an end this very night. I'll live no longer in anxiety for a little hussy that hurts my appearance wherever I carry her: and for whose sake I seem to be at all regarded, and that in the best of my days. Phil. Indeed, madam, if she were mar- ried, your ladyship might very well be taken for Mr. Sealand's daughter. Mrs. Seal. Nay, when the chit has not been with me, I have heard the men say as much. I'll no longer cut off the greatest pleasure of a woman's life (the shining in assemblies) by her forward anticipation of the respect that's due to her superior. She shall down to Cimberton-Hall she shall she shall. Phil. I hope, madam, I shall stay with your ladyship. Mrs. Seal. Thou shalt, Phillis, and I'll place thee then more about me But order chairs immediately; I'll be gone this minute. [Exeunt. SCENE II Charing Cross. Enter MR. SEALAND and HUMPHRY. Mr. Seal. I am very glad, Mr. Humphry, that you agree with me that it is for our common good I should look thoroughly into this matter. Humph. I am, indeed, of that opinion; for there is no artifice, nothing concealed, in our family, which ought in justice to be known. I need not desire you, sir, to treat the lady with care and respect. Mr. Seal. Master Humphry, I shall not be rude, though I design to be a little abrupt, and come into the matter at once, to see how she will bear upon a surprise. Humph. That's the door, sir; I wish you success. [While HUMPHRY speaks, SEALAND consults his table book.] I am less concerned what happens there, because I hear Mr. Myrtle is well lodged as old Sir Geoffry; so I am willing to let this gentleman employ himself here, to give them time at home; for I am sure 'tis necessary for the quiet of our family Lucinda were disposed of out of it, since Mr. Bevil's inclination is so much otherwise engaged. [Exit. Mr. Seal. I think this is the door. [Knocks.] I'll carry this matter with an air of authority, to inquire, though I make an errand, to begin discourse. [Knocks again, and enter a foot-boy.] So, young man! is your lady within? Boy. Alack, sir! I am but a country boy I dant know whether she is or noa; but an you'll stay a bit, I'll goa and ask the gentlewoman that's with her. Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah, though you are a country boy, you can see, can't you? You know whether she is at home, when you see her, don't you? Boy. Nay, nay, I'm not such a country lad neither, master, to think she's at home because I see her. I have been in town but a month, and I lost one place already for believing my own eyes. Mr. Seal. Why, sirrah! have you learnt to lie already? Boy. Ah, master! things that are lies in the country are not lies at London. I begin to know my business a little better than so But an you please to walk in, I'll call a gentlewoman to you that can tell you for certain she can make bold to ask my lady herself. 256 THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS ACT V, Sc. III. Mr. Seal. Oh! then, she is within, I find, though you dare not say so. Boy. Nay, nay ! that's neither here nor there: what's matter whether she is within or no, if she has not a mind to see anybody ? Mr. Seal. I can't tell, sirrah, whether you are arch or simple; but, however, get me a direct answer, and here's a shilling for you. Boy. Will you please to walk in; I'll see what I can do for you. Mr. Seal. I see you will be fit for your business in time, child; but I expect to meet with nothing but extraordinaries in such a house. Boy. Such a house! Sir, you han't seen it yet. Pray walk in. Mr. Seal. Sir, I'll wait upon you. [Exeunt. SCENE III INDIANA'S House. Enter ISABELLA. Isab. What anxiety do I feel for this poor creature! What will be the end of her? Such a languishing unreserved passion for a man that at last must certainly leave or ruin her! and perhaps both! Then the aggra- vation of the distress is, that she does not believe he will not but, I must own, if they are both what they would seem, they are made for one another, as much as Adam and Eve were, for there is no other of their kind but themselves. Enter Boy. So, Daniel! what news with you? Boy. Madam, there's a gentleman below would speak with my lady. I. sub. Sirrah! don't you know Mr. Bevil yet? Boy. Madam, 'tis not the gentleman who comes every day, and asks for you, and won't go in till he knows whether you are with her or no. Isab. Ha ! that's a particular I did not know before. Well! be it who it will, let him come up to me. [Exit Boy; and re-enters with MR. SEA- LAND; ISABELLA looks amazed. Mr. Seal. Madam, I can't blame your being a little surprised to see a perfect stranger make a visit, and Isab. I am indeed surprised! I see he does not know me. [Aside. Mr. Seal. You are very prettily lodged here, madam; in troth you seem to have everything in plenty A thousand a year, I warrant you, upon this pretty nest of rooms, and the dainty one within them. [Aside, and looking about. Isab. [Apart.} Twenty years, it seems, have less effect in the alteration of a man of thirty than of a girl of fourteen he's almost still the same; but alas! I find, by other men, as well as himself, I am not what I was. As soon as he spoke, I was convinced 'twas he; how shall I contain my surprise and satisfaction ! He must not know me yet. Mr. Seal. Madam, I hope I don't give you any disturbance; but there is a young lady here with whom I have a particular business to discourse, and I hope she will admit me to that favor. Isab. Why, sir, have you had any notice concerning her? I wonder who could give it you. Mr. Seal. That, madam, is fit only to be communicated to herself. Isab. Well, sir! you shall see her. [Aside.} I find he knows nothing yet, nor shall from me. I am resolved I will observe this interlude, this sport of nature and of fortune. You shall see her presently, sir; for now I am as a mother, and will trust her with you. [Exit. Mr. Seal. As a mother! right; that's the old phrase for one of those commode ladies, who lend out beauty for hire to young gen- tlemen that have pressing occasions. But here comes the precious lady herself. In troth a very sightly woman Enter INDIANA. I nil. I am told, sir, you have some affair that requires your speaking with me. Mr. Seal. Yes, madam, there came to my hands a bill drawn by Mr. Bevil, which is payable to-morrow; and he, in the inter- course of business, sent it to me, who have cash of his, and desired me to send a servant with it; but I have made bold to bring you the money myself. Ind. Sir! was that necessary? Mr. Seal. No, madam; but to be free with you, the fame of your beauty, and the re- gard which Mr. Bevil is a little too well known to have for you, excited my curiosity. Ind. Too well known to have for me ! Your sober appearance, sir, which my friend described, made me expect no rudeness, or absurdity, at least Who's there? Sir, if you pay the money to a servant, 'twill be as well. Mr. Seal. Pray, madam, be not offended; I came hither on an innocent, nay, a vir- tuous design; and, if you will have patience to hear me, it may be as useful to you, as you are in a friendship with Mr. Bevil, as to my only daughter, whom I was this day dis- posing of. Ind. You make me hope, sir, I have mis- taken you. I am composed again; be free, say on \.lsiil,-.] what I am afraid to hear. Mr. Seal. I feared, indeed, an unwarranted passion here, but I did not think it was in 257 ACT V, Sc. III. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS abuse of so worthy an object, so accom- plished a lady as your sense and mien be- speak; but the youth of our age care not what merit and virtue they bring to shame, so they gratify Ind. Sir, you are going into very great errors; but as you are pleased to say you see something in me that has changed at least the color of your suspicions, so has your appearance altered mine, and made me earnestly attentive to what has any way con- cerned you to inquire into my affairs and sensibly, with what an be seated, and tell me character. Mr. Seal. How air she talks! Ind. Good sir, tenderly; keep all your suspicions concerning me alive, that you may in a proper and pre- pared way acquaint me why the care of your daughter obliges a person of your seeming worth and fortune to be thus inquisitive about a wretched, helpless, friendless [Weeping.] But I beg your pardon; though I am an orphan, your child is not; and your concern for her, it seems, has brought you hither. I'll be composed; pray go on, sir. Mr. Seal. How could Mr. Bevil be such a monster, to injure such a woman? Ind. No, sir, you wrong him; he has not injured me. My support is from his bounty. Mr. Seal. Bounty ! when gluttons give high prices for delicates, they are prodigious bountiful. Ind. Still, still you will persist in that error. But my own fears tell me all. You are the gentleman, 1 suppose, for whose happy daughter he is designed a husband by his good father, and he has, perhaps, consented to the overture. He was here this morning, dressed beyond his usual plain- ness nay, most sumptuously and he is to be, perhaps, this night a bridegroom. Mr. Seal. I own he was intended such; but, madam, on your account, I have de- termined to defer my daughter's marriage till I am satisfied from your own mouth of what nature are the obligations you are under to him. Ind. His actions, sir; his eyes have only made me think he designed to make me the partner of his heart. The goodness and gentleness of his demeanor made me mis- interpret all. "Twas my own hope, my own passion, that deluded me; he never made one amorous advance to me. His large heart, and bestowing hand, have only helped the miserable; nor know I why, but from his mere delight in virtue, that I have been his care and the object on which to indulge and please himself with pouring favors. Mr. Seal. Madam, I know not why it is, but I, as well as you, am methinks afraid of entering into the matter I came about; but 'tis the same thing as if we had talked never so distinctly he ne'er shall have a daughter of mine. Ind. If you say this from what you think of me, you wrong yourself and him. Let not me, miserable though I may be, do injury to my benefactor. No, sir, my treatment ought rather to reconcile you to his virtues. If to bestow without a prospect of return; if to delight in supporting what might, per- haps, be thought an object of desire, with no other view than to be her guard against those who would not be so disinterested; if these action*, sir, can in a careful parent's eye commend him to a daughter, give yours, sir, give her to my honest, generous Bevil. What have I to do but sigh, and weep, to rave, run wild, a lunatic in chains, or, hid in darkness, mutter in distracted starts and broken accents my strange, strange story! Mr. Seal. Take comfort, madam. Ind. All my comfort must be to expostu- late in madness, to relieve with frenzy my despair, and shrieking to demand of fate why why was I born to such variety of sorrows. Mr. Seal. If I have been the least occa- sion Ind. No, 'twas Heaven's high will I should be such; to be plundered in my cradle! tossed on the seas! and even there an infant captive ! to lose my mother, hear but of my father! to be adopted! lose my adopter! then plunged again into worse calamities ! Mr. Seal. An infant captive! Ind. Yet then, to find the most charm- ing of mankind, once more to set me free from what I thought the last distress, to load me with his services, his bounties, and his favors; to support my very life in a way that stole, at the same time, my very soul itself from me. Mr. Seal. And has young Bevil been this worthy man ? Ind. Yet then, again, this very man to take another! without leaving me the right, the pretence of easing my fond heart with tears ! For, oh ! I can't reproach him, though the same hand that raised me to this height now throws me down the preci- pice. Mr. Seal. Dear lady! Oh, yet one mo- ment's patience: my heart grows full with your affliction. But yet there's something in your story that Ind. My portion here is bitterness and sorrow. Mr. Seal. Do not think so. Pray answer me: does Bevil know your name and family? 1 ml. Alas ! too well ! Oh, could I be any other thing than what I am I'll tear away all traces of my former self, my little orna- 258 ACT V, Sc. III. ments, the remains of my first state, the hints of what I ought to have been [In her disorder she throws away a bracelet, which SEALAND takes up, and looks earnestly on it. Mr. Seal. Ha! what's this? My eyes are not deceived! It is, it is the same! the very bracelet which I bequeathed to my wife at our last mournful parting. Ind. What said you, sir? Your wife? Whither does my fancy carry me? What means this unfelt motion at my heart? And yet, again my fortune but deludes me; for if I err not, sir, your name is Sealand; but my lost father's name was Mr. Seal. Danvers; was it not? Ind. What new amazement? That is, indeed, my family. Mr. Seal. Know, then, when my misfor- tunes drove me to the Indies, for reasons too tedious now to mention, I changed my name of Danvers into Sealand. Enter ISABELLA. Isab. If yet there wants an explanation of your wonder, examine well this face (yours, sir, I well remember), gaze on and read in me your sister, Isabella. Mr. Seal. My sister! Isab. But here's a claim more tender yet your Indiana, sir, your long-lost daughter. Mr. Seal. Oh, my child! my child! Ind. AH gracious Heaven! is it possible! do I embrace my father? Mr. Seal. And do I hold thee? These passions are too strong for utterance. Rise, rise, my child, and give my tears their way. Oh, my sister! [Embracing her. Isab. Now, dearest niece, my groundless fears, my painful cares no more shall vex thee. If I have wronged thy noble lover with too hard suspicions, my just concern for thee, I hope, will plead my pardon. Mr. Seal. Oh! make him, then, the full amends, and be yourself the messenger of joy. Fly this instant! tell him all these wondrous turns of Providence in his favor! Tell him I have now a daughter to bestow which he no longer will decline; that this day he still shall be a bridegroom; nor shall a fortune, the merit which his father seeks, be wanting. Tell him the reward of all his virtues waits on his acceptance. [Exit ISAB.] My dearest Indiana! [Turns and embraces her. Ind. Have I, then, at last, a father's sanction on my love? His bounteous hand to give, and make my heart a present worthy of Bevil's generosity? Mr. Seal. Oh, my child! how are our sor- rows past o'erpaid by such a meeting! Though I have lost so many years of soft paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one day to find thee thus, and thus bestow thee, in such perfect happiness, is ample, ample repa- ration! And yet, again, the merit of thy lover Ind. Oh! had I spirits left to tell you of his actions! how strongly filial duty has suppressed his love; and how concealment still has doubled all his obligations; the pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would warm your heart, as he has conquered mine. Mr. Seal. How laudable is love when born of virtue! I burn to embrace him Ind. See, sir, my aunt already has suc- ceeded, and brought him to your wishes. Enter ISABELLA, with SIR JOHN BEVIL, BEVIL, JUN., MRS. SEALAND, CIMBERTON, MYRTLE, and LUCINDA. Sir J. Ber. [Entering.} Where, where's this scene of wonder? Mr. Sealand, I congratu- late, on this occasion, our mutual happiness Your good sister, sir, has, with the story of your daughter's fortune, filled us with surprise and joy. Now all exceptions are removed; my son has now avowed his love, and turned all former jealousies and doubts to approbation; and, I am told, your good- ness has consented to reward him. Mr. Seal. If, sir, a fortune equal to his father's hopes can make this object worthy his acceptance. Bev. Jit n. I hear your mention, sir, of fortune, with pleasure only as it may prove the means to reconcile the best of fathers to my love. Let him be provident, but let me be happy. My ever-destined, my ac- knowledged wife ! [Embracing INDIANA. Ind. Wife! Oh, my ever loved! My lord! my master! Sir J. Bev. I congratulate myself, as well as you, that I had a son who could, under such disadvantages, discover your great merit. Mr. Seal. Oh, Sir John! how vain, how weak is human prudence ! What care, what foresight, what imagination could contrive such blest events, to make our children happy, as Providence in one short hour has laid before us? Cimb. [To MRS. SEALAND.] I am afraid, madam, Mr. Sealand is a little too busy for our affair. If you please, we'll take another opportunity. Mrs. Seal. Let us have patience, sir. Cimb. But we make Sir Geoffry wait, madam. Myrt. O, sir, I am not in haste. [During this, BEV., JUN. presents LUCINDA to INDIANA. Mr. Seal. But here! here's our general benefactor! Excellent young man, that could 259 ACT V, Sc. III. THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS be at once a lover to her beauty and a parent to her virtue. Be:-. Jun. If you think that an obligation, sir. give me leave to overpay myself, in the only instance that can now add to my felicity, by begging you to bestow this lady on Mr. Myrtle. Mr. Seal. She is his without reserve; I beg he may be sent for. Mr. Cimberton, notwithstanding you never had my consent, yet there is, since I last saw you, another objection to your marriage with my daughter. Cimb. I hope, sir, your lady has con- cealed nothing from me? Mr. Seal. Troth, sir, nothing but what was concealed from myself another daugh- ter, who has an undoubted title to half my estate. Cimb. How, Mr. Sealand? Why, then, if half Mrs. Lucinda's fortune is gone, you can't say that any of my estate is settled upon her. I was in treaty for the whole; but if that is not to be come at, to be sure there can be no bargain. Sir, I have nothing to do but to take my leave of your good lady, my cousin, and beg pardon for the trouble I have given this old gentleman. Myrt. That you have, Mr. Cimberton, with all my heart. [Discovers himself. All. Mr. Myrtle! Myrt. And I beg pardon of the whole company that I assumed the person of Sir Geoffry, only to be present at the danger of this lady's being disposed of, and in her utmost exigence to assert my right to her; which, if her parents will ratify, as they once favored my pretensions, no abatement of fortune shall lessen her value to me. Luc. Generous man ! Mr. Seal. If, sir, you can overlook the injury of being in treaty with one who as meanly left her, as you have generously asserted your right in her, she is yours. Luc. Mr. Myrtle, though you have ever had my heart, yet now I find I love you more, because I bring you less. Myrt. We have much more than we want; and I am glad any event has con- tributed to the discovery of our real in- clinations to each other. Mrs. Seal. Well! however, I'm glad the girl's disposed of, anyway. [Aside. Bev. Myrtle, no longer rivals now, but brothers ! Myrt. Dear Bevil, you are born to tri- ceases; I rejoice in the pre-eminence of your virtue, and your alliance adds charms to Lucinda. Sir J. Bev. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you have set the world a fair example: your happiness is owing to your constancy and merit; and the several difficulties you have struggled with evidently show Whate'er the generous mind itself denies, The secret care of Providence supplies. [Exeunt. 260 JOHN GAY THE BEGGAR'S OPERA JOHN GAY, the author of The Beggar's Opera and many things beside, holds a place all his own among English men of letters. Pope, who knew and loved him well to know Gay was to love him summed up the man's whole story in one antithetic phrase, " In wit a man, simplicity a child ; " for it is true that Gay never grew up. To the day of his death in his middle forties he was as irresponsible, as lazy and slovenly, as immoderate in his meat and drink, and altogether as helplessly dependent upon the guidance and care of others as any grammar-school urchin. All life and work were his playground, and his many friends guarded and encouraged him in his clever play, just as protecting grown-ups watch over careless childhood at sport. Gay's alternate buoyancy and depression, delight and despair, are the happi- ness and sorrow of a child plunging from dizzy heights to depths. But for- tunately for us, whatever wails may have risen to heaven, when Gay deemed himself neglected, little of this juvenile lamentation creeps into his work. In his best poetry he is unalloyed joy. Of Gay's early years there is little to tell. Born in 1685 of a Devonshire family of longer pedigree than purses, he received his only education at the school of his native town of Barnstaple, from which he bore away some knowledge of the classics. Then there were days of. idle apprenticeship to a London silk mercer, followed by a long period leisurely given by the youth to seeking in taverns and coffee-houses the company of the great, so easily accessible in that age, and to merrily inviting whatever of soul was in him. By the time he was thirty he had found both his fellows and himself. Boling- broke, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Pope were now his loyal friends, and the Duchess of Monmouth had taken him into her service. He had wandered unintelli- gently enough within the circle of Chaucer's magic in his unsuccessful comedy of 1713, The Wife of Bath. He had caught and held the ear of the town with two poems of country life, Rural Sports, which Dr. Johnson deemed " never contemptible and never excellent," and that delightful burlesque, The Shepherd's Week, a culminating contribution to Pope's pastoral war with Ambrose Philips. He had won, too, the favor of the great, and accompanied as secretary Lord Clarendon on a diplomatic mission to the Court of Han- over in 1714. Then with the death of Queen Anne, while Gay was still abroad, seemed to come the end of all his hopes. But our disappointed poet, 261 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA unlike his friend, Swift, eating out his heart in exile does not attain to the dignity of a tragic figure. Indeed, Gay's description of his dramatic burlesque of the year 1/15, The What d'ye Call It in which, by the way, he had his laugh at Cato and Venice Preserved as a " tragi-comi-pastoral farce" ap- plies pretty well to his own life at this time. His distress over his lack of employment and his empty pockets affects us like the passing grief of child- hood, for we know that friends will be kind and that skies will clear. Pope, who has aided him in his satire, cordially bids him to Binfield or to Twicken- ham, Burlington plays the host in Piccadilly and at English watering places, Pulteney carries him off for a season to Aix-la-Chapelle, Harcourt lends him a house in Oxfordshire. His loudly bewailed martyrdom assumes the form of an agreeable dependence. Though over-easy in his life, Gay seems, as a writer, always quick enough to catch the moment with play, tale, eclogue, epistle, or song. Trivia: or The Art of Walking the Streets of London, published early in 1716, brings to bear upon the metropolis the same humorous observation that he ear- lier cast upon his Devonshire countryside. Three Hours after Marriage, written with Pope in 1/17, may have deservedly failed with audience and critics, but it lined Gay's purse. And in 1720 his collected poems pranced forth with a dazzling subscription list of all the noblesse. The thousand pounds, thus easily won, were as easily lost with the pricking of the South Sea bubble. Still what does it all matter? Providence kindly interposes with the sinecure of a lottery commissionship and with a dispensation, of far more value to the improvident poet than a salary of 150, the friendship of the Duke of Queensberry and his brilliant Duchess. His tragedy of indifferent merit, The Captives (1724), with Wilks, Booth, Mrs. Porter, and Mrs. Oldfield in the chief roles, was applauded not only by all London, but by royalty itself. The next year finds Gay writing for young Prince William, afterwards the bloody Duke of Cumberland, a series of Fables, which did more for the poet's fame than all his other works combined. And deservedly so, for the charming simplicity and graceful verse of these little productions, which are so much more than mere imitations of Lafontaine and Lamotte, make a nat- ural appeal to the world of childhood and their social applications interest many older readers. It was doubtless as a fabulist that Gay was offered in 1727 the position of gentleman-usher to little Princess Louisa, which he, playing the grown man for the nonce, loftily declined as undignified. This disappointment must have been speedily forgotten in the tremendous vogue of the very work that it provoked, Gay's delightful satire against courts and ministers, The Beggar's Opera (1728). Its sequel of the same year, Polly, though denied the stage by the Lord Chancellor, prospered mightily in print. Duchesses rallied about him in his luxurious role of political martyr and the Queensberrys deserted the court for the sake of their protege. He be- came, as Arbuthnot tells us, " the darling of the city." The rest of Gay's story is but anticlimax; for during the four years 262 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA remaining to him he produced nothing of great note. An opera, Achilles, a pastoral drama, Acis and Galatea, and a few fables prove that he was not altogether idle. The end came suddenly at the Queensberry town house on December 5, 1732. Upon the splendid monument which marks Gay's resting- place in the Poets' Corner of Westminster appear Pope's epitaph and his own flippant couplet: "Life is a jest, and all things show it. I thought so once, and now I know it." Our concern is with but a single work of Gay, The Beggar's Opera. No other account of the conception and presentation of this great popular suc- cess can compare with that of Pope in Spence's Anecdotes: " Dr. Swift had been observing once to Mr. Gay, what an odd pretty sort of thing a Newgate Pastoral might make. Gay was inclined to try at such a thing for some time ; but afterwards thought it would be better to write a comedy on the same plan. This was what gave rise to The Beggar's Opera. He began on it; and when he first mentioned it to Swift, the Doctor did not much like the project. As he carried it on, he showed what he wrote to both of us, and we now and then gave a correction, or a word or two of advice ; but it was wholly of his own writing. When it was done, neither of us thought that it would succeed. We showed it to Congreve, who, after reading it over, said : ' It would either take greatly or be damned confoundedly.' We were all, at the first night of it, in great uncertainty of the event; till we heard the Duke of Argyll, who sat in the next box to us, say : ' It will do, it must do ! I see it in the eyes of them.' This was a good while before the first act was over, and gave us ease soon ; for the Duke (besides his own good taste) has a particular knack, as any one now living, in discovering the taste of the public. He was quite right in this, as usual ; the good nature of audience appeared stronger and stronger every act, and ended in a clamor of ap- plause." Never was a triumph more complete. The play, as wags de- clared, "made Gay rich and Rich (the theatre manager) gay." A run of sixty-three days in the metropolis was followed by a brilliant progress through the provinces. The best of its many songs appeared on screens and fans. Macheath, wavering between Polly and Lucy, was painted several times by Hogarth. Lavinia Fenton, who played the role of Polly, now reigned as universal favorite and later married her duke. " Furthermore " Pope is speaking "the piece drove out of England (for that season) the Italian Opera, which had carried all before it for ten years." That it was Gay's deliberate purpose to burlesque the Italian Opera, which had dominated the musical stage of England not for a decade, but for a generation (see The Spectator, Nos. 5, 13, 18), seems most unlikely, for his production bears no relation to this exotic in subject, style, or form. But that the success of the innovation temporarily impaired the vogue of such 263 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA composers as Handel and Buononcini cannot be questioned. Gay created, or rather, derived from the masque through the " heroic " opera a popular form of drama, the ballad opera, which seemed to Johnson fifty years later " likely to keep long possession of the stage " and which found its high-water mark in The Duenna of Sheridan. The chief contrast between the eighteenth- century ballad opera and the comic opera, let us say, of Gilbert and Sullivan lies in this, that in Gay's invention the music holds a so much less important place than the prose dialogue that the numerous songs, which are set to popular airs, are introduced into the middle of the scenes and could all be omitted without spoiling the plot. Indeed, Walker, the first impersonator of Macheath, " knew no more of music than barely singing in tune ; but then his singing was supported by inimitable action, by his speaking to the eye and charming the ear." Lavinia Fenton's acknowledged position as " Queen of English Song " must, however, have contributed greatly to the success of the opera. That Gay derived either the characters or plot of The Beggar's Opera from any earlier drama is not demonstrated by any evidence yet presented. The charge of contemporaries that he stole from The Dutch Courtesan of John Marston through The Woman's Revenge (1715) of Christopher Bul- lock is as unsupported as the assertion of modern scholarship that he was deeply indebted to Richard Brome's Merry Beggars (1641). Here or there we meet a seeming reminiscence of these forerunners, but the borrowing, if such it be, is probably unconscious. And the occasional parallels with famous comedies of both sides of the Channel, pointed out by German source-hunters, are sheer coincidences. The inspiration of Gay's dramatic burlesque lay not in books but in life. He found the prototypes of his chief figures in the " underworld " of his time. The original of Peachum was the great Napoleon of the realms of crime in the eighteenth century, Jonathan Wilde, afterwards Fielding's hero spy, fence, and thief who, but three years before, had been hanged at Tyburn. And probably Macheath's model was the equally notorious Jack Sheppard, burglar and highwayman, who, since his very recent death, had become dramatic material at both Drury Lane and Lincoln's Inn Fields, a full century before Harrison Ainsworth celebrated his exploits. Gay was, however, striking at loftier game than wretched footpads and runagates. The corruption that everywhere flaunted in high places is the real object of his attack and the chief apostle of bribery, the prime minister him- self, is constantly the butt of thinly veiled satire. Every one, of course, instantly recognized in Robin of Bagshot, alias Bluff Bob, alias Carbuncle, alias Bob Booty, the allusions to Sir Robert Walpole's rough manners, roar- ing conviviality, and unblushing incursions upon the public purse, and all construed the quarrel between Peachum and Lockit as a picture of the strife between Walpole and Townshend. But those who went farther and sought to interpret Macheath's shameless career as a complete allegory of the private 264 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA life and public service of the unscrupulous but efficient premier, or who tried to read into the unsavory records of the other rogues of the piece the stories of certain noble lords, surely exaggerated the dramatist's design. Through slashing side-strokes at " Bob, the poet's foe," Gay doubtless aimed to settle scores for his long neglect at the hands of government. Walpole displayed sufficient presence of mind to lead the applause at these sallies, as Boling- broke had done during the performance of Cato; but he evidently had small relish for the role of stage highwayman, if we are right in assuming that the suppression of Gay's sequel, Polly, was achieved through his powerful influence. The charge brought against The Beggar's Opera by Dr. Herring, Arch- bishop of Canterbury, and echoed by a man so different as Daniel Defoe, that the play " taught thieves to value themselves on their profession rather than be ashamed of it by making a highwayman the hero and dismissing him at last unpunished " was repeated in a later age by Justice Fielding, who feared its tendency " to increase the number of thieves." To us the accusa- tion seems as absurd as the commendation of the piece by Swift on the ground that it " placed all kinds of vice in the strongest and most odious light." After these extremes one welcomes the sound judgment of Johnson that "the play was not likely to do either good or evil, as it was written solely to divert." And divert it does still. The modern reader, undisturbed by any fear of highwaymen, untroubled by any old-fashioned sense of poetic justice, and heedless of political allusion, can afford to laugh at old scruples. Yet no play in this volume suffers more through transference from stage to closet than The Beggar's Opera. Macheath in the glow of action, espe- cially when impersonated by a vigorous actor, might easily delight audiences as indeed he did for over a century and a half (until 1886) with his riotous gaiety and ready song; but Macheath in cold print seems so mean a liar and so cruel a rake, so utterly devoid of any sign of grace or generosity, that we feel little sympathy with his knavery. Lucy, " bamboozled and bit," must ever give more pain than pleasure. And Polly, convincing though she may have been in Lavinia Fenton's charming portrayal, and in the skilful interpretation of many generations of great actresses, is morally as impos- sible in her Newgate environment as on the tropical island of the sequel that bears her name. And the other women of Macheath's troop are not the mere " filles de joie " that their names and songs suggest, but sordid monsters. The Peachums, father and mother, and Lockit are the real triumphs of the piece. They are of the eternal fellowship of Defoe's thieves and of Dickens's dodgers in professional skill and grim humor. Nothing in the play equals in circumstantiality or outdoes in zest the enumeration of the gang and the inventory of their thefts. All this is delightfully, flagrantly realistic. The merits of the plot are as obvious as its defects. Lively situations and unflagging movement sweep us on with a rush, and the repeated captures 265 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA and escapes of the highwayman are dextrously varied. The dialogue is al- ways brisk and clever. But the motif that prompts the designs of the Peach- urns upon Macheath disgust that he has legally married their daughter is too slight and unconvincing to support much action. And the device of the reprieve, as the author himself frankly admits from the stage, is a con- cession to the town's desire for a happy ending. The dramatist's stage com- ment upon the fate of his puppets recalls the self-criticism of Mr. Bernard Shaw. That Gay possessed the singing faculty to a degree surprising in his unmusical age had been many times attested in his earlier years. The repu- tation gained by such popular favorites as 'Twos When the Seas Were Roaring and Sweet William's Farewell was now tremendously enhanced by the seventy lyrics of his ballad opera, of which all but a few were Gay's own. His use of native airs of wide popularity, Greensleeves, Lillebullero, Peg-a-Ramsey, Packington's Pound, Over the Hills and Far Away, and many more found in D'Urfey's Pills and other famous collections, contrasts most pleasantly with the introduction of Italian arias and French chansons into Polly, which approaches far more closely than its predecessor to the prevail- ing Italian vogue. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA DRAMATIS PERSONS MEN PEACHUM. LOCKIT. MACHEATH. FILCH. JEMMY TWITCHER, CROOK-FINGER'D JACK, WAT DREARY, ROBIN OF BAGSHOT, NIMMING NED, HARRY PADINGTON, MAT OF THE MINT, BEN BUDGE, BEGGAR. PLAYER. i- MACHEATH'S Gang. WOMEN MRS. PEACHUM. POLLY PEACHUM. LUCY LOCKIT. DIANA TRAPES. MRS. COAXER, DOLLY TRULL, MRS. VIXEN, BETTY DOXY, JENNY DIVER, MRS. SLAMMEKIN, SUKY TAWDRY, MOLLY BRAZEN, > Women of the Town. Constables, Drawer, Turnkey, etc. INTRODUCTION BEGGAR, PLAYER Beggar. If poverty be a title to poetry, I am sure nobody can dispute mine. I own myself of the company of beggars; and I make one at their weekly festivals at St. Giles's. I have a small yearly salary for my catches, 266 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA - ACT I, Sc. II. and am welcome to a dinner there whenever I please, which is more than most poets can say. Player. As we live by the muses, 'tis but gratitude in us to encourage poetical merit wherever we find it. The muses, contrary to all other ladies, pay no distinction to dress, and never partially mistake the pertness of em- broidery for wit, nor the modesty of want for dulness. Be the author who he will, we push his play as far as it will go. So (though you are in want) I wish you success heartily. Beggar. This piece I own was originally writ for the celebrating the marriage of James Chanter and Moll Lay, two most excellent ballad-singers. I have introduced the similes that are in your celebrated Operas : the Swal- low, the Moth, the Bee, the Ship, the Flower, etc. Besides, I have a prison- scene which the ladies always reckon 'charmingly pathetic. As to the parts, I have observed such a nice impartiality to our two ladies, that it is impossible for either of them to take offence. I hope I may be forgiven, that I have not made my Opera throughout unnatural, like those in vogue ; for I have no recitative : excepting this, as I have consented to have neither prologue nor epilogue, it must be allowed an Opera in all its forms. The piece indeed hath been heretofore frequently presented by ourselves in our great room at St. Giles's, so that I cannot too often acknowledge your charity in bringing it now on the stage. Player. But I see it is time for us to withdraw ; the actors are preparing to begin. Play away the overture. [Exeunt. ACT I SCENE I PEACH UM'S HOUSE. PEACHUM sitting at a table with a large book of accounts before him. AIR i An old woman clothed in gray, etc. Through all the employments of life, Each neighbor abuses his brother; Whore and rogue they call husband and wife: AH professions be-rogue one another. The priest calls the lawyer a cheat, The lawyer be-knaves the divine; And the statesman, because he's so great, Thinks his trade as honest as mine. A lawyer is an honest employment, so is mine. Like me, too, he acts in a double capacity, both against rogues and for 'em; for 'tis but fitting that we should protect and encourage cheats, since we live by them. SCENE II PEACHUM, FILCH. Filch. Sir, Black Moll hath sent word her trial comes on in the afternoon, and she 1 women 267 hopes you will order matters so as to bring her off. Peach. Why, she may plead her belly at worst; to my knowledge she hath taken care of that security. But as the wench is very active and industrious, you may satisfy her that I'll soften the evidence. Filch. Tom Gagg, Sir, is found guilty. Peach. A lazy dog! When I took him the time before, I told him what he would come to if he did not mend his hand. This is death without reprieve. I may venture to book him. (writes.) For Tom Gagg, forty pounds. Let Betty Sly know that I'll save her from transportation, for I can get more by her staying in England. Filch. Betty hath brought more goods into our lock to-year, than any five of the gang; and in truth, 'tis a pity to lose so good a customer. Peach. If none of the gang take her off, she may, in the common course of business, live a twelve-month longer. I love to let women scape. A good sportsman always lets the hen partridges fly, because the breed of the game depends upon them. Be- sides, here the law allows us no reward; there is nothing to be got by the death of ixcept our wives. ACT I, Sc. IV. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Filch. Without dispute, she is a fine woman ! 'Twas to her I was obliged for my education, and (to say a bold word) she had trained up more young fellows to the busi- ness than the gaming-table. Peach. Truly, Filch, thy observation is right. We and the surgeons are more be- holden to women than all the professions besides. AIR ii The bonny gray-eyed morn, etc. Filch. 'Tis woman that seduces all mankind, By her we first were taught the wheedling arts; Her very eye* can cheat; when most she's kind, She tricks us of our money with our hearts. For her, like wolves by night we roam for prey, And practise ev'ry fraud to bribe her charms; For suits of love, like law, are won by pay, And beauty must be fee'd into our arms. Peach. But make haste to Newgate, boy, and let my friends know what I intend; for I love to make them easy one way or other. Filch. When a gentleman is long kept in suspense, penitence may break his spirit ever after. Besides, certainty gives a man a good air upon his trial, and makes him risk another without fear or scruple. But I'll away, for 'tis a pleasure to be the messenger of comfort to friends in affliction. SCENE III PEACHUM. Peach. But 'tis now high time to look about me for a decent execution against next sessions. I hate a lazy rogue, by whom one can get nothing till he is hanged. A register of the gang, {reading) " Crook -fingered Jack. A year and a half in the service." Let me see how much the stock owes to his industry; one, two, three, four, five gold watches, and seven silver ones. A mighty clean-handed fellow! Sixteen snuff-boxes, five of them of true gold. Six dozen of handkerchiefs, four silver-hilted swords, half a dozen of shirts, three tie-periwigs, and a piece of broadcloth. Considering these are only the fruits of his leisure hours, I don't know a prettier fellow, for no man alive hath a more engaging presence of mind upon the road. " Wat Dreary, alias Brown Will " an irregular dog, who hath an underhand way of disposing of his goods. I'll try him only for a sessions or two longer upon his good behavior. " Harry Padington "a poor petty-larceny rascal, without the least genius; that fellow, though he were to live these six months, will never come to the gallows with any credit. " Slippery Sam " he goes off the next sessions, for the villain hath the impudence to have views of follow- ing his trade as a tailor, which he calls an honest employment. " Mat of the Mint " listed not above a month ago, a promising sturdy fellow, and diligent in his way: some- what too bold and hasty, and may raise good contributions on the public, if he does not cut himself short by murder. " Tom Tipple " a guzzling soaking sot, who is always too drunk to stand himself, or to make others stand. A cart is absolutely necessary for him. " Robin of Bagshot, alias Gorgon, alias Bob Bluff, alias Carbuncle, alias Bob Booty." SCENE IV PEACHUM, MRS. PEACHUM. Mrs. Peach. What of Bob Booty, husband? I hope nothing bad hath betided him? You know, my dear, he's a favorite customer of mine. 'Twas he made me a present of this ring. Peach. I have set his name down in the black list, that's all, my dear; he spends his life among women, and as soon as his money is gone, one or other of the ladies will hang him for the reward, and there's forty pound lost to us for ever. Mrs. Peach. You know, my dear, I never meddle in matters of death; I always leave those affairs to you. Women indeed are bitter bad judges in these cases, for they are so partial to the brave, that they think every man handsome who is going to the camp or the gallows. AIR in Cold and raw, etc. If any wench Venus's girdle wear, Though she be never so ugly; Lilies and roses will quickly appear, And her face look wond'rous smugly. Beneath the left ear so fit but a cord, (A rope so charming a zone is!) The youth in his cart hath the air of a lord, And we cry, There dies an Adonis! But really, husband, you should not be too hard-hearted, for you never had a finer, braver set of men than at present. We have not had a murder among them all, these seven months. And truly, my dear, that is a great blessing. Peach. What a dickens is the woman always a-whimp'ring about murder for? No gentleman is ever looked upon the worse for killing a man in his own defence; and if business cannot be carried on without it, what would you have a gentleman do? Mrs. Peach. If I am in the wrong, my dear, you must excuse me, for nobody can help the frailty of an over-scrupulous con- science. 268 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT I, Sc. VI. Peach. Murder is as fashionable a crime as a man can be guilty of. How many fine gentlemen have we in Newgate every year, purely upon that article! If they have wherewithal to persuade the jury to bring it in manslaughter, what are they the worse for it? So, my dear, have done upon this subject. Was Captain Macheath here this morning, for the bank-notes he left with you last week? Mrs. Peach. Yes, my dear; and though the bank has stopt payment, he was so cheerful and so agreeable! Sure there is not a finer gentleman upon the road than the captain! hour he hath promised to make one with Polly and me, and Bob Booty, at a party of quadrille. Pray, my dear, is the captain rich? Peach. The captain keeps too good com- pany ever to grow rich. Marybone and the chocolate-houses are his undoing. The man that proposes to get money by play should have the education of a fine gentleman, and be trained up to it from his youth. Mrs. Peach. Really, I am sorry upon Polly's account the captain hath not more discretion. What business hath he to keep company with lords and gentlemen? he should leave them to prey upon one another. Peach. Upon Polly's account! What, a plague, does the woman mean? Upon Polly's account! Mrs. Peach. Captain Macheath is very fond of the girl. Peach. And what then? Mrs. Peach. If I have any skill in the ways of women, I am sure Polly thinks him a very pretty man. Peach. And what then? You would not be so mad to have the wench marry him ! Gamesters and highwaymen are generally very good to their whores, but they are very devils to their wives. Mrs. Peach. But if Polly should be in love, how should we help her, or how can she help herself? Poor girl, I am in the utmost con- cern about her. AIR iv Why is your faithful slave disdained? etc. If love the virgin's heart invade, How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays about the flame! If soon she be not made a wife, Her honor's singed, and then, for life, She's what I dare not name. Peach. Look ye, wife. A handsome wench in our way of business is as profitable as at the bar of a Temple coffee-house, who looks upon it as her livelihood to grant every lib- erty but one. You see I would indulge the girl as far as prudently we can in any thing but marriage! After that, my dear, how shall we be safe? Are we not then in her husband's power? For a husband hath the absolute power over all a wife's secrets but her own. If the girl had the discretion of a court lady, who can have a dozen young fellows at her ear without complying with one, I should not matter it; but Polly is tinder, and a spark will at once set her on a flame. Married! If the wench does not know her own profit, sure she knows her own pleasure better than to make herself a property! My daughter to me should be, like a court lady to a minister of state, a key to the whole gang. Married! if the af- fair is not already done, I'll terrify her from it, by the example of our neighbors. Mrs. Peach. Mayhap, my dear, you may injure the girl. She loves to imitate the fine ladies, and she may only allow the captain liberties in the view of interest. Peach. But 'tis your duty, my dear, to warn the girl against her ruin, and to in- struct her how to make the most of her beauty. I'll go to her this moment, and sift her. In the meantime, wife, rip out the coronets and marks of these dozen of cambric handkerchiefs, for I can dispose of them this afternoon to a chap in the city. SCENE V MRS. PEACHUM. Mrs. Peach. Never was a man more out of the way in an argument than my husband! Why must our Polly, forsooth, differ from her sex, and love only her husband? And why must Polly's marriage, contrary to all observation, make her the less followed by other men ? AH men are thieves in love, and like a woman the better for being another's property. AIR v Of all the simple things we do, etc. A maid is like the golden ore, Which hath guineas intrinsical in't Whose worth is never known, before It is tried and imprest in the mint. A wife's like a guinea in gold, Stampt with the name of her spouse; Now here, now there; is bought, or is sold; And is current in every house. SCENE VI MRS. PEACHUM, FILCH. Mrs. Peach. Come hither, Filch. I am as fond of this child, as though my mind mis- gave me he were my own. He hath as fine a hand at picking a pocket as a woman, and is as nimble-fingered as a juggler. If an unlucky session does not cut the rope of thy life, I pronounce, boy, thou wilt be a great man in history. Where was your post last night, my boy? 269 ACT I, Sc. VIII. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Filch. I plied at the opera, madam; and considering 'twas neither dark nor rainy, so that there was no great hurry in getting chairs and coaches, made a tolerable hand on't. These seven handkerchiefs, madam. Mrs. Peach. Colored ones, I see. They are of sure sale from our warehouse at Red- riff among the seamen. Fitch. And this snuff-box. Mrs. Peach. Set in gold! A pretty en- couragement this to a young beginner. Filch. I had a fair tug at a charming gold watch. Pox take the tailors for making the fobs so deep and narrow! It stuck by the way, and I was forced to make my escape under a coach. Really, madam, I fear, I shall be cut off in the flower of my youth, so that every now and then (since I was pumpt) I have thoughts of taking up and going to sea. Mrs. Peach. You should go to Hockley in the Hole and to Marybone, child, to learn valor. These are the schools that have bred so many brave men. I thought, boy, by this time, thou hadst lost fear as well as shame. Poor lad! how little does he know as yet of the Old Bailey! For the first fact I'll insure thee from being hanged; and going to sea, Filch, will come time enough upon a sentence of transportation. But now, since you have nothing better to do, ev'n go to your book, and learn your catechism; for really a man makes but an ill figure in the ordinary's paper, who cannot give a satis- factory answer to his questions. But, hark you, my lad. Don't tell me a lie; for you know I hate a liar. Do you know of anything that hath past between Captain Macheath and our Polly? Filch. I beg you, madam, don't ask me; for I must either tell a lie to you or to Miss Polly; for I promised her I would not tell. Mrs. Peach. But when the honor of our family is concerned Filch. I shall lead a sad life with Miss Polly, if ever she come to know that I told you. Besides, I would not willingly forfeit my own honor by betraying anybody. Mrs. Peach. Yonder comes my husband and Polly. Come, Filch, you shall go with me into my own room, and tell me the whole story. I'll give thee a most delicious glass of a cordial that I keep for my own drinking. SCENE VII PEACHUM, POLLY. Polly. I know as well as any of the fine ladies how to make the most of myself and of my man too. A woman knows how to be mercenary, though she hath never been in a court or at an assembly. We have it in our natures, papa. If I allow Captain Macheath some trifling liberties, I have this watch and 270 other visible marks of his favor to show for it. A girl who cannot grant some things, and refuse what is most material, will make but a poor hand of her beauty, and soon be thrown upon the common. AIR vi What shall I do to show how much I love her, etc. Virgins are like the fair flower in its lustre, Which in the garden enamels the ground; Near it the bees in play flutter and cluster, And gaudy butterflies frolic around. But, when once plucked, 'tis no longer al- luring, To Covent-garden 'tis sent, (as yet sweet), There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring, Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet. Peach. You know, Polly, I am not against your toying and trifling with a customer in the way of business, or to get out a secret, or so. But if I find out that you have played the fool and are married, you jade you, I'll cut your throat, hussy. Now you know my mind. SCENE VIII PEACHUM, POLLY, MRS. PEACHUM. AIR vii Oh London is a fine town. MRS. PEACHUM in a very great passion. Our Polly is a sad slut! nor heeds what we taught her. I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter! For she must have both hoods and gowns, and hoops to swell her pride, With scarfs and stays, and gloves and lace; and she will have men beside; And when she's dressed with care and cost, all-tempting fine and gay, As men should serve a cucumber, she flings herself away. Our Polly is a sad slut, etc. You baggage, you hussy! you inconsiderate jade! had you been hanged, it would not have vexed me, for that might have been your misfortune; but to do such a mad thing by choice ! The wench is married, husband. Peach. Married! The captain is a bold man, and will risk anything for money; to be sure he believes her a fortune. Do you think your mother and I should have lived com- fortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage! Mrs. Peach. 1 knew she was always a proud slut; and now the wench has played the fool and married, because forsooth she would do like the gentry. Can you support the expense of a husband, hussy, in gaming, THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT I, Sc. VIII. drinking and whoring? have you money enough to carry on the daily quarrels of man and wife about who shall squander most? There are not many husbands and wives, who can bear the charges of plaguing one another in a handsome way. If you must be married, could you introduce nobody into our family but a highwayman? Why, thou foolish jade, thou wilt be as ill used, and as much neglected, as if thou had'st married a lord! Peach. Let not your anger, my dear, break through the rules of decency, for the captain looks upon himself in the military capacity, as a gentleman by his profession. Besides what he hath already, I know he is in a fair way of getting, or of dying; and both these ways, let me tell you, are most excellent chances for a wife. Tell me, hussy, are you ruined or no? Mrs. Peach. With Polly's fortune, she might very well have gone off to a person of distinction. Yes, that you might, you pout- ing slut! Peach. What, is the wench dumb? Speak, or I'll make you plead by squeezing out an answer from you. Are you really bound wife to him, or are you only upon liking? [Pinches her. Polly. Oh ! [Screaming. Mrs. Peach. How the mother is to be pitied who hath handsome daughters! Locks, bolts, bars, and lectures of morality are nothing to them; they break through them all. They have as much pleasure in cheat- ing a father and mother, as in cheating at cards. Peach. Why, Polly, I shall soon know if you are married, by Macheath's keeping from our house. AIR viii Grim king of the ghosts, etc. Polly. Can love be controll'd by advice? Will Cupid our mothers obey? Though my heart were as frozen as ice, At his flame 'twould have melted away. When he kiss'd me so closely he prest, 'Twas so sweet that I must have complied: So I thought it both safest and best To marry, for fear you should chide. Mrs. Peach. Then all the hopes of our family are gone for ever and ever! Peach. And Macheath may hang his father and mother-in-law, in hope to get into their daughter's fortune. Polly. I did not marry him (as 'tis the fashion) coolly and deliberately for honor or money. But, I love him. Mrs. Peach. Love him! worse and worse! I thought the girl had been better bred. O husband, husband! her folly makes me mad! my head swims! I'm distracted! I can't support myself Oh! [Faints. Peach. See, wench, to what a condition you have reduced your poor mother! a glass of cordial, this instant. How the poor woman takes it to heart! [POLLY goes out and returns with it, Ah, hussy, now this, is the only comfort your mother has left! Polly. Give her another glass, Sir; my mama drinks double the quantity whenever she is out of order. This, you cee, fetches her. Mrs. Peach. The girl shows such a readi- ness, and so much concern, that I could al- most find in my heart to forgive her. AIR ix O Jenny, O Jenny, where hast thou been. O Polly, you might have toy'd and kiss'd; By keeping men off, you keep them on. Polly. But he so teas'd me, And he so pleas'd me, What I did, you must have done Mrs. Peach. Not with a highwayman. . . . You sorry slut! Peach. A word with you, wife. 'Tis no new thing for a wench to take a man with- out consent of parents. You know 'tis the frailty of woman, my dear. Mrs. Peach. Yes, indeed, the sex is frail. But the first time a woman is frail, she should be somewhat nice, methinks, for then or never is the time to make her fortune. After that, she hath nothing to do but to guard herself from being found out, and she may do what she pleases. Peach. Make yourself a little easy; I have a thought shall soon set all matters again to rights. Why so melancholy, Polly? since what is done cannot be undone, we must all endeavor to make the best of it. Mrs. Peach. Well, Polly; as far as one woman can forgive another, I forgive thee. Your father is too fond of you, hussy. Polly. Then all my sorrows are at an end. Mrs. Peach. A mighty likely speech in troth, for a wench who is just married. AIR x Thomas, 1 cannot, etc. Polly. I, like a ship in storms, was tost; Yet afraid to put into land; For, seiz'd in the port, the vessel's lost, Whose treasure is contraband. The waves are laid, My duty's paid, Oh joy beyond expression! Thus, safe ashore, I ask no more, My all is in my possession. 271 ACT I, Sc. X. ' THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Peach. I hear customers in t'other room. Go, talk with 'em, Polly; but come to us again, as soon as they are gone. But, heark ye, child, if 'tis the gentleman who was here yesterday about the repeating watch; say, you believe, we can't get intelligence of it, till to-morrow. For I lent it to Suky Strad- dle, to make a figure with it to-night at a tavern in Drury Lane. If t'other gentleman calls for the silver-hilled sword; you know beetle-brow'd Jemmy hath it on, and he doth not come from Tunbridge till Tuesday night; so that it cannot be had till then. SCENE IX PEACHUM, MRS. PEACHUM. Peach. Dear wife, be a little pacified. Don't let your passion run away with your senses. Polly, I grant you, hath done a rash thing. Mrs. Peach. If she had had only an intrigue with the fellow, why the very best families have excused and huddled up a frailty of that sort. 'Tis marriage, husband, that makes it a blemish. Peach. But money, wife, is the true fuller's earth for reputations, there is not a spot or a stain but what it can take out. A rich rogue now-a-days is fit company for any gentleman; and the world, my dear, hath not such a contempt for roguery as you imagine. I tell you, wife, I can make this match turn to our advantage. Mrs. Peach. I am very sensible, husband, that Captain Macheath is worth money, but I am in doubt whether he hath not two or three wives already, and then if he should die in a session or two, Polly's dower would come into dispute. Peach. That, indeed, is a point which ought to be considered. AIR xi A soldier and a sailor. A fox may steal your hens, Sir, A whore your health and pence, Sir, Your daughter rob your chest, Sir, Your wife may steal your rest, Sir, A thief your goods and plate. But this is all but picking; With rest, pence, chest, and chicken; It ever was decreed, Sir, If lawyer's hand is fee'd, Sir, He steals your whole estate. The lawyers are bitter enemies to those in our way. They don't care that anybody should get a clandestine livelihood but them- selves. SCENE X MRS. PEACHUM, PEACHUM, POLLY. Polly. 'Twas only Nimming Ned. He brought in a damask window-curtain, a hoop petticoat, a pair of silver candlesticks, a periwig, and one silk stocking, from the fire that happened last night. Peach. There is not a fellow that is clev- erer in his way, and saves more goods out of fire than Ned. But now, Polly, to your affair; for matters must not be left as they are. You are married then, it seems? Polly. Yes, Sir. Peach. And how do you propose to live, child? Polly. Like other women, Sir, upon the industry of my husband. Mrs. Peach. What, is the wench turned fool? A highwayman's wife, like a soldier's, hath as little of his pay as of his company. Peach. And had not you the common views of a gentlewoman in your marriage, Polly? Polly. I don't know what you mean, Sir. Peach. Of a jointure, and of being a widow. Polly. But I love him, Sir: how then could I have thoughts of parting with him? Peach. Parting with him! Why, that is the whole scheme and intention of all mar- riage articles. The comfortable estate of widowhood is the only hope that keeps up a wife's spirits. Where is the woman who would scruple to be a wife, if she had it in her power to be a widow whenever she pleased? If you have any views of this sort, Polly, I shall think the match not so very unreasonable. Polly. How I dread to hear your advice! Yet I must beg you to explain yourself. Peach. Secure what he hath got, have him peached the next sessions, and then at once you are made a rich widow. Polly. What, murder the man I love! The blood runs cold at my heart at the very thought of it. Peach. Fie, Polly! What hath murder to do in the affair? Since the thing sooner or later must happen, I dare say, the captain himself would like that we should get the reward for his death sooner than a stranger. Why, Polly, the captain knows, that as 'tis bis employment to rob, so 'tis ours to take robbers; every man in his business. So that there is no malice in the case. Mrs. Peach. Ay, husband, now you have nicked the matter. To have him peached is the only thing could ever make me forgive her. AIR xii Now ponder well, ye parents dear. Polly. Oh, ponder well! be not severe; So save a wretched wife! For on the rope that hangs my dear Depends poor Polly's life. Mrs. Peach. But your duty to your par- ents, hussy, obliges you to hang him. What 272 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT I, Sc. XIII. would many a wife give for such an oppor- tunity ! Polly. What is a jointure, what is a widow- hood to me? I know my heart. I cannot survive him. AIR xiii Le printemps rappelle aux armes. The turtle thus with plaintive crying, Her lover dying, The turtle thus with plaintive crying, Laments her dove. Down she drops, quite spent with sighing. Pair'd in death, as pair'd in love. Thus, Sir, it will happen to your poor Polly. Mrs. Peach. What, is the fool in love in earnest then? I hate thee for being particu- lar. Why, wench, thou art a shame to thy very sex. Polly. But hear me, mother, if you ever loved Mrs. Peach. Those cursed play-books she reads have been her ruin. One word more, hussy, and I shall knock your brains out, if you have any. Peach. Keep out of the way, Polly, for fear of mischief, and consider of what is proposed to you. Mrs. Peach. Away, hussy. Hang your husband, and be dutiful. SCENE XI MRS. PEACHUM, PEACHUM. [POLLY listening. Mrs. Peach. The thing, husband, must and shall be done. For the sake of intelligence we must take other measures, and have him peached the next session without her consent. If she will not know her duty, we know ours. Peach. But really, my dear, it grieves one's heart to take off a great man. When I consider his personal bravery, his fine stratagem, how much we have already got by him, and how much more we may get, methinks I can't find in my heart to have a hand in his death. I wish you could have made Polly undertake it. Mrs. Peach. But in a case of necessity our own lives are in danger. Peach. Then, indeed, we must comply with the customs of the world, and make grati- tude give way to interest. He shall be taken off. Mrs. Peach. I'll undertake to manage Polly. Peach. And I'll prepare matters for the Old Bailey. SCENE XII POLLY. Now I'm a wretch, indeed methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more Ipvely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity ! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to dis- grace! I see him at the tree! The whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep! Jack Ketch himself hesitates to perform his. duty, and would.be glad to lose his fee, by a reprieve. What then will become of Polly? As yet I may inform him of their design, and aid him in his escape. It shall be so. But then he flies, absents himself, and I bar myself from his dear, dear conversation! That too will distract me. If he keep out of the way, my papa and mama may in time relent, and we may be happy. If he stays, he is hanged, and then he is lost for ever! He intended to lie concealed in my room, till the dusk of the evening. If they are abroad, I'll this instant let him out, lest some accident should prevent him. [Exit, and returns. SCENE XIII POLLY, MACHEATH. AIR xiv Pretty Parrot, say. Mach. Pretty Polly, say, When I was away, Did your fancy never stray To some newer lover? Without disguise, Heaving sighs, Doating eyes, My constant heart discover. Fondly let me loll? Mach. O pretty, pretty Poll. Polly. And are you as fond as ever, my dear? Mach. Suspect my honor, my courage, suspect any thing but my love. May my pistols miss fire, and my mare slip her shoulder while I am pursued, if I ever for- sake thee! Polly. Nay, my dear, I have no reason to doubt you, for I find in the romance you lent me, none of the great heroes were ever false in love. AIR xv Pray, fair one, be kind. Mach. My heart was so free, It rov'd like the bee, Till Polly my passion requited; I sipt each flower, I chang'd ev'ry hour, But here ev'ry flower is united. Polly. Were you sentenced to transporta- tion, sure, my dear, you could not leave me behind you could you? Polly. 273 ACT II, Sc. I. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Mach. Is there any power, any force that could tear me from thee? You might sooner tear a pension out of the hands of a courtier, a fee from a lawyer, a pretty woman from a looking glass, or any woman from quadrille. But to tear me from thee is impossible! AIR xvi Over the hills and far away. Were I laid on Greenland's coast, And in my arms embrac'd my lass: Warm amidst eternal frost, Too soon the half year's night would pass. Polly. Were I sold on Indian soil, Soon as the burning day was clos'd, I could mock the sultry toil, When on my charmer's breast repos'd. Mach. And I would love you all the day, Polly. Every night would kiss and play, Mach. If with me you'd fondly stray Polly. Over the hills and far away. Polly. Yes, I would go with thee. But oh ! how shall I speak it ? I must be torn from thee. We must part. Mach. How! Part! Polly. We must, we must. My papa and mama are set against thy life. They now, even now are in search after thee. They are preparing evidence against thee. Thy life depends upon a moment. AIR xvii Gin thou wert mine awn thing. Oh what pain it is to part! Can I leave thee, can I leave thee? Oh what pain it is to part! Can thy Polly ever leave thee? But lest death my love should thwart, And bring thee to the fatal cart, Thus I tear thee from my bleeding heart! Fly hence, and let me leave thee. One kiss and then one kiss begone farewell. Mach. My hand, my heart, my dear, is so riveted to thine, that I cannot unloose my hold. Polly. But my papa may intercept thee, and then I should lose the very glimmering of hope. A few weeks, perhaps, may recon- cile us all. Shall thy Polly hear from thee? Mach. Must I then go? Polly. And will not absence change your love? Mach. If you doubt it, let me stay and be hanged. Polly. Oh how I fear! how I tremble! Go but when safety will give you leave, you will be sure to see me again; for till then Polly is wretched. AIR xvin Oh the broom, etc. Mach. The miser thus a shilling sees, Which he's oblig'd to pay, With sighs resigns it by degrees, And fears 'tis gone for aye. {.Parting, and looking back at each other with fondness; he at one door, she at the other. Polly. The boy, thus, when his sparrow's flown, The bird in silence eyes; But soon as out of sight 'tis gone, Whines, whimpers, sobs and cries. ACT II SCENE I A TAVERN NEAR NEWGATE. JEMMY TWITCHER, Crook-finger' d JACK, WAT DREARY, ROBIN of BAGSHOT, NIMMING NED, HENRY PADINGTON, MATT of the MINT, BEN BUDGE, and the rest of the gang, at the table, with wine, brandy and tobacco. Ben. But pr'ythee, Matt, what is become of thy brother Tom? I have not seen him since my return from transportation. Matt. Poor brother Tom had an accident this time twelve-month, and so clever a made fellow he was, that I could not save him from those flaying rascals the surgeons; and now, poor man, he is among the atomies at Surgeons' Hall. Ben. So, it seems, his time was come. Jem. But the present time is ours, and nobody alive hath more. Why are the laws levelled at us? Are we more dishonest than the rest of mankind? What we win, gentle- men, is our own by the law of arms, and the right of conquest. Crook. Where shall we find such another set of practical philosophers, who to a man are above the fear of death? Wat. Sound men, and true! Robin. Of tried courage, and indefatigable industry ! Ned. Who is there here that would not die for his friend? Harry. Who is there here that would betray him for his interest? Matt. Show me a gang of courtiers that can say as much. Ben. We are for a just partition of the world, for every man hath a right to enjoy life. Matt. We retrench the superfluities of mankind. The world is avaricious, and I hate avarice. A covetous fellow, like a jackdaw, steals what he was never made to enjoy, for the sake of hiding it. These are the robbers of mankind, for money was made for the free-hearted and generous; and where is the injury of taking from another, what he hath not the heart to make use of! Jem. Our several stations for the day are fixed. Good luck attend us. Fill the glasses. 274 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT II, Sc. III. AIR xix Fill ev'ry glass, etc. Matt. Fill ev'ry glass, for wine inspires us, And fires us, With courage, love and joy. Women and wine should life employ. Is there ought else on earth desirous? Chorus. Fill ev'ry glass, etc. SCENE II To them enter MACHEATH. Mach. Gentlemen, well met. My heart hath been with you this hour; but an un- expected affair hath detained me. No cere- mony, I beg you. Matt. We were just breaking up to go upon duty. Am I to have the honor of taking the air with you, Sir, this evening upon the heath? I drink a dram now and then with the stage-coachmen in the way of friendship and intelligence, and I know that about this time there will be passengers upon the Western Road, who are worth speaking with. Mach. I was to have been of that party but Matt. But what, Sir? Mach. Is there any man who suspects my courage? Matt. We have all been witnesses of it. Mach. My honor and truth to the gang? .'/;','. I'll be answerable for it. Mach. In the division of our booty, have I ever shown the least marks of avarice or injustice ? Matt. By these questions something seems to have ruffled you. Are any of us sus- pected? Mach. I have a fixed confidence, gentle- men, in you all, as men of honor, and as such I value and respect you. Peachum is a man that is useful to us. Mutt. Is he about to play us any foul play ? I'll shoot him through the head. Mach. I beg you, gentlemen, act with con- duct and discretion. A pistol is your last resort. Matt. He knows nothing of this meeting. Mach. Business cannot go on without him. He is a man who knows the world, and is a necessary agent to us. We have had a slight difference, and till it is accommodated I shall be obliged to keep out of his way. Any private dispute of mine shall be of no ill consequence to my friends. You must continue to act under his direction, for the moment we break loose from him, our gang is ruined. Matt. As a bawd to a whore, I grant you, he is to us of great convenience. Mach. Make him believe I have quitted the gang, which I can never do but with life. At our private quarters I will continue to meet you. A week or so will probably reconcile us. Matt. Your instructions shall be observed. 'Tis now high time for us to repair to our several duties; so till the evening at our quarters in Moor-fields we bid you farewell. Mach. I shall wish myself with you. Suc- cess attend you. {Sits down melancholy at the table. AIR xx March in Rinaldo, with drums and trumpets. Matt. Let us take the road. Hark! I hear the sound of coaches! The hour of attack approaches, To your arms, brave boys, and load. See the ball I hold! Let the chymists toil like asses, Our fire their fire surpasses, And turns all our lead to gold. [The gang, ranged in the front of the stage, load their pistols, and stick them under their girdles; then go off singing the first part in chorus]. SCENE III MACHEATH, Drawer. Mach. What a fool is a fond wench! Polly is most confoundedly bit I love the sex. And a man who loves money, might be as well contented with one guinea, as I with one woman. The town perhaps hath been as much obliged to me, for recruiting it with free-hearted ladies, as to any recruiting offi- cer in the army. If it were not for us, and the other gentlemen of the sword, Drury- Lane would be uninhabited. AIR xxi Would you have a young virgin, etc. If the heart of a man is deprest with cares, The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears; Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly Raises the spirits, and charms our ears. Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose, But her ripe lips are more sweet than those, Press her, Caress her With blisses, Her kisses Dissolve us in pleasure, and soft repose. I muse have women. There is nothing un- bends the mind like them. Money is not so strong a cordial for the time. Drawer. [Enter Drawer. ~\ Is the porter gone for all the ladies, according to my directions? 275 ACT II, Sc. IV. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Draw. I expect him back every minute. But you know, Sir, you sent him as far as Hockley in the Hole, for three of the ladies, for one in Vinegar Yard, and for the rest of them somewhere about Lewkner's Lane. Sure some of them are below, for I hear the bar bell. As they come I will show them up. Coming! coming! SCENE IV MACHEATH, MRS. COAXER, DOLLY TRULL, MRS. VIXEN, BETTY DOXY, JENNY DIVER, MRS. SLAMMEKIN, SUKY TAWDRY, and MOLLY BRAZEN. Mach. Dear Mrs. Coaxer, you are come. You look charmingly to-day. I wel- hope you don't want the repairs of quality, and lay on paint. Dolly Trull ! kiss me, you slut ; are you as amorous as ever, hussy? You are always so taken up with stealing hearts, that you don't allow yourself time to steal any- thing else. Ah Dolly, thou wilt ever be a coquette. Mrs. Vixen, I'm yours, I always loved a woman of wit and spirit; they make charming mistresses, but plaguy wives. Betty Doxy! come hither, hussy. Do you drink as hard as ever? You had better stick to good wholesome beer; for in troth, Betty, strong waters will, in time, ruin your constitution. You should leave those to your betters. What! and my pretty Jenny Diver too! As prim and demure as ever! There is not any prude, though ever so high bred, hath a more sanctified look, with a more mischievous heart. Ah! thou art a dear artful hypocrite. Mrs. Slammekin! as care- less and genteel as ever! all you fine ladies, who know your own beauty, affect an un- dress, but see, here's Suky Tawdry come to contradict what I was saying. Everything she gets one way, she lays out upon her back. Why, Suky, you must keep at least a dozen tally-men. Molly Brazen! [She kisses him.'] That's well done. I love a free-hearted wench. Thou hast a most agreeable assur- ance, girl, and art as willing as a turtle. But hark! I hear music. The harper is at the door. If music be the food of lore, play on. Ere you seat yourselves, ladies, what think you of a dance? Come in. [Enter harper.'] Play the French tune, that Mrs. Slammekin was so fond of. [A dance a la ronde in the French manner; near the end of it this song and chorus.] AIR xxii Cotillion. Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty; She alone who that employs, Well deserves her beauty. Let's be gay, While we may, Beauty's a flower, despis'd in decay. Youth's the season, etc. Let us drink and sport to-day, Ours is not to-morrow. Lo/e with youth flies swift away. Age is nought but sorrow. Dance and sing, Time's on the wing, Life never knows the return of spring. Chorus. Let us drink, etc. Mach. Now, pray ladies, take your places. Here, fellow. [Pays the harper.] Bid the drawer bring us more wine. [Exit harper.] If any of the ladies choose gin, I hope they will be so free to call for it. Jenny. You look as if you meant me. Wine is strong enough for me. Indeed, Sir, I never drink strong waters, but when I have the colic. Mach. Just the excuse of the fine ladies! Why, a lady of quality is never without the colic. I hope, Mrs. Coaxer, you have had good success of late in your visits among the mercers. Coax. We have so many interlopers. Yet, little lute- string, and a piece of black padesoy to Mr. Peachum's lock but last week. Vix. There's Molly Brazen hath the ogle of a rattlesnake. She riveted a linen- draper's eye so fast upon her, that he was nicked of three pieces of cambric before he could look off. Braz. Oh dear madam! But sure noth- ing can come up to your handling of laces ! And then you have such a sweet deluding tongue! To cheat a man is nothing; but the woman must have fine parts indeed who cheats a woman ! Vix. Lace, madam, lies in a small com- pass, and is of easy conveyance. But you are apt, madam, to think too well of your friends. Coax. If any woman hath more art than another, to be sure, 'tis Jenny Diver. Though her fellow be never so agreeable, she can pick his pocket as coolly as if money were her only pleasure. Now that is a command of the passions uncommon in a woman ! Jenny. I never go to the tavern with a man, but in the view of business. I have other hours, and other sort of men for my pleasure. But had I your address, madam Mach. Have done with your compliments, ladies; and drink about. You are not so fond of me, Jenny, as you use to be. Jenny. 'Tis not convenient, Sir, to show with industry, one may still have a picking. I carried a silver-flowered 276 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT II, So. VI. my kindness among so many rivals. Tis your own choice, and not the warmth of my inclination that will determine you. AIR xxni All in a misty morning, etc. Before the barn-door crowing, The cock by hens attended, His eyes around him throwing, Stands for a while suspended. Then one he singles from the crew, And cheers the happy hen; With how do you do, and how do you do, And how do you do again. Mac/:. Ah Jenny! thou art a dear slut. Trull. Pray, madam, were you ever in keeping? TawJ. 1 hope, madam, I han't been so long upon the town, but I have met with some good fortune as well as my neighbors. Trull. Pardon me, madam, I meant no harm by the question; 'twas only in the way of conversation. Taiud. Indeed, madam, if I had not been a fool, I might have lived very handsomely with my last friend. But upon his missing five guineas, he turned me off. Now I never suspected he had counted them. Slam. Who do you look upon, madam, as your best sort of keepers? Trull. That, madam, is thereafter as they be. Slam. I, madam, was once kept by a Jew; and bating their religion, to women they are a good sort of people. TawJ. Now for my part, I own I like an old fellow; for we always make them pay for what they can't do. Vix. A spruce prentice, let me tell you, ladies, is no ill thing, they bleed freely. I have sent at least two or three dozen of them in my time to the plantations. Jenny. But to be sure, Sir, with so much good fortune as you have had upon the road, you must be grown immensely rich. Mach. The road, indeed, hath done me justice, but the gaming-table hath been my ruin. AIR xxiv When once I lay with another man's wife, etc. Jenny. The gamesters and lawyers are jugglers alike, If they meddle, your all is in danger: Like gypsies, if once they can finger a souse, Your pockets they pick, and they pilfer your house, And give your estate to a stranger. [A man of courage should never put any- thing to the risk but his life.] These are the tools of men of honor. Cards and dice are only fit for cowardly cheats, who prey upon their friends. IShe takes up his pistol. TAWDRY takes up the other. Tawd. This, Sir, is fitter for your hand. Besides your loss of money, 'tis a loss to the ladies. Gaming takes you off from women. How fond could I be of you! but before com* pany, 'tis ill-bred. Mach. Wanton hussies! Jenny. I must and will have a kiss, to give my wine a zest. [They take him about the neck, and make signs to PEACHUM and constables, who rush in upon him. SCENE V To them PEACHUM and Constables. Peach. I seize you, Sir, as my prisoner. Mach. Was this well done, Jenny? Women are decoy ducks; who can trust them! Beasts, jades, jilts, harpies, furies, whores ! Peach. Your case, Mr. Macheath, is not particular. The greatest heroes have been ruined by women. But, to do them justice, I must own they are a pretty sort of crea- tures, if we could trust them. You must now, Sir, take your leave of the ladies, and if they have a mind to make you a visit, they will be sure to find you at home. This gentleman, ladies, lodges in Newgate. Constables, wait upon the captain to his lodgings. AIR xxv When first I laid siege to my Chloris, etc. Mach. At the tree I shall suffer with pleasure. At the tree I shall suffer with pleasure. Let me go where I will, In all kinds of ill, I shall find no such furies as these are. Peach. Ladies, I'll take care the reckoning shall be discharged. [Exit MACHEATH, guarded, with PEACHUM and Constables. SCENE VI The Women remain. Vix. Look ye, Mrs. Jenny, though Mr. Peachum may have made a private bargain with you and Suky Tawdry for betraying the captain, as we were all assisting, we ought all to share alike. Coax. I think Mr. Peachum, after so long an acquaintance, might have trusted me as well as Jenny Diver. Slam. I am sure at least three men of his hanging, and in a year's time too, (if he did me justice) should be set down to my 277 ACT II, Sc. IX. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Trull. Mrs. Slammekin, that i* not fair. For you know one of them was taken in bed with me. Jenny. As far as a bowl of punch or a treat, I believe Mrs. Suky will join with me. As for anything else, ladies, you can- not in conscience expect it. Slam. Dear madam Trull. I would not for the world Slam. Tis impossible for me Trull. As I hope to be saved, madam Slam. Nay, then I must stay here all night. Trull. Since you command me. [Exeunt with great ceremony. SCENE VII NEWGATE. LOCKIT, Turnkeys, MACHEATH, Constables. Lock. Noble captain, you are welcome. You have not been a lodger of mine this year and half. You know the custom, Sir. Garnish, captain, garnish. Hand me down those fetters there. Mach. Those, Mr. Lockit, seem to be the heaviest of the whole set! With your leave, I should like the further pair better. Lock. Look ye, captain, we know what is fittest for our prisoners. When a gentleman uses me with civility, I always do the best I can to please him. Hand them down, I say. We have them of all prices, from one guinea to ten, and 'tis fitting every gentle- man should please himself. Mach. I understand you, Sir [gives money]. The fees here are so many, and so exorbitant, that few fortunes can bear the expense of getting off handsomely, or of dying like a gentleman. Lock, Those, I see, will fit the captain better. Take down the further pair. Do but examine them, Sir, never was better work. How genteelly they are made! They will fit as easy as a glove, and the nicest man in England might not be ashamed to wear them. [He puts on the chains.} If I had the best gentleman in the land in my custody, I could not equip him more hand- somely. And so, Sir I now leave you to your private meditations. SCENE VIII MACHEATH. AIR xxvi -Courtiers, courtiers, think it no harm, etc. Man may escape from rope and gun; Nay, some have out-liv'd the doctor's pill; Who takes a woman must be undone, That basilisk is sure to kill. The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets, So he that tastes woman, woman, woman, He that tastes woman, ruin meets. To what a woeful plight have I brought myself! Here must I (all day-long, till I am hanged) be confined to hear the re- proaches of a wench who lays her ruin at my door. I am in the custody of her father, and to be sure if he knows of the matter, I shall have a fine time on't betwixt this and my execution. But I promised the wench marriage. What signifies a promise to a woman? Does not man in marriage itself promise a hundred things that he never means to perform ? Do all we can, women will believe us; for they look upon a promise as an excuse for following their own in- clinations. But here comes Lucy, and I cannot get from her. Would I were deaf! SCENE IX MACHEATH, LUCY. Lucy. You base man, you, how can you look me in the face after what hath passed between us? See here, perfidious wretch, how I am forced to bear about the load of infamy you have laid upon me O Macheath! thou hast robbed me of my quiet to see thee tortured would give me pleasure. AIR xxvn A lovely lass to a friar came, etc. Thus when a good housewife sees a rat In a trap in the morning taken, With pleasure her heart goes pit-a-pat In revenge for her loss of bacon. Then she throws him To the dog or cat, To be worried, crush'd and shaken. Mach. Have you no bowels, no tender- ness, my dear Lucy, to see a husband in these circumstances? Lucy. A husband! Mach. In every respect but the form, and that, my dear, may be said over us at any time. Friends should not insist upon cere- monies. From a man of honor, his word is as good as his bond. Lucy. 'Tis the pleasure of all you fine men to insult the women you have ruined. AIR xxvin 'Twos when the sea was roaring, etc. How cruel are the traitors, Who lie and swear in jest, To cheat unguarded creatures Of virtue, fame, and rest! Whoever steals a shilling Through shame the guilt conceals; In love the perjur'd villain With boasts the theft reveals. 278 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT II, Sc. X. Mach. The very first opportunity, my dear, (have but patience) you shall be my wife in whatever manner you please. Lucy. Insinuating monster! And so you think I know nothing of the affair of Miss Polly Peachum. I could tear thy eyes out! Mach. Sure, Lucy, you can't be such a fool as to be jealous of Polly! Lucy. Are you not married to her, you brute, you ? Mach. Married ! Very good. The wench gives it out only to vex thee, and to ruin me in thy good opinion. 'Tis true I go to the house; I chat with the girl, I kiss her, I say a thousand things to her (as all gentlemen do) that mean nothing, to divert myself; and now the silly jade hath set it about that I am married to her, to let me know what she would be at. Indeed, my dear Lucy, these violent passions may be of ill consequence to a woman in your con- dition. Lucy. Come, come, captain, for all your assurance, you know that Miss Polly hath put it out of your power to do me the jus- tice you promised me. Mach. A jealous woman believes every- thing her passion suggests. To convince you of my sincerity, if we can find the ordinary, I shall have no scruples of making you my wife; and I know the consequence of having two at a time. Lucy. That you are only to be hanged, and so get rid of them both. Mach. I am ready, my dear Lucy, to give you satisfaction if you think there is any in marriage. What can a man of honor say more ? Lucy. So then it seems, you are not mar- ried to Miss Polly. Mach. You know, Lucy, the girl is pro- digiously conceited. No man can say a civil thing to her, but (like other fine ladies) her vanity makes her think he's her own for ever and ever. AIR xxix The sun had loos'd his weary teams, etc. The first time at the looking-glass The mother sets her daughter, The image strikes the smiling lass With self-love ever after. Each time she looks, she, fonder grown, Thinks ev'ry charm grows stronger. But alas, vain maid, all eyes but your own Can see you are not younger. When women consider their own beauties, they are all alike unreasonable in their de- mands; for they expect their lovers should like them as long as they like themselves. Lucy. Yonder is my father perhaps this way we may light upon the ordinary, who shall try if you will be as good as your word. For I long to be made an honest woman. SCENE X PEACHUM, LOCKIT with an account-book. Lock. In this last affair, brother Peachum, we are agreed. You have consented to go halves in Macheath. Peach. We shall never fall out about an execution. But as to that article, pray how stands our last year's account? Lock. If you will run your eye over it, you'll find 'tis fair and clearly stated. Peach. This long arrear of the govern- ment is very hard upon us! Can it be ex- pected that we should hang our acquaint- ance for nothing, when our betters will hardly save theirs without being paid for it? Unless the people in employment pay better, I promise them for the future, I shall let other rogues live besides their own. Lock. Perhaps, brother, they are afraid these matters may be carried too far. We are treated too by them with contempt, as if our profession were not reputable. Peach. In one respect, indeed, our em- ployment may be reckoned dishonest, be- cause, like great statesmen, we encourage those who betray their friends. Lock. Such language, brother, anywhere else might turn to your prejudice. Learn to be more guarded, I beg you. AIR xxx How happy are we, etc. When you censure the age, Be cautious and sage, Lest the courtiers offended should be. If you mention vice or bribe, 'Tis so pat to all the *ribe; Each cries That was levell'd at me. Peach. Here's poor Ned Clencher's name, I see. Sure, Brother Lockit, there was a little unfair proceeding in Ned's case; for he told me in the condemned hold, that for value received, you had promised him a session or two longer without molestation. Lock. Mr. Peachum, this is the first time my honor was ever called in question. Peach. Business is at an end, if once we act dishonorably. Lock. Who accuses me? Peach. You are warm, brother. Lock. He that attacks my honor, at- tacks my livelihood. And this usage, Sir, not to be borne. Peach. Since you provoke me to speak, I must tell you too, that Mrs. Coaxer charges you with defrauding her of her information- money, for the apprehending of curl-pated Hugh. Indeed, indeed, brother, we must punctually pay our spies, or we shall have no information. 279 ACT II, Sc. XIII. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Lock, la this language to me, Sirrah, who have saved you from the gallows, Sirrah? [.Collaring each other. Peach. If I am hanged, it shall be for ridding the world of an arrant rascal. Lock. This hand shall do the office of the halter you deserve, and throttle you, you doc! Peach. Brother, brother, we are both in the wrong. We shall be both losers in the dispute for you know we have it in our power to hang each other. You should not be so passionate. Lock. Nor you so provoking. Ptach. 'Tis our mutual interest; 'tis for the interest of the world we should agree. If I said anything, brother, to the prejudice of your character, I ask pardon. Lock. Brother Peachum, I can forgive as well as resent. Give me your hand. Suspicion does not become a friend. Peach. I only meant to give you occasion to justify yourself. But I must now step home, for I expect the gentleman about this snuff-box, that Filch nimmed two nights ago in the park. I appointed him at this hour. SCENE XI LOCKIT, LUCY. Lock. Lucy. tion. Lock. Whence come you, hussy! My tears might answer that ques- You have then been whimpering and fondling, like a spaniel, over the fellow that hath abused you. Lucy. One can't help love; one can't cure it. 'Tis not in my power to obey you, and hate him. Lock. Learn to bear your husband's death like a reasonable woman. 'Tis not the fash- ion, now-a-days, so much as to affect sor- row upon these occasions. No woman would ever marry, if she had not the chance of mortality for a release. Act like a woman of spirit, hussy, and thank your father for what he is doing. AIR xxxi Of a noble race was Shenkin. Lucy. Is then his fate decreed, Sir? Such a man can I think of quitting? When first we met, so moves me yet, Oh see how my heart is splitting! ~Lock. Look ye, Lucy there is no saving "him so, I think, you must ev'n do like other widows cheerful. -buy yourself weeds, and be AIR XXXII You'll think, e'er many days ensue, This sentence not severe; I hang your husband, child, 'tis true, But with him hang your care. Twang dang dillo dee. Like a good wife, go moan over your dying husband. That, child, is your duty Con- sider, girl, you can't have the man and the money too so make yourself as easy as you can by getting all you can from him. SCENE XII LUCY, MACHEATH. Lucy. Though the ordinary was out of the way to-day, I hope, my dear, you will, upon the first opportunity, quiet my scruples Oh, Sir! my father's hard heart is not to be softened, and I am in the utmost despair. Macli. But if I could raise a small sum- Would not twenty guineas, think you, move him? Of all the arguments in the way of business, the perquisite is the most prevail- ing. Your father's perquisites for the es- cape of prisoners must amount to a con- siderable sum in the year. Money well timed and properly applied, will do anything. AIR xxxin London ladies. If you at an office solicit your due, And would not have matters neglected; You must quicken the clerk with the per- quisite too, To do what his duty directed. Or would you the frowns of a lady prevent, She too has this palpable failing, The perquisite softens her into consent; That reason with all is prevailing. Lucy. What love or money can do shall be done: for all my comfort depends upon your safety. SCENE XIII LUCY, MACHEATH, POLLY. Polly. Where is my dear husband? Was rope ever intended for his neck ? Oh let me throw my arms about it, and throttle thee with love! Why dost thou turn away from me? 'Tis thy Polly 'Tis thy wife. Mach. Was there ever such an unfortunate rascal as I am! Lucy. Was there ever such another vil- lain! Polly. O Macheath! was it for this we parted ? Taken ! imprisoned ! tried ! hanged ! -cruel reflection! I'll stay with thee till death no force shall tear thy dear wife from thee now. What means my love? not one kind word! not one kind look! think what thy Polly suffers to see thee in this condition. AIR xxxiv All in the Downs, etc. Thus when the swallow, seeking prey, Within the sash is closely pent, 280 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT II, Sc. XIII. His consort, with bemoaning lay, Without sits pining for th' event, Her chattering lovers all around her skim; She heeds them not (poor bird!) her soul's with him. Much. I must disown her. [Aside.] The wench is distracted. Lucy. Am I then bilked of my virtue? Can I have no reparation? Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them. O villain! villain! Polly. Am I not thy wife? Thy neglect of me, thy aversion to me, too severely proves it. Look on me. Tell me, am I not thy wife? Lucy. Perfidious wretch! Polly. Barbarous husband ! Lucy. Hadst thou been hanged five months ago, I had been happy. Polly. And I too If you had been kind to me till death, it would not have vexed me and that's no very unreasonable request (though from a wife), to a man who hath not above seven or eight days to live. Lucy. Art thou then married to another? Hast thou two wives, monster? Mach. If women's tongues can cease for an answer hear me. Lucy. I won't. Flesh and blood can't bear my usage. Polly. Shall I not claim my own? Justice bids me speak. AIR xxxv Have you heard of a frolicsome ditty, etc. Mach. How happy could I be with either, Were t'other dear charmer away! But while you thus teaze me together, To neither a word will I say: But tol de rol, etc. Polly. Sure, my dear, there ought to be some preference shown to a wife! At least she may claim the appearance of it. He must be distracted with his misfortunes, or he could not use me thus! Lucy. O villain, villain! thou hast de- ceived me I could even inform against thee with pleasure. Not a prude wishes more heartily to have facts against her intimate acquaintance, than I now wish to have facts against thee. I would have her satisfaction, and they should all out. AIR xxxvi Irish Trot. Polly. I'm bubbled. Lucy. I'm bubbled. Polly. Oh how I am troubled! Lucy. Bamboozled, and bit! Polly. My distresses are doubled. Lucy. When you come to hangman refuse, the tree, should the These fingers, with pleasure, could fasten the noose. Polly. I'm bubbled, etc. Mach. Be pacified, my dear Lucy This is all a fetch of Polly's to make me desperate with you in case I get off. If I am hanged, she would fain have the credit of being thought my widow Really, Polly, this is no time for a dispute of this sort; for when- ever you are talking of marriage, I am think- ing of hanging. Polly. And hast thou the heart to persist in disowning me ? Mach. And hast thou the heart to persist in persuading me that I am married? Why, Polly, dost thou seek to aggravate my mis- fortunes ? Lucy. Really, Miss Peachum, you but ex- pose yourself. Besides, 'tis barbarous in you to worry a gentleman in his circumstances. Polly. AIR XXXVII Cease your funning, Force or cunning Never shall my heart trepan. All these sallies Are but malice To seduce my constant man. 'Tis most certain, By their flirting, Women oft have envy shown; Pleas'd to ruin Others' wooing; Never happy in their own! Lucy. Decency, madam, methinks, might teach you to behave yourself with some re- serve with the husband, while his wife is present. Mach. But, seriously, Polly, this is carry- ing the joke a little too far. Lucy. If you are determined, madam, to disturbance in the prison, I shall be obliged to send for the turnkey to show you the door. I am sorry, madam, you force me to be so ill-bred. Polly. Give me leave to tell you, madam; these forward airs don't become you in the least, madam. And my duty, madam, obliges me to stay with my husband, madam. AIR xxxvin Good-morrow, gossip Joan. Lucy. Why, how now, Madam Flirt? If you thus must chatter; And are for flinging dirt, Let's try who best can spatter! Madam Flirt! Polly. Why, how now, saucy jade; Sure the wench is tipsy! 281 ACT III, Sc. I. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA How can you see me made [To him. The scoff of such a gipsy? Saucy jade! [To her. SCENE XIV LUCY, MACHEATH, POLLY, PEACHUM. Peach. Where's my wench? Ah hussy! hussy! Come you home, you slut; and when your fellow is hanged, hang yourself, to make your family some amends. Polly. Dear, dear father, do not tear me from him 1 must speak; I have more to say to him Oh! twist thy fetters about me, that he may not haul me from thee! Peach. Sure all women are alike! If ever they commit the folly, they are sure to com- mit another by exposing themselves. Away not a word more you are my prisoner now, hussy. AIR xxxix Irish howl. Polly. No power on earth can e'er divide The knot that sacred love hath tied. When parents draw against our mind, The true-love's knot they faster bind. Oh, oh ray, oh amborah Oh, oh, etc. [Holding MACHEATH, PEACHUM pulling her. SCENE XV LUCY, MACHEATH. Mack. I am naturally compassionate, wife; o that I could not use the wench as she deserved; which made you at first suspect there was something in what she said. Lucy. Indeed, my dear, I was strangely puzzled. Mac/i. If that had been the case, her father would never have brought me into this circumstance No, Lucy, I had rather die than be false to thee. Lucy. How happy am I if you say this from your heart! For I love thee so, that I could sooner bear to see thee hanged than in the arms of another. Much. But couldst thou bear to see me hanged ? Lucy. O Macheath, I can never live to see that day. Mach. You see, Lucy; in the account of love you are in my debt, and you must now be convinced that I rather choose to die than to be another's. Make me, if possible, love thee more, and let me owe my life to thee if you refuse to assist me, Peachum and your father will immediately put me beyond all means of escape. Lucy. My father, I know, hath been drink- ing hard with the prisoners: and I fancy he is now taking his nap in his own room if I can procure the keys, shall I go off with thee, my dear? Mach. If we are together, 'twill be im- possible to lie concealed. As soon as the search begins to be a little cool, I will send to thee till then my heart is thy prisoner. Lucy. Come then, my dear husband owe thy life to me and though you love me not be grateful. But that Polly runs in my head strangely. Mach. A moment of time may make us unhappy for ever. AIR XL The lass of Patie's mill, etc. Lucy. I like the fox shall grieve, Whose mate hath left her side, Whom hounds, from morn till eve, Chase o'er the country wide. Where can my lover hide? Where cheat the weary pack? If love be not his guide, He never will come back! ACT III SCENE I NEWGATE. LOCKIT, LUCY. Lock. To be sure, wench, you must have been aiding and abetting to help him to this escape. Lucy. Sir, here hath been Peachum and his daughter Polly, and to be sure they know the ways of Newgate as well as if they had been born and bred in the place all their lives. Why must all your suspicion light upon me ? Lock. Lucy, Lucy, I will have none of these shuffling answers. Lucy. Well then if I know anything of him, I wish I may be burnt! Lock. Keep your temper, Lucy, or I shall pronounce you guilty. Lucy. Keep yours, Sir. I do wish I may be burnt, I do. And what can I say more to convince you? Lock. Did he tip handsomely? How much did he come down with? Come, hussy, don't cheat your father; and I shall not be angry with you. Perhaps, you have made a better bargain With him than I could have done. How much, my good girl? Lucy. You know, Sir, I am fond of him, and would have given money to have kept him with me. Lock. Ah, Lucy! thy education might have put thee more upon thy guard; for a girl in the bar of an ale-house is always besieged. Lucy. Dear Sir, mention not my educa- tion for 'twas to that I owe my ruin. 282 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT III, Sc. III. AIR XLI If love's a sweet passion, etc. When young at the bar you first taught me to score, And bid me be free of my lips, and no more; I was kiss'd by the parson, the squire, and the sot. When the guest was departed, the kiss was forgot. But his kiss was so sweet, and so closely he prest, That I languish'd and pined till I granted the rest. If you can forgive me, Sir, I will make a fair confession, for to be sure he hath been a most barbarous villain to me. Lock. And so you have let him escape, hussy Have you? Lucy. When a woman loves, a kind look, a tender word can persuade her to anything, and I could ask no other bribe. Lock. Thou wilt always be a vulgar slut, Lucy. If you would not be looked upon as a fool, you should never do anything but upon the foot of interest. Those that act otherwise are their own bubbles. Lucy. But love, Sir, is a misfortune that may happen to the most discreet woman, and in love we are all fools alike. Notwithstand- ing all he swore, I am now fully convinced that Polly Peachum is actually his wife. Did I let him escape (fool that I was!) to go to her? Polly will wheedle herself into his money, and then Peachum will hang him, and cheat us both. Lock. So I am to be ruined, because, for- sooth, you must be in love! a very pretty excuse ! Lucy. I could murder that impudent happy strumpet I gave him his life, and that creature enjoys the sweets of it. Ungrateful Macheath ! AIR XLII South-sea Ballad. My love is all madness and folly, Alone I lie, Toss, tumble, and cry, What a happy creature is Polly! Was e'er such a wretch as I! With rage I redden like scarlet, That my dear inconstant varlet, Stark blind to my charms, Is lost in the arms Of that jilt, that inveigling harlot! Stark blind to my charms, Is lost in the arms Of that jilt, that inveigling harlot! This, this my resentment alarms. Lock. And so, after all this mischief, I must stay here to be entertained with your caterwauling, mistress Puss! Out of my sight, wanton strumpet! You shall fast and mortify yourself into reason, with now and then a little handsome discipline to bring you to your senses. Go. SCENE II LOCKIT. Peachum then intends to outwit me in this affair; but I'll be even with him. The dog is leaky in his liquor, so I'll ply him that way, get the secret from him, and turn this affair to my own advantage. Lions, wolves, and vultures don't live together in herds, droves or flocks. Of all animals of prey, man is the only sociable one. Every one of us preys upon his neighbor, and yet we herd together. Peachum is my companion, my friend. According to the custom of the world, indeed, he may quote thousands of precedents for cheating me. And shall not I make use of the privilege of friendship to make him a return? AIR XLIII Packington's Pound. Thus gamesters united in friendship are found, Though they know that their industry all is a cheat; They flock to their prey at the dice-box's sound, And join to promote one another's deceit. But if by mishap They fail of a chap, To keep in their hands, they each other entrap. Like pikes, lank with hunger, who miss of their ends, They bite their their friends. companions, and prey on Now, Peachum, you and I, like honest tradesmen, are to have a fair trial which of us two can over-reach the other. Lucy. [Enter LUCY.] Are there any of Peachum's people now in the house? Lucy. Filch, Sir, is drinking a quartern of strong waters in the next room with Black Moll. Lock. Bid him come to me. SCENE III LOCKIT, FILCH. Lock. Why, boy, thou lookest as if thou wert half starved; like a shot ten herring. Filch. One had need have the constitu- tion of a horse to go through the business Since the favorite child-getter was dis- abled by a mishap, I have picked up a little money by helping the ladies to a pregnancy against their being called down to sentence. But if a man cannot get an honest livelihood any easier way, I am sure, 'tis what I can't undertake for another session. 283 ACT III, Sc. V. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Lock. Truly, if that great man should tip off, 'twould be an irreparable loss. The vigor and prowess of a knight-errant never saved half the ladies in distress that he hath done. But, boy, canst thou tell me where thy master is to be found? Filch. At his lock, Sir, at the Crooked Billet. Lock. Very well. I have nothing more with you. [Exit FILCH.] I'll go to him there, for I have many important affairs to settle with him; and in the way of those transac- tions, I'll artfully get into his secret. So that Macheath shall not remain a day longer out o* my clutches. SCENE IV A GAMING-HOUSE. MACHEATH in a fine tarnished coat, BEN BUDGE, MATT OF THE MINT. Mach. I am sorry, gentlemen, the road was so barren of money. When my friends are in difficulties, I am always glad that my fortune can be serviceable to them. [Gires them money.] You see, gentlemen, I am not a mere court friend, who professes every- thing and will do nothing. AIR XLIV Lillibullero. The modes of the court so common are grown, That a true friend can hardly be met; Friendship for interest is but a loan, Which they let out for what they can get. 'Tis true, you find Some friends so kind, Who will give you good counsel themselves to defend. In sorrowful ditty, They promise, they pity, But shift you, for money, from friend to friend. But we, gentlemen, have still honor enough to break through the corruptions of the world. And while I can serve you, you may command me. Ben. It grieves my heart that so generous a man should be involved in such difficulties, as oblige him to live with such ill com- pany, and herd with gamesters. Matt. See the partiality of mankind! One man may steal a horse, better than another look over a hedge. Of all mechanics, of all ser- vile handicrafts-men, a gamester is the vilest. But yet, as many of the quality are of the profession, he is admitted amongst the po- litest company. I wonder we are not more respected. Mach. There will be deep play to-night at Marybone and consequently money may 284 be picked up upon the road. Meet me there, and I'll give you the hint who is worth set- ting. Matt. The fellow with a brown coat, with narrow gold binding, I am told, is never without money. Mach. What do you mean, Matt? Sure you will not think of meddling with him! He's a good honest kind of a fellow, and one of us. Ben. To be sure, Sir, we will put our- selves under your direction. Mach. Have an eye upon the money- lenders. A rouleau or two, would prove a pretty sort of an expedition. I hate extor- tion. Matt. These rouleaus are very pretty things. I hate your bank bills. There is such a hazard in putting them off. Mach. There is a certain man of dis- tinction, who in his time hath nicked me out of a great deal of the ready. He is in my cash, Ben. I'll point him out to you this evening, and you shall draw upon him for the debt. The company are met; I hear the dice-box in the other room. So, gentlemen, your servant. You'll meet me at Marybone. SCENE V PEACHUM'S LOCK. A table with wine, brandy, pipes and tobacco. PEACHUM, LOCKIT. Lock. The Coronation account, brother Peachum, is of so intricate a nature, that I believe it will never be settled. Peach. It consists, indeed, of a great variety of articles. It was worth to our people, in fees of different kinds, above ten instalments. This is part of the account, brother, that lies open before us. Lock. A lady's tail of rich brocade that, I see, is disposed of Peach. To Mrs. Diana Trapes, the tally- woman, and she will make a good hand on't in shoes and slippers, to trick out young ladies, upon their going into keeping. Lock. But I don't see any article of the jewels. Peach. Those are so well known that they must be sent abroad. You'll find them en- tered under the article of exportation. As for the snuff-boxes, watches, swords, etc., I thought it best to enter them under their several heads. Lock. Seven and twenty women's pockets complete; with the several things therein contained; all sealed, numbered, and entered. Peach. But, brother, it is impossible for us now to enter upon this affair. We should have the whole day before us. Besides, the account of the last half-year's THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT III, Sc. VI. plate is in a book by itself, which lies at the other office. Lock. Bring: us then more liquor. To- day shall be for pleasure. To-morrow for business. Ah brother, those daughters of ours are two slippery hussies. Keep a watch- ful eye upon Polly, and Macheath in a day or two shall be our own again. AIR XLV Down in the North Country, etc. Lock. What gudgeons are we men! Ev'ry woman's easy prey, Though we have felt the hook, again We bite and they betray. The bird that hath been trapt, When he hears his calling mate, To her he flies, again he's clapt Within the wiry grate. Peach. But what signifies catching the bird, if your daughter Lucy will set open the door of the cage? Lock. If men were answerable for the follies and frailties of their wives and daugh- ters, no friends could keep a good corre- spondence together for two days. This is unkind of you, brother; for among good friends, what they say or do goes for noth- ing. Enter a Servant. Serv. Sir, here's Mrs. Diana Trapes wants to speak with you. Peach. Shall we admit her, brother Lockit? Lock. By all means she's a good cus- tomer, and a fine-spoken woman and a woman who drinks and talks so freely, will enliven the conversation. Peach. Desire her to walk in. [Exit Servant. SCENE VI PEACHUM, LOCKIT, MRS. TRAPES. Peach. Dear Mrs. Dye, your servant one may know by your kiss, that your gin is excellent. Trapes. I was always very curious in my liquors. Lock. There is no perfumed breath like it I have been long acquainted with the flavor of those lips han't I, Mrs. Dye? Trapes. Fill it up. I take as large draughts of liquor, as I did of love. I hate a flincher in either. AIR XLVI A Shepherd kept sheep, etc. In the days of my youth I could bill like a dove, fa, la, la, etc. Like a sparrow at all times was ready for love, fa, la, la, etc. The life of all mortals in kissing should pass, Lip to lip while we're young then the lip to the glass, fa, etc. But now, Mr. Peachum, to our business. [f you have blacks of any kind, brought in of late; man toes velvet scarfs petticoats et it be what it will I am your chap for all my ladies are very fond of mourn- ing. Peach. Why, look ye, Mrs. Dye you deal so hard with us, that we can afford to give the gentlemen, who venture their lives for the goods, little or nothing. Trapes. The hard times oblige me to go very near in my dealing. To be sure, of late years I have been a great sufferer by the parliament. Three thousand pounds would hardly make me amends. The act for de- stroying the mint was a severe cut upon our business 'till then, if a customer stept out of the way we knew where to have her No doubt you know Mrs. Coaxer there's a wench now (till to-day) with a good suit of clothes of mine upon her back, and I could never set eyes upon her for three months together. Since the act too against im- prisonment for small sums, my loss there too hath been very considerable; and it must be so, when a lady can borrow a handsome petticoat, or a clean gown, and I not have the least hank upon her! And, o' my con- science, now-a-days most ladies take a de- light in cheating, when they can do it with safety. Peach. Madam, you had a handsome gold watch of us t'other day for seven guineas. Considering we must have our profit to a gentleman upon the road, a gold watch will be scarce worth the taking. Trapes. Consider, Mr. Peachum, that watch was remarkable and not of very safe sale. If you have any black velvet scarfs they are handsome winter wear; and take with most gentlemen who deal with my cus- tomers. 'Tis I that put the ladies upon a good foot. 'Tis not youth or beauty that fixes their price. The gentlemen always pay according to their dress, from half a crown to two guineas; and yet those hussies make nothing of bilking me. Then, too, allowing for accidents I have eleven fine customers now down under the surgeon's hands; what with fees and other expenses, there are great goings-out, and no comings-in, and not a farthing to pay for at least a month's clothing. We run great risks great risks indeed. Peach. As I remember, you said some- thing just now of Mrs. Coaxer. Trapes. Yes, Sir. To be sure, I stript her of a suit of my own clothes about two hours ago; and have left her as she should be, in her shift, with a lover of hers, at my 265 ACT III, Sc. VIII. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA bouse. She called him up stairs, as he was going to Marybone in a hackney coach. And I hope, for her own sake and mine, she will persuade the captain to redeem her, for the captain is very generous to the ladies. Lock. What captain? Trapes. He thought I did not know him an intimate acquaintance of yours, Mr. Peachum only Captain Macheath as fine as lord. Peach. To-morrow, dear Mrs. Dye, you shall set your own price upon any of the goods you like. We have at least half a dozen velvet scarfs, and all at your service. Will you give me leave to make you a present of this suit of nightclothes for your own wearing? But are you sure it is Captain Macheath ? Trapes. Though he thinks I have forgot him; nobody knows him better. I have taken a great deal of the captain's money in my time at second-hand, for he always loved to have his ladies well drest. Peach. Mr. Lockit and I have a little busi- ness with the captain. You understand me. And we will satisfy you for Mrs. Coaxer's debt. Lock. Depend upon it we will deal like men of honor. Trapes. I don't enquire after your affairs so whatever happens, I wash my hands on't. It hath always been my maxim, that one friend should assist another. But if you please, I'll take one of the scarfs home with me. Tis always good to have some- thing in hand. SCENE VII NEWGATE. LUCY. Jealousy, rage, love and fear, are at once tearing me to pieces. How I am weather- beaten and shattered with distresses! AIR XLVII One evening, having lost my way, etc. I'm like a skiff on the ocean tost, Now high, now low, with each billow borne, With her rudder broke, and her anchor lost, Deserted and all forlorn. While thus I lie rolling and tossing all night, That Polly lies sporting on seas of delight! Revenge, revenge, revenge, Shall appease my restless sprite. I have the ratsbane ready. I run no risk; for I can lay her death upon the gin, and so many die of that naturally that I shall never be called in question. But say I were to be hanged I never could be hanged for any- thing that would give me greater comfort, than the poisoning that slut. [Enter FILCH. Filch. Madam, here's our Miss Polly come to wait upon you. Lucy. Show her in. SCENE VIII LUCY, POLLY. Lucy. Dear madam, your servant. I hope you will pardon my passion, when I was so happy to see you last. I was so overrun with the spleen, that I was perfectly out of myself. And really when one hath the spleen, everything is to be excused by a friend. AIR XLVIII Now Roger, I'll tell thee, because thou'rt my son. When a wife's in her pout, (As she's sometimes, no doubt); The good husband, as meek as a lamb, Her vapors to still, First grants her her will, And the quieting draught is a dram. Poor man! And the quieting draught is a dram. 1 wish all our quarrels might have so comfortable a reconciliation. Polly. I have no excuse for my own be- havior, madam, but my misfortunes. And really, madam, I suffer too upon your ac- count. Lucy. But, Miss Polly in the way of friendship, will you give me leave to propose a glass of cordial to you? Polly. Strong waters are apt to give me the headache I hope, madam, you will excuse me. Lucy. Not the greatest lady in the land could have better in her closet, for her own private drinking. You seem mighty low in spirits, my dear. Polly. I am sorry, madam, my health will not allow me to accept of your offer. I should not have left you in the rude manner I did when we met last, madam, had not my papa hauled me away so unexpectedly. I was indeed somewhat provoked, and per- haps might use some expressions that were disrespectful. But really, madam, the cap- tain treated me with so much contempt and cruelty, that I deserved your pity, rather than your resentment. Lucy. But since his escape, no doubt, all matters are made up again. Ah Polly! Polly! 'tis I am the unhappy wife; and he loves you as if you were only his mistress. Polly. Sure, madam, you cannot think me so happy as to be the object of your jealousy. A man is always afraid of a woman who loves him too well so that I must expect to be neglected and avoided. Lucy. Then our cases, my dear Polly, are 286 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT III, Sc. XL exactly alike. Both of us, indeed, have been too fond. AIR XLIX O Bessy Bell. Polly. A curse attends that woman's love, Who always would be pleasing. Lucy. The pertness of the billing dove, Like tickling, is but teazing. Polly. What then in love can woman do? Lucy. If we grow fond they shun us. Polly. And when we fly them, they pursue. Lucy. But leave us when they've won us. Lucy. Love is so very whimsical in both sexes, that it is impossible to be lasting. But my heart is particular, and contradicts my own observation. Polly. But really, mistress Lucy, by his last behavior, I think I ought to envy you. When I was forced from him, he did not shew the least tenderness. But perhaps, he hath a heart not capable of it. AIR L Would fate to me Belinda give. Among the men, coquets v:e find, Who court by turns all womankind; And we grant all their hearts desir'd, When they are flatter'd, and admir'd. The coquets of both sexes are self -lovers, and that is a love no other whatever can dis- possess. I fear, my dear Lucy, our husband is one of those. Lucy. Away with these melancholy re- flections, indeed, my dear Polly, we are both of us a cup too low. Let me prevail upon you, to accept of my offer. AIR LI Come, sweet lass, etc. Come, sweet lass, Let's banish sorrow Till to-morrow; Come, sweet lass, Let's take a chirping glass. Wine can clear The vapors of despair; And make us light as air; Then drink, and banish care. I can't bear, child, to see you in such low spirits. And I must persuade you to what I know will do you good. I shall now soon be even with the hypocritical strumpet. [Aside. 287 SCENE IX POLLY. Polly. All this wheedling of Lucy cannot be for nothing. At this time too, when I know she hates me! The dissembling of a woman is always the forerunner of mischief. By pouring strong waters down my throat, she thinks to pump some secrets out of me. I'll be upon my guard, and won't taste a drop of her liquor, I'm resolved. SCENE X LUCY, with strong waters. POLLY. Lucy. Come, Miss Polly. Polly. Indeed, child, you have given your- self trouble to no purpose. You must, my dear, excuse me. Lucy. Really, Miss Polly, you are as squeamishly affected about taking a cup of strong waters as a lady before company. I vow, Polly, I shall take it monstrously ill if you refuse me. Brandy and men (though women love them never so well) are always taken by us with some reluctance unless 'tis in private. Polly. I protest, madam, it goes against me. What do I see! Macheath again in custody! Now every glimmering of hap- piness is lost. [Drops the glass of liquor on the ground. Lucy. Since things are thus, I am glad the wench hath escaped: for by this event, 'tis plain, she was not happy enough to deserve to be poisoned. [Aside. SCENE XI LOCKIT, MACHEATH, PEACHUM, LUCY, POLLY. Lock. Set your heart to rest, captain. You have neither the chance of love or money for another escape, for you are ordered to be called down upon your trial immediately. Peach. Away, hussies ! This is not a time for a man to be hampered with his wives. You see the gentleman is in chains already. Lucy. O husband, husband, my heart longed to see thee; but to see thee thus dis- tracts me! Polly. Will not my dear husband look upon his Polly? Why hadst thou not flown to me for protection? with me thou hadst been safe. AIR LII The last time I went o'er the moor. Polly. Hither, dear husband, turn your eyes. Lucy. Bestow one glance to cheer me. ACT III, Sc. XII. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Polly. Think, with that look, thy Polly dies. Lucy. Oh shun me not but hear me. Polly. 'Tit Polly sues. Lucy. 'Tis Lucy speaks. Polly. Is thus true love requited? Lucy. My heart is bursting. Polly. -Mine too breaks. Lucy. Must I? Polly. -Must I be slighted? Much. What would you have me say, ladies? You see, this affair will soon be at an end, without my disobliging either of you. Peach. But the settling this point, cap- tain, might prevent a law suit between your two widows. AIR LIU Tom Tinker's my true love. Mach. Which way shall I turn me? How can I decide? Wives, the day of our death, are as fond as a bride. One wife is too much for most husbands to hear, But two at a time there's no mortal can bear. This way, and that way, and which way I will, What would comfort the one, t'other wife would take ill. Polly. But if his own misfortunes have made him insensible to mine a father sure will be more compassonate. Dear, dear Sir, sink the material evidence, and bring him off at his trial Polly upon her knees begs it of you. AIR LIV I am a poor shepherd undone. When my hero in court appears, And stands arraign'd for his life; Then think of poor Polly's tears; For ah ! poor Polly's his wife. Like the sailor he holds up his hand, Distrest on the dashing wave. To die a dry death at land, Is as bad as a wat'ry grave. And alas, poor Polly; Alack, and well-a-day! Before I was in love, Oh, every month was May! Lucy. If Peachum's heart is hardened; sure you, Sir, will have more compassion on a daughter. I know the evidence is in your power. How then can you be a tyrant to me ? IKneeling. AIR LV lanthe the lovely, etc. When he holds up his hand arraign'd for his life, Oh think of your daughter, and think I'm his wife! What are cannons, or bombs, or clashing of swords ? For death is more certain by witnesses' words. Then nail up their lips; that dread thunder allay; And each month of my life will hereafter be May. Lock. Macheath's time is come, Lucy. We know our own affairs, therefore let us have no more whimpering or whining. AIR LVI A cobbler there was, etc. Ourselves, like the great, to secure a retreat, When matters require it, must give up our gang. And good reason why, Or instead of the fry, Ev'n Peachum and I, Like poor petty rascals, might hang, hang; Like poor petty rascals might hang. Peach. Set your heart at rest, Polly. Your husband is to die to-day. Therefore if you are not already provided, 'tis high time to look about for another. There's comfort for you, you slut. Lock. We are ready, Sir, to conduct you to the Old Bailey. AIR LVII Bonny Dundee. Mach. The charge is prepar'd; the lawyers are met, The judges all rang'd (a terrible show!). I go, undismay'd for death is a debt, A debt on demand. So, take what I owe. Then farewell, my love dear charmers, adieu. Contented I die 'tis the better for you. Here ends all dispute the rest of our lives, For this way at once I please all my wives. Now, gentlemen, I am ready to attend you. SCENE XII LUCY, POLLY, FILCH. Polly. Follow them, Filch, to the court. And when the trial is over, bring me a par- 288 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA ACT III, Sc. XV. ticular account of his behavior, and of everything that happened. You'll find me here with Miss Lucy. [.Exit FILCH.] But why is all this music? Lucy. The prisoners, whose trials are put off till next sessions, are diverting them- selves. Polly. Sure there is nothing so charming as music! I'm fond of it to distraction! But alas! now, all mirth seems an insult upon my affliction. Let us retire, my dear Lucy, and indulge our sorrows. The noisy crew, you see, are coming upon us. [Exeunt. A dance of prisoners in chains, etc. SCENE XIII THE CONDEMNED HOLD. MACHEATH, in a melancholy posture. AIR LVIII Happy groves. O cruel, cruel, cruel case! Must I suffer this disgrace? AIR LIX Of all the girls that are so smart. Of all the friends in time of grief, When threat'ning death looks grimmer, Not one so sure can bring relief, As this best friend, a brimmer. [Drinks. AIR LX Britons, strike home. Since I must swing, I scorn, I scorn to wince or whine. [Rises. AIR LXI Chevy Chase. But now again my spirits sink; I'll raise them high with wine. [Drinks a glass of wine. AIR LXII To old Sir Simon the king. But valor the stronger grows, The stronger liquor we're drinking. And how can we feel our woes, When we've left the trouble of thinking? [Drinks. AIR LXIII Joy to great C&sar. If thus a man can die. Much bolder with brandy. [Pours out a bumper of brandy. AIR LXIV There was an old woman. So I drink off this bumper. And now I can stand the test. And my comrades shall see that I die as brave as the best. [Drinks. AIR LXV Did you ever hear of a gallant sailor. But can I leave my pretty hussies, Without one tear, or tender sigh? AIR LXVI Why are mine eyes still flowing. Their eyes, their lips, their busses, Recall my love. Ah, must I die? AIR LXVII Greensleeves. Since laws were made for ev'ry degree, To curb vice in others, as well as me, I wonder we han't better company, Upon Tyburn tree ! But gold from law can take out the sting; And if rich men like us were to swing, 'Twould thin the land, such numbers to string Upon Tyburn tree! Jailor. Some friends of yours, captain, de- sire to be admitted. I leave you together. SCENE XIV MACHEATH, BEN BUDGE, MATT OF THE MINT. Mach. For my having broke prison, you see, gentlemen, I am ordered immediate ex- ecution. The sheriff's officers, I believe, are now at the door. That Jemmy Twitcher should peach me, I own surprised me! 'Tis a plain proof that the world is all alike, and that even our gang can no more trust one another than other people. Therefore, I beg you, gentlemen, look well to yourselves, for in all probability you may live some months longer. Matt. We are heartily sorry, captain, for your misfortune. But 'tis what we must all come to. Mach. Peachum and Lockit, you know, are infamous scoundrels. Their lives are as much in your power, as yours are in theirs. Remember your dying friend! Tis my last request. Bring those villains to the gallows before you, and I am satisfied. Matt. We'll do it. Jailor. Miss Polly and Miss Lucy entreat a word with you. Mach. Gentlemen, adieu. SCENE XV LUCY, MACHEATH, POLLY. Mach. My dear Lucy my dear Polly Whatsoever hath passed between us is now at an end. If you are fond of marrying again, the best advice I can give you, is to ship yourselves off for the West Indies, where you'll have a fair chance of getting a hus- band apiece; or by good luck, two or three, as you like best. Polly. How can I support this sight? 289 ACT III, Sc. XVII. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA Lucy. There is nothing moves one so much as a great man in distress. AIR LXVIII All you that must take a leap, etc. Lucy. Would I might be hang'd! Polly. And I would so too! Lucy. To be hang'd with you. Polly. My dear, with you. Mach. Oh leave me to thought! I fear! I doubt! I tremble! I droop! See, my courage is out. [Turns up the empty bottle. Polly. No token of love? Mach. See, my courage is out. [Turns up the empty pot. Lucy. No token of love? Polly. Adieu. Lucy. Farewell. Mach. But hark! I hear the toll of the bell! Chorus. Tol de rol lol, etc. Jailor. Four women more, captain, with a child apiece! See, here they come. [Enter women and children. Mach. What four wives more! This is too much. Here tell the sheriff's of- ficers I am ready. [Exit MACHEATH guarded. SCENE XVI To them enter PLAYER, and BEGGAR. Play. But, honest friend, I hope you don't intend that Macheath shall be really exe- cuted. Beg. Most certainly, Sir. To make the piece perfect, I was for doing strict poetical justice. Macheath is to be hanged; and for the other personages of the drama, the audi- ence must have supposed they were all either hanged or transported. Play. Why then, friend, this is a down- right deep tragedy. The catastrophe is mani- festly wrong, for an opera must end happily. Beg. Your objection, Sir, is very just; and is easily removed: for you must allow, that in this kind of drama, 'tis no matter how absurdly things are brought about. So you rabble there run and cry a reprieve! let the prisoner be brought back to his wives in triumph. Play. All this we must do, to comply with the taste of the town. Beg. Through the whole piece you may observe such a similitude of manners in high and low life, that it is difficult to deter- mine whether (in the fashionable vices) the fine gentlemen imitate the gentlemen of the road, or the gentlemen of the road the fine gentlemen. Had the play remained, as I at first intended, it would have carried a most excellent moral. 'T would have shown that the lower sort of people have their vices in a degree as well as the rich; and that they are punished for them. SCENE XVII To them MACHEATH, with rabble, etc. Mach. So, it seems, I am not left to my choice, but must have a wife at last. Look ye, my dears, we will have no controversy now. Let us give this day to mirth, and I am sure she who thinks herself my wife will testify her joy by a dance. All. Come, a dance a dance. Mach. Ladies, I hope you will give me leave to present a partner to each of you. And (if I may without offence) for this time, I take Polly for mine. And for life, you slut, for we were really married. As for th rest but at present keep your own secret. [To POLLY. A DANCE AIR LXIX Lumps of pudding, etc. Thus I stand like the Turk, with his doxies around; From all sides their glances his passion con- found : For black, brown, and fair, his inconstancy burns, And the different beauties subdue him by turns: Each calls forth her charms, to provoke his desires: Though willing to all, with but one he re- tires. But think of this maxim, and put off your sorrow, The wretch of to-day may be happy to-mor- row. Chorus But think of this maxim, etc. 290 HENRY FIELDING HENRY FIELDING lived in the flourishing period of the eighteenth cen- - tury, before reason and common sense in matters literary had given way to the sentimentalism and pseudo-romanticism of the later decades, and he was one of the most robust representatives of this robust time. In his youth he went a merry pace, though not quite to the extent indicated in Thackeray's engaging picture, and in his later life with fearlessness and thoroughness he became as the simple London magistrate a terror to evil- doers and a praise to them that do well. His abounding vitality and his devotion to right kept him at his task when stricken with disease; his thoughtfulness for others made him forget his own pain in theirs, and his hatred of wrong and love of right made him one of the greatest satiric writers of his age. Born of good family at Sharpham Park, Somerset, on April 22, 1707, Fielding was educated at Eton College and at the University of Leyden, where he took his degree in the Faculty of Letters in 1728. The same year he was in London with extravagant tastes and an unpaid income of 200 a year. Like many another youth of genius he turned to the stage for support and produced with moderate success two plays imitative of Con- greve. By 1730 he had discovered that his bent lay towards satire, and using his own experiences as subject for farce, he wrote The Author's Farce and the Pleasures of the Town (1730). Then he made fun of others in his admirable burlesque Tom Thumb (1730), which after a suc- cessful run he enlarged and to which he appended a critical preface and commentary as solemn and ridiculous as the play, with the title, The Tragedy of Tragedies; or, The Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great with the Annotations of H. Scriblerus Secundus (1731). Plays now came thick and fast but of decidedly second-rate quality. In 1736 he took over the so-called French theatre in the Haymarket and presented his own burlesque Pasquin, which was modelled on The Rehearsal, and is only inferior to Tom Thumb. The Historical Register for 1736, which attacked Walpole's corrupt methods, led to governmental interference, with the result that the Licensing Act was passed on June 21, 1737, and so put an end to Fielding's direct connection with the stage. 1 1 In addition to the plays mentioned above Fielding wrote Love in Several Masques (1728); The Temple Beau (1730); The Letter-Writers, 291 TOM THUMB THE GREAT Fielding now began to study law, and was admitted to the bar in June, 1740. In the same year his real genius accidentally discovered itself when he undertook to parody Richardson's Pamela. Its sentimentality and hot- house morality aroused Fielding's masculine mirth and incited him to depict a virtuous hero who would be the fitting counterpart to the excel- lent Pamela. But Joseph Andrews, the hero, soon came to have an inde- pendent interest in the eyes of the satirist, and his adventures grew into a plot sufficient in itself. Accordingly we have The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews (1742), the first great novel in English literature. The following year appeared three volumes of Miscellanies, including A Journey from This World to the Next, and his ironical masterpiece The History of the Life of the Late Jonathan Wild the Great. The death in 1743 of his wife, whom he had married in 1735, almost broke his heart. His sole con- solation was in the sympathetic grief of her maid, whose sorrow was only less than his own. Four years later he married this maid and lived hap- pily with her till his death, despite the vilest kind of calumnies, directed against them both. Meanwhile he is writing political articles for The True Patriot and The Jacobite's Journal, and is practising his profession. In December, 1748, he was made Justice of the Peace for Westminster, and henceforth till within a few months of his death he spent laborious days putting down crime so that there was in London, it was said, "not even no such thing as a murder, but not even a street robbery." His greatest work, the supreme novel of the century, The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling, was published in February, 1749, and was at once acclaimed at its true worth. Amelia, his last novel, was published in December, 1751. There are two testimonials to the contemporary apprecia- tion of the work : Johnson stayed up all night to read it through, and Fielding's publisher paid him 1000 for it and lost nothing by the transac- tion. Journalistic work and his untiring zeal as a magistrate kept him busy till ill health demanded rest. With his wife and eldest daughter he sailed for Lisbon on June 26, 1754, but he reached his destination only to die there on October 8. The charming and pathetic record of the journey is the last product of his pen. During the period covered by the plays in our volume there appeared three notable burlesques on the drama and on dramatic conditions, Buck- ingham's Rehearsal (1671), Fielding's Tom Thumb (1731), and Sheridan's The Critic (1779). The first was intended more as a personal attack on Dryden than as a burlesque of the heroic play ; the second was a joyous satire on dramatists and critics for their creative and critical absurdities ; The Grub-Street Opera, The Lottery (1731); The Modern Husband, The Debauchees, The Covent-Garden Tragedy, The Mock Doctor (1732) ; The Miser . an adaptation of Moliere's L'Avare, Deborah (1733) ; The Intriguing Chambermaid, Don Quixote in England (1734) ; The Virgin Unmasked, The Universal Gallant (1735) ; Eurydice. Eurydice Hissed (1737) ; The Wedding Day (1743); Tumble-Down Dick (1744). 292 TOM THUMB THE GREAT the third was a lively attack on would-be patrons of the stage, affected authors, and the bombastic style of the contemporary drama. The first and third present the rehearsal of a play with the comments and criticisms of interested spectators; the second is a pure mock-heroic burlesque with learned footnotes parodying the erudite commentaries of scholars and ironically justifying extravagant diction in dramatic productions. When Buckingham produced his Rehearsal, Dryden's Conquest of Granada, the greatest of the heroic plays, was on the crest of its popu- larity. A very keen eye was, however, not required to see the possibilities of ridicule in the extravagances of Almanzor and his kind, and since per- sonal enmity was the real motive, Buckingham entered into the fun of his burlesque with malicious zest. He represents Dryden as a fool and a knave, who steals his ideas and keeps a mistress, and who makes no secret of either offence. Bayes (as Dryden is called) follows purely mechan- ical methods in constructing his plays, is awkward in his technique, and is extravagant in his diction, but with it all he is highly complacent. He clumsily .conveys information to his audience, he subordinates plot to fine speeches, he fails to motivate events and he confuses his audience by hope- lessly confounding events and characters. He unwittingly amuses his critics with his " snip-snap " dialogue, his reasoning in verse, and his portrayal of the eternal conflict between love and honor, which he reduces to an absurdity. He seriously presents scenes of impossible operatic mag- nificence and a stupendous battle is waged by two single contestants. Above all, he surpasses Almanzor in Drawcansir, who can " make proud Jove, with all his thunder, see This single arm more dreadful is than he." Sheridan gratified no personal spite when he wrote The Critic. The patron of the stage as presented in Dangle is an ever-living type and is drawn from no special individual ; Sir Fretful Plagiary, who stands for Cumberland, the boresome author of sentimental plays, is portrayed with much truth but without malice. Sheridan was interested in satirizing not persons but classes, the puffing critics, the jealous and vain play- wrights, and in ridiculing absurd dramatic ideas and methods. So he took a final fling at the sentimental drama, which he had wounded unto death in his other plays : " The theatre in proper hands," says Sneer, the conventional critic, "might certainly be made the school of morality; but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go there principally for their en- tertainment." Like Buckingham, Sheridan ridicules the awkwardness of many a dramatist in conveying necessary information to his audience, the lack of connection between the two plots of many tragedies, the mixture of the love motive with the historical without regard to dramatic unity. He ridicules stock situations, as when a deadlock is suddenly broken, a hidden identity is revealed, a disguise is thrown off, all in order that complica- 293 TOM THUMB THE GREAT tions may be unravelled. He parodies flowery diction, prayers to Mars before battle, dialogue in single-word speeches, a dying speech cut short in the middle of a word. He interprets a " thinking part " as conveying pro- found thought. He brings in scenes of splendor and mad scenes of utter gibberish, and he ends with the usual spectacle of a battle, in which, on this occasion, the enemies of England are routed. In form Fielding's Tom Thumb differs entirely from the other two burlesques. It is written throughout in the mock-heroic style and is more properly a burlesque in that it is modelled on the heroic play that it parodies and in that the plot and the diction of such a play are reduced to complete absurdity. The ridicule is directed chiefly against the heroic play, but Fielding does not limit himself to this type. His range extends from Fletcher to Thomson, over nearly a century of dramatic production. The flourishing period of the heroic play was the first twenty-five years after the Restoration, but the type persisted well into the eighteenth century. Extravagance in plot and bombast in diction prevailed in tragedy throughout the early decades of the century; it was only in comedy that effective work was being done. Accordingly, we are not surprised to find Fielding with his keen scent for the absurd exposing the extrava- gances of the contemporary stage. The events of the burlesque are essentially those of the heroic play. The hero returns victorious with the captive queen ; the king, for whom the hero has successfully fought, falls in love with the captive queen, while his own queen becomes enamored of the hero; the hero, however, demands as his reward the hand of the king's daughter. Hence follow the usual complications. We have also prophecies of woe, a casual murder by the hero to avenge an insult to his friend, a ghost scene in which dis- aster is foretold, a rebellion raised by the disappointed rival of the hero, a magnificent battle in which the rebellion is crushed, the celebration of the victory, the sudden tragic end of the hero, and the extermination of every one else. Here we have mighty events and an heroic character forming the basis for parody. The names of the personages betray at the outset the burlesque intent, Tom Thumb as the hero, Dollallolla as the queen, Hun- camunca as the princess, not to mention lesser ones. So also in the list of the dramatis persona the characters are described in the mock-heroic fashion : the noble Arthur " stands a little in fear " of his queen ; Dolla- lolla is "entirely faultless, saving that she is a little given to drink"; Huncamunca is ready to marry both her lovers. In the action of the play the mighty hero is the diminutive Tom Thumb, who is so valiant in war that " millions of giants crowd his chariot wheels." The queen celebrates a glorious victory by getting drunk on arrack punch ; her passion finds expression in choice billingsgate ; when her honor conflicts with her love, so much the worse for her honor. 294 TOM THUMB THE GREAT So complete was Fielding's burlesque of the conventional ghost scene that it provoked laughter in Swift, who declared that he " had not laughed above twice " in his life, once at the tricks of a merry-andrew and again, as Mrs. Pilkington inaccurately reported, when Tom Thumb killed the ghost. The pure fustian that the ghost utters is hardly more absurd than the foolish bombast of the heroic ghost. Delightfully comic is the im- patient interruption of the king upon the ghost's lengthy and solemn tirade, in which he enumerates the things he has seen. Here it was that Swift laughed: " D n all that thou hast seen ! dost thou, beneath the shape Of Gaffer Thumb, come hither to abuse me With similes, to keep me on the rack? Hence or, by all the torments of thy hell, I'll run thee through the body, though thou'st none." The tragic issue of the burlesque differs from the end in the heroic play; in the latter the hero is triumphant and only his enemies are slain. Fielding saw here, however, an admirable opportunity to satirize the whole- sale slaughter in contemporary tragedies ; he accordingly brings in wholly without motivation the grotesque destruction of the hero in the jaws of the red cow, and the murders of all the others in orderly succession. Hilarious laughter must have greeted this play when it was acted before an audience that could stand pretty strong parody. The dramatic disease called for a powerful remedy. Fielding was, however, not satisfied with an appeal to a theatrical audience only; he wished to reach readers as well, and for their benefit he prefixed a learned preface and appended footnotes, all of an apparently solemn and painstaking nature. He had to his hand a burlesque that exactly suited his purpose. Dr. William Wag- staffe had written in 1711 a parody of Addison's appreciation of the ballads of Chevy Chase and The Children of the Wood, which he called A Comment upon the History of Tom Thumb and which was included in the collected edition of his Miscellaneous Works (1726). Like Addison he quotes from the ballad and he supports his judgments by means of parallel passages from the Latin poets. He also inserts in italics passages from Addison's prose works in order to heighten the comic effect. Fielding's preface and notes are much the same in character as Wagstaffe's. Learned authorities are quoted from ancient and modern times ; Latin quotations abound. Verbal emendations are suggested after the fashion of Bentley's to Paradise Lost. Parallel passages, plagiarisms, and the like are noted with scrupulous detail. Speeches of special beauty are pointed out by this highly appreciative editor, and the carping criticisms of hostile critics are properly scorned. The so-called critical material is wholly without malice; it is satirical of authors and critics for their work and not for personal failings or mis- fortunes. Fielding's delightful irony penetrates throughout. 295 TOM THUMB THE GREAT The burlesque was reworked and made into a burletta by Kane O'Hara in 1830; .songs were added and the satirical element was largely lost sight of. In this form the play kept the stage till well towards the close p/f the nineteenth century. THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES OR, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF TOM THUMB M^ fi^ \^ THE GREAT With the Annotations of H. SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS FIRST ACTED IN 1730, AND ALTERED IN 1731 DRAMATIS PERSONS MEN KING ARTHUR, a passionate sort of king, hus- band to QUEEN DOLLALLOLLA, of whom he stands a little in fear; father to HUNCA- MUNCA, whom he is very fond of and in love with GLUMDALCA. TOM THUMB THE GREAT, a little hero with a great soul, something violent in his temper, u-hich is a little abated by his love for HUNCAMUNCA. GHOST OF GAFFER THUMB, a whimsical sort of Ghost. LORD GRIZZLE, extremely zealous for the lib- erty of the subject, very choleric in his temper, and in love with HUNCAMUNCA. MERLIN, a conjurer, and in some sort father to TOM THUMB. NOODLE, courtiers in place, and consequently DOODLE, f of that party that is uppermost. FOODLE, a courtier that is out of place, and consequently of that party that is under- most. FrowER^k *" of the Plaintiff. PARSON, of the side of the church. Courtiers, Guards, Rebels, Drums, Trumpets, Thunder and Lightning. SCENE. THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR, AND A PLAIN THEREABOUTS. WOMEN QUEEN DOLLALLOLLA, wife to KING ARTHUR, and mother to HUNCAMUNCA, a woman en- tirely faultless, saving that she is a little given to drink, a little too much a virago to- wards her husband, and in love with TOM THUMB. THE PRINCESS HUNCAMUNCA, daughter to their Majesties KING ARTHUR and QUEEN DOLLALLOLLA, of a very sweet, gentle, and amorous disposition, equally in love with LORD GRIZZLE and TOM THUMB, and de- sirous to be married to them both. GLUMDALCA, of the giants, a captive queen, beloved by the king, but in love with TOM THUMB. CLEORA, MUSTACHA, maids of honor in love with NOODLE and DOODLE. 296 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT I, Sc. I. ACT I SCENE I The Palace. DOODLE, NOODLE. Doodle. Sure such a * day as this was never seen ! The sun himself, on this auspicious day, Shines like a beau in a new birth-day suit: This down the seams embroidered, that the beams. All nature wears one universal grin. Nood. This day, O Mr. Doodle, is a day Indeed! A day,- we never saw before. 1 Corneille recommends some very remark- able day wherein to fix the action of a tragedy. This the best of our tragical writers have understood to mean a day re- markable for the serenity of the sky, or what we generally call a fine summer's day: so that, according to this their exposition, the same months are proper for tragedy which are proper for pastoral. Most of our cele- brated English tragedies, as Cato, Mariamne, Tamerlane, &c., begin with their observations on the morning. Lee seems to have come the nearest to this beautiful description of our author's: The morning dawns with an unwonted crim- son, The flowers all odorous seem, the garden birds Sing louder, and the laughing sun ascends The gaudy earth with an unusual brightness: All nature smiles. Cces. Borg. Massinissa, in the New Sophonisba, is also a favorite of the sun: The sun too seems As conscious of my joy, with broader eye To look abroad the world, and all things smile Like Sophonisba. Memnon, in the Persian Princess, makes the sun decline rising, that he may not peep on objects which would profane his bright- ness: The morning rises slow, And all those ruddy streaks that used to paint The day's approach are lost in clouds, as if The horrors of the night had sent 'em back, To warn the sun he should not leave the sea, To peep, &c. 2 This line is highly conformable to the beautiful simplicity of the ancients. It hath been copied by almost every modern. Not to be is not to be in woe. State of Innocence. The mighty 3 Thomas Thumb victorious comes; Millions of giants crowd his chariot wheels, 4 Giants ! to whom the giants in Guildhall Are infant dwarfs. They frown, and foam, and roar. While Thumb, regardless of their noise, rides on. So some cock-sparrow in a farmer's yard, Hops at the head of an huge flock of tur- keys. Dood. When Goody Thumb first brought this Thomas forth, Love is not sin but where 'tis sinful love. Don Sebastian. Nature is nature, Lxlius. Sophonisba. Men are but men, we did not make our- selves. Revenge. 8 Dr. B y reads, The mighty Tall-mast Thumb. Thumb. Mr. D s, The rriighty Thumbing Mr. T d reads, Thundering. I think Thomas more agreeable to the great simplicity so apparent in our author. 4 That learned historian Mr. S n, in the third number of his criticism on our author, takes great pains to explode this passage. " It is," says he, " difficult to guess what giants are here meant, unless the giant Despair in the Pilgrim's Progress, or the giant Greatness in the Royal Villain; for I have heard of no other sort of giants in the reign of king Arthur." Petrus Burmannus makes three Tom Thumbs, one whereof he supposes to have been the same person whom the Greeks call Hercules; and that by these giants are to be understood the Centaurs slain by that hero. Another Tom Thumb he contends to have been no other than the Hermes Trismegistus of the ancients. The third Tom Thumb he places under the reign of king Arthur; to which third Tom Thumb, says he, the actions of the other two were attributed. Now, though I know that this opinion is supported by an assertion of Justus Lipsius, " Thomam ilium Thumbum non alium quam Herculem fuisse satis con- stat," yet shall I venture to oppose one line of Mr. Midwinter against them all: In Arthur's court Tom Thumb did live. " But then," says Dr. B y, " if we place Tom Thumb in the court of king Arthur, it will be proper to place that court out of Britain, where no giants were ever heard of." Spenser, in his Fairy Queen, is of another opinion, where, describing Albion, he says, Far within a savage nation dwelt Of hideous giants. And in the same canto: Then Elfar, with two brethren giants had, The one of which had two heads The other three. Risum teneatis, amici. 297 ACT I, Sc. II. TOM THUMB THE GREAT The Genius of our land triumphant reigned; Then, then, O Arthur! did thy Genius reign. Nood. They tell me it is whispered in the books Of all our sages, that this mighty hero, By Merlin's art begot, hath not a bone Within his skin, but is a lump of gristle. Dood. Then 'tis a gristle of no mortal kind; Some God, my Noodle, stept into the place Of Gaffer Thumb, and more than " half be- got This mighty Tom. Nood. ~ Sure he was sent express From Heaven to be the pillar of our state. Though small his body be, so very small, A chairman's leg is more than twice as large, Yet is his soul like any mountain big; And as a mountain once brought forth a mouse, 8 So doth this mouse contain a mighty mountain. Dood. Mountain indeed! So terrible his name, 6 " To whisper in books," says Mr. D s, " is arrant nonsense." I am afraid this learned man does not sufficiently understand the extensive meaning of the word whisper. If he had rightly understood what is meant by the " senses whispering the soul," in the Persian Princess, or what " whispering like winds " is in Aurengzebe, or like thunder in another author, he would have understood this. Emmeline in Dryden sees a voice, but she was born blind, which is an excuse Panthea cannot plead in Cyrus, who hears a sight: Your description will surpass All fiction, painting, or dumb show of horror, That ever ears yet heard, or eyes beheld. When Mr. D s understands these, he will understand whispering in books. Some ruffian stept into his father's place, And more than half begot him. Mary Queen of Scots. T For Ulamar seems sent express from Heaven, To civilize this rugged Indian clime. Liberty Asserted. * " Omne majus continet in se minus, sed minus non in se majus continere potest," says Scaliger in Thumbo. I suppose he would have cavilled at these beautiful lines in the Earl of Essex: Thy most inveterate soul, That looks through the foul prison of thy body. And at those of Dryden: The palace is without too well designed; Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. Aurengzebe. * The giant nurses frighten children with it, And cry Tom Thumb is come, and if you are Naughty, will surely take the child away. Nood. But hark ! "' these trumpets speak the king's approach. Dood. He comes most luckily for my petition. [Flourish. SCENE II KING, QUEEN, GRIZZLE, NOODLE, DOODLE, FOODLE. King. u Let nothing but a face of joy ap- pear; The man who frowns this day shall lose his head, That he may have no face to frown withal. Smile DollalloIIa Ha ! what wrinkled sorrow 1 -' Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy knitted brow? Whence flow those tears fast down thy blub- bered cheeks, Like a swoln gutter, gushing through the streets ? Queen. 13 Excess of joy, my lord, I've heard folks say, Gives tears as certain as excess of grief. King. If it be so, let all men cry for joy, 9 Mr. Banks hath copied this almost ver- batim: It was enough to say, here's Essex come, And nurses stilled their children with the fright. Earl of Essex. 10 The trumpet in a tragedy is generally as much as to say Enter king, which makes Mr. Banks, in one of his plays, call it the trumpet's formal sound. 11 Phraortes, in the Captives, seems to have been acquainted with king Arthur: Proclaim a festival for seven days' space, Let the court shine in all its pomp and lustre, Let all our streets resound with shouts of joy; Let music's care-dispelling voice be heard; The sumptuous banquet and the flowing goblet Shall warm the cheek and fill the heart with gladness. Astarbe shall sit mistress of the feast. 12 Repentance frowns on thy contracted brow. Sophonisba. Hung on his clouded brow, I marked despair. Ibid. A sullen gloom Scowls on his brow. Busiris. 13 Plato is of this opinion, and so is Mr. Banks: Behold these tears sprung from fresh pain and joy. Earl of Essex. 298 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT I, Sc. III. 14 Till my whole court be drowned with their tears ; Nay, till they overflow my utmost land, And leave me nothing but the sea to rule. Dood. My liege, I a petition have here got. King. Petition me no petitions, sir, to-day: Let other hours be set apart for business. To-day it is our pleasure to be '"' drunk. 14 These floods are very frequent in the tragic authors: Near to some murmuring brook I'll lay me down, Whose waters, if they should too shallow flow, My tears shall swell them up till I will drown. LEE'S Sophonisba. Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, That were the world on fire they might have drowned The wrath of heaven, and quenched the mighty ruin. Mithridates. One author changes the waters of grief to those of joy: These tears, that sprung from tides of grief, Are now augmented to a flood of joy. Cyrus the Great. Another: Turns all the streams of heat, and makes them flow In pity's channel. Royal Villain. One drowns himself: Pity like a torrent pours me down, Now I am drowning all within a deluge. Anne Bullen. Cyrus drowns the whole world: Our swelling grief Shall melt into a deluge, and the world Shall drown in tears. Cyrus the Great. 15 An expression vastly beneath the dignity of tragedy, says Mr. D s, yet we find the word he cavils at in the mouth of Mithridates less properly used, and applied to a more terrible idea: I would be drunk with death. Mithridates. The author of the new Sophonisba taketh hold of this monosyllable, and uses it pretty much to the same purpose: The Carthaginian sword with Roman blood Was drunk. I would ask Mr. D s which gives him the best idea, a drunken king, or a drunken sword? Mr. Tate dresses up king Arthur's resolu- tion in heroic: Merry, my lord, o' th' captain's humor right, I am resolved to be dead drunk to-night. Lee also uses this charming word: Love's the drunkenness of the mind. Gloriana. And this our queen shall be as drunk as we. Queen. (Though I already le half seas over am) If the capacious goblet overflow With arrack punch 'fore George! I'll see it out: Of rum and brandy I'll not taste a drop. King. Though rack, in punch, eight shil- lings be a quart, And rum and brandy be no more than six, Rather than quarrel you shall have your will. [Trumpets. But, ha! the warrior comes the great Tom Thumb. The little hero, giant-killing boy, Preserver of my kingdom, is arrived. SCENE III TOM THUMB to them, with Officers, Prisoners, and Attendants. King. " Oh ! welcome most, most welcome to my arms. What gratitude can thank away the debt Your valor lays upon me? Queen. 18 Oh! ye gods! [Aside. Thumb. When I'm not thanked at all, I'm thanked enough. 19 I've done my duty, and I've done no more. Queen. Was ever such a godlike creature seen? [Aside. King. Thy modesty's a m candle to thy merit, It shines itself, and shows thy merit too. But say, my boy, where didst thou leave the giants ? Thumb. My liege, without the castle gates they stand, The castle gates too low for their admit- tance. King. What look they like? 18 Dryden hath borrowed this, and applied it improperly: I'm half seas o'er in death. Cleomenes. 17 This figure is in great use among the tragedians: 'Tis therefore, therefore 'tis. Victim. I long, repent, repent, and long again. Busiris. 18 A tragical exclamation. 19 This line is copied verbatim in the Captives. 20 We find a candlestick for this candle in two celebrated authors: Each star withdraws His golden head, and burns within the socket. Nero. A soul grown old and sunk into the socket. Sebastian. 299 ACT I, Sc. III. TOM THUMB THE GREAT Thumb. Like nothing but themselves. Queen. -> And sure thou art like nothing but thyself. [Aside. King. Enough! the vast idea fills my soul. I see them yes, I see them now before me: The monstrous, ugly, barb'rous sons of whores. But ha! what form majestic strikes our eyes? -- So perfect, that it seems to have been drawn By all the gods in council: so fair she is, That surely at her birth the council paused, And then at length cried out, This is a woman ! Thumb. Then were the gods mistaken she is not A woman, but a giantess whom we, 23 With much ado, have made a shift to hawl Within the town: -' for she is by a foot Shorter than all her subject giants were. Glum. We yesterday were both a queen and wife, One hundred thousand giants owned our sway. Twenty whereof were married to ourself. 21 This simile occurs very frequently among the dramatic writers of both kinds. 22 Mr. Lee hath stolen this thought from our author: This perfect face, drawn by the gods in council, Which they were long a making. Luc. Jun. Brut. At his birth the heavenly council paused, And then at last cried out, This is a man! Dryden hath improved this hint to the ut- most perfection: So perfect, that the very gods who formed you wondered At their own skill, and cried, A lucky hit Has mended our design! Their envy hin- dered, Or you had been immortal, and a pattern, When .Heaven would work for ostentation sake, To copy out again. All for Love. Banks prefers the works of Michael An- gelo to that of the gods: A pattern for the gods to make a man by, Or Michael Angelo to form a statue. 23 It is impossible, says Mr. W , suffi- ciently to admire this natural easy line. 24 This tragedy, which in most points re- sembles the ancients, differs from them in this that it assigns the same honor to lowness of stature which they did to height. The gods and heroes in Homer and Virgil are continually described higher by the head than their followers, the contrary of which is observed by our author. In short, to ex- ceed on either side is equally admirable; and a man of three foot is as wonderful a sight as a man of nine. Queen. Oh! happy state of giantism where husbands Like mushrooms grow, whilst hapless we are forced To be content, nay, happy thought, with one. Glum. But then to lose them all in one black day, That the same sun which, rising, saw me wife To twenty giants, setting should behold Me widowed of them all. - 3 My worn-out heart, That ship, leaks fast, and the great heavy lading, My soul, will quickly sink. Queen. Madam, believe I view your sorrows with a woman's eye: But learn to bear them with what strength you may, To-morrow we will have our grenadiers Drawn out before you, and you then shall choose What husbands you think fit. Glum. *> Madam, I am Your most obedient and most humble servant. King. Think, mighty princess, think this court your own, Nor think the landlord me, this house my inn; Call for whate'er you will, you'll nothing pay. 27 I feel a sudden pain within my breast, Nor know I whether it arise from love Or only the wind-colic. Time must show. Oh Thumb ! what do we to thy valor owe ! Ask some reward, great as we can bestow. Thumb. - 8 I ask not kingdoms, I can con- quer those; I ask not money, money I've enough; For what I've done, and what I mean to do, For giants slain, and giants yet unborn, Which I will slay if this be called a debt, Take my receipt in full: I ask but this, 25 My blood leaks fast, and the great heavy lading My soul will quickly sink. Mithridates. My soul is like a ship. Injured Love. 26 This well-bred line seems to be copied in the Persian Princess: To be your humblest and most faithful slave. 27 This doubt of the king puts me in mind of a passage in the Captives, where the noise of feet is mistaken for the rustling of leaves. Methinks I hear The sound of feet: No; 'twas the wind that shook yon cypress boughs. 28 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this pas- sage in his eye in the first page of Love Triumphant. 300 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT I, Sc. III. 29 To sun myself in Huncamunca's eyes. King. Prodigious bold request. Queen. 30 Be still, my soul. [Aside. Thumb. 31 My heart is at the threshold of your mouth, And waits its answer there. Oh! do not frown. I've tried to reason's tune to tune my soul, But love did overwind and crack the string. Though Jove in thunder had cried out, YOU SHANT, I should have loved her still for oh, strange fate ! Then when I loved her least I loved her most! King. It is resolved the princess is your own. Thumb. Oh! 32 happy, happy, happy, happy Thumb ! Queen. Consider, sir; reward your sol- dier's merit, But give not Huncamunca to Tom Thumb. King. Tom Thumb ! Odzooks ! my wide- extended realm Knows not a name so glorious as Tom Thumb. Let Macedonia Alexander boast, Let Rome her Caesars and her Scipios show, Her Messieurs France, let Holland boast Mynheers, Ireland her O's, her Macs let Scotland boast, Let England boast no other than Tom Thumb. Queen. Though greater yet his boasted merit was, He shall not have my daughter, that is pos'. 29 Don Carlos, in the Revenge, suns himself in the charms of his mistress: While in the lustre of her charms I lay. 30 A tragical phrase much in use. 31 This speech hath been taken to pieces by several tragical authors, who seem to have rifled it, and shared its beauties among them. My soul waits at the portal of thy breast, To ravish from thy lips the welcome news. Anne Bullen. My soul stands listening at my ears. Cyrus the Great. Love to his tune my jarring heart would bring, But reason overwinds, and cracks the string. Duke of Guise. 1 should have loved, Though Jove, in muttering thunder, had forbid it. New Sophonisba. And when it (my heart) wild resolves to love no more, Then is the triumph of excessive love. Ibid. 32 Massinissa is one-fourth less happy than Tom Thumb. Oh! happy, happy, happy! New Sophonisba. King. Ha! sayest thou, Dollallolla? Queen. I say he shan't. King. 33 Then by our royal self we swear you lie. Queen. 3i Who, but a dog, who, but a dog Would use me as thou dost? Me, who have lain 35 These twenty years so loving by thy side ! But I will be revenged. I'll hang myself. Then tremble all who did this match per- suade, For, riding on a cat, from high I'll fall, And squirt down royal vengeance on you all. Food. 37 Her majesty the queen is in a passion. King. 38 g e sne> or oe sne not> j>jj to ^ e girl And pave thy way, oh Thumb. Now by ourself, We were indeed a pretty king of clouts To truckle to her will. For when by force Or art the wife her husband over-reaches, Give him the petticoat, and her the breeches. Thumb. 39 Whisper ye winds, that Hun- camunca's mine! Echoes repeat, that Huncamunca's mine! The dreadful business of the war is o'er, And beauty, heavenly beauty! crowns my toils ! I've thrown the bloody garment now aside And hymeneal sweets invite my bride. So when some chimney-sweeper all the day Hath through dark paths pursued the sooty way, At night to wash his hands and face he flies, And in his t'other shirt with his Brick- dusta lies. 33 No, by myself. Anne Bullen. Who caused This dreadful revolution in my fate. , Ulamar. Who, but a dog who, but a dog? Liberty Ass. A bride, Who twenty years lay loving by your side. Banks. 38 For, borne upon a cloud, from high I'll fall, And rain down royal vengeance on you all. Alb. Queens. 37 An information very like this we have in the Tragedy of Lore, where, Cyrus having stormed in the most violent manner, Cyaxares observes very calmly, Why, nephew Cyrus, you are moved. 38 'Tis in your choice. Love me, or love me not. Conquest of Granada. "There is not one beauty in this charming speech but hath been borrowed by almost every tragic writer. 301 ACT I, Sc. V. TOM THUMB THE GREAT SCENE IV Grizzle (solus). Where art thou, Griz- zle? where are now thy glories? Where are the drums that waken thee to honor ? Greatness is a laced coat from Monmouth- street, Which fortune lends us for a day to wear, To-morrow puts it on another's back. The spiteful sun but yesterday surveyed His rival high as Saint Paul's cupola; Now may he see me as Fleet-ditch laid low. SCENE V QUEEN, GRIZZLE. Queen. 41 Teach me to scold, prodigious- minded Grizzle. Mountain of treason, ugly as the devil, Teach this confounded hateful mouth of mine To spout forth words malicious as thyself, Words which might shame all Billingsgate to speak. Griz. Far be it from my prid to think my tongue Your royal lips can in that art instruct, Wherein you so excel. But may I ask, Without offence, wherefore my queen would scold? Queen. Wherefore? Oh! blood and thun- der! ha'n't you heard (What every corner of the court resounds) That little Thumb will be a great man made? Griz. I heard it. I confess for who, alas! 42 Can always stop his ears ? But would my teeth, By grinding knives, had first been set on edge! Queen. Would I had heard, at the still ' noon of night, The hallalloo of fire in every street! Odsbobs! I have a mind to hang myself, To think I should a grandmother be made By such a rascal! Sure the king forgets When in a pudding, by his mother put, The bastard, by a tinker, on a stile Was dropped. O, good lord Grizzle! can I bear 40 Mr. Banks has (I wish I could not say too servilely) imitated this of Grizzle in his Earl of Essex: Where art thou, Essex, &c. 41 The countess of Nottingham, in the Earl of Essex, is apparently acquainted with Dollallolla. 42 Grizzle was not probably possessed of that glue of which Mr. Banks speaks in his Cyrus. I'll glue my ears to every word. To see him from a pudding mount the throne? Or can, Oh can, my Huncamunca bear To take a pudding's offspring to her arms? Griz. Oh horror! horror! horror! cease, my queen. 43 Thy voice, like twenty screech-owls, wracks my brain. Queen. Then rouse thy spirit we may yet prevent This hated match. Gris. We will ; 44 nor fate itself, Should it conspire with Thomas Thumb, should cause it. I'll swim through seas; I'll ride upon the clouds; I'll dig the earth; I'll blow out every fire; I'll rave; I'll rant; I'll rise; I'll rush; I'll roar; Fierce as the man whom '' smiling dolphins bore From the prosaic to poetic shore. I'll tear the scoundrel into twenty pieces. Queen. Oh, no! prevent the match, but hurt him not; For, though I would not have him have my daughter, Yet can we kill the man that killed the giants ? Gria. I tell you, madam, it was all a trick; He made the giants first, and then he killed them; As fox-hunters bring foxes to the wood, And then with hounds they drive them out again. Queen. How! have you seen no giants? Are there not Now, in the yard, ten thousand proper giants ? Griz. 46 Indeed I cannot positively tell, 4 * Screech-owls, dark ravens, and amphibious monsters, Are screaming in that voice. Mary Queen of Scots. 44 The reader may see all the beauties of this speech in a late ode, called the Naval Lyric. 45 This epithet to a dolphin doth not give one so clear an idea as were to be wished; a smiling fish seeming a little more diffi- cult to be imagined than a flying fish. Mr. Dryden is of opinion that smiling is the property of reason, and that no irrational creature can smile: Smiles not allowed to beasts from reason move. State of Innocence. 48 These lines are written in the same key with those in the Earl of Essex: Why, sayest thou so? I love thee well, indeed I do, and thou shalt find by this 'tis true. 302 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT II, Sc. II. But firmly do believe there is not one. Queen. Hence! from my sight! thou trai- tor, hie away ; By all my stars! thou enviest Tom Thumb. Go, sirrah! go," hie away! hie! thou art A setting-dog: be gone. Griz. Madam, I go. Tom Thumb shall feel the vengeance you have raised. So, when two dogs are fighting in the streets, With a third dog one of the two dogs meets, With angry teeth he bites him to the bone, And this dog smarts for what that dog had done. SCENE VI Queen (sola). And whither shall I go? Alack a day! I love Tom Thumb but must not tell him so; For what's a woman when her virtue's gone? A coat without its lace; wig out of buckle; A stocking with a hole in.'t 1 can't live Without my virtue, or without Tom Thumb. me weigh them in two equal put my virtue, that Tom 18 Then let scales; In this scale Thumb. Alas! Tom Thumb is heavier than my virtue. But hold {perhaps I may be left a widow: This match prevented, then Tom Thumb is mine: In that dear hope I will forget my pain. Or with this in Cyrus: The most heroic mind that ever was. And with above half of the modern tragedies. 4T Aristotle, in that excellent work of his which is very justly styled his master- piece, earnestly recommends using the terms of art, however coarse or even in- decent they may be. Mr. Tate is of the same opinion. Bru. Do not, like young hawks, fetch a course about: Your game flies fair. Fra. Do not fear it. He answers you in your hawking phrase. Injured Love. I think these two great authorities are sufficient to justify Dollallolla in the use of the phrase, "Hie away, hie!" when in the same line she says she is speaking to a setting-dog. 48 We meet with such another pair of scales in Dry den's King Arthur: Arthur and Oswald, and their different fates, Are weighing now within the scales of heaven. Also -in Sebastian: This hour ray lot is weighing in the scales. So, when some wench to Tothill Bridewell's sent, With beating hemp and flogging she's con- tent; She hopes in time to ease her present pain. At length is free, and walks the streets again. ACT II, SCENE I The Street. BAILIFF, FOLLOWER. Bail. Come on, my trusty follower, come on; This day discharge thy duty, and at night A double mug of beer, and beer shall glad thee. Stand here by me, this way must Noodle pass. Fol. No more, no more, oh Bailiff! every word Inspires my soul with virtue. Oh! I long To meet the enemy in the street and nab him: To lay arresting hands upon his back, And drag him trembling to the sponging- house. Bail. There when I have him, I will sponge upon him. 4S Oh ! glorious thought ! by the sun, moon, and stars, I will enjoy it, though it be in thought! Yes, yes, my follower, I will enjoy it. Fol. Enjoy it then some other time, for now Our prey approaches. Bail. Let us retire. SCENE II TOM THUMB, NOODLE, BAILIFF, FOLLOWER. Thumb. Trust me, my Noodle, I am won- drous sick; For, though I love the gentle Huncamunca, Yet at the thought of marriage I grow pale: For, oh ! M but swear thou'l t keep it ever secret, I will unfold a tale will make thee stare. 49 Mr. Rowe is generally imagined to have taken some hints from this scene in his character of Bajazet; but as he, of all the tragic writers, bears the least resemblance to our author in his diction, I am unwilling to imagine he would condescend to copy him in this particular. 50 This method of surprising an audience, by raising their expectation to the highest pitch, and then baulking it, hath been prac- tised with great success by most of our tragical authors. 303 ACT II, Sc. III. TOM THUMB THE GREAT Nood. I swear by lovely Huncamunca's charms. Thumb. Then know 51 my grandmamma hath often said, Tom Thumb, beware of marriage. Nood. Sir, I blush To think a warrior, great in arms as you, Should be affrighted by his grandmamma. Can an old woman's empty dreams deter The blooming hero from the virgin's arms? Think of the joy that will your soul alarm, When in her fond embraces clasped you lie, While on her panting breast, dissolved in bliss, You pour out all Tom Thumb in every kiss. Thumb. Oh! Noodle, thou hast fired my eager soul Spite of my grandmother she shall be mine; I'll hug, caress, I'll eat her up with love: Whole days, and nights, and years shall be too short For our enjoyment; every sun shall rise "-' Blushing to see us in our bed together. Nood. Oh, sir! this purpose of your soul pursue. Bail. Oh! sir! I have an action against you. Nood. At whose suit is it? Bail. At your tailor's, sir. Your tailor put this warrant in my hands, And I arrest you, sir, at his commands. Thumb. Ha! dogs! Arrest my friend be- fore my face ! Think you Tom Thumb will suffer this dis- grace ? But let vain cowards threaten by their word, 51 Almeyda, in Sebastian, is in the same distress: Sometimes methinks I hear the groan of ghosts, Thin hollow sounds and lamentable screams; Then, like a. dying echo from afar, My mother's voice that cries, Wed not, Almeyda; Forewarned, Almeyda, marriage is thy crime. 52 " As very well he may, if he hath any modesty in him," says Mr. D s. The author of Busiris is extremely zealous to prevent the sun's blushing at any indecent object; and therefore on all such occasions he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to keep out of the way. Rise never more, O sun! let night prevail, Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene. Busiris. Sun, hide thy face, and put the world in mourning. Ibid. Mr. Banks makes the sun perform the office of Hymen, and therefore not likely to be disgusted at such a sight: The sun sets forth like a gay brideman with you. Mary Queen of Scots. Tom Thumb shall show his anger by his sword. [Kills the Bailiff and his Follower. Bail. Oh, I am slain! Fol. I am murdered also And to the shades, the dismal shades below, My bailiff's faithful follower I go. Nood. "Go then to hell, like rascals as you are, And give our service to the bailiffs there. Thumb. Thus perish all the bailiffs in the land, Till debtors at noon-day shall walk the streets, And no one fear a bailiff or his writ. SCENE III The Princess Huncamunca's Apartment. HUNCAMUNCA, CLEORA, MUSTACHA. Hunc. 54 Give me some music see that it be sad. CLEORA sings. Cupid, ease a love-sick maid, Bring thy quiver to her aid; With equal ardor wound the swain, Beauty should never sigh in vain. II Let him feel the pleasing smart, Drive thy arrow through his heart: When one you wound, you then destroy; When both you kill, you kill with joy. Hunc. 55 O Tom Thumb ! Tom Thumb ! wherefore art thou Tom Thumb? Why hadst thou not been born of royal race? Why had not mighty Bantam been thy father? Or else the king of Brentford, Old or New? Must. I am surprised that your highness can give yourself a moment's uneasiness about that little insignificant fellow, 53 Tom 53 Nourmahal sends the same message to heaven: For I would have you when you upwards move, Speak kindly of us to our friends above. Aurengsebe. We find another " to hell," in the Persian Princess : Villain, get thee down To hell, and tell them that the fray's begun. 54 Anthony gives the same command in the same words. 55 Oh! Marius, Marius, wherefore art thou Marius? Otway's Marius. 06 Nothing is more common than these seeming contradictions; such as, Haughty weakness. Victim. Great small world. Noah's Flood. 304 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT II, Sc. IV. Thumb the Great one properer for a play- thing than a husband. Were he my husband his horns should be as long as his body. If you had fallen in love with a grenadier, I should not have wondered at it. If you had fallen in love with something; but to fall in love with nothing! Hit lie. Cease, my Mustacha, on thy duty cease. The zephyr, when in flowery vales it plays, Is soft, sweet as Thummy's not si breath. The dove is not so gentle to its mate. Must. The dove is every bit as proper for a husband. Alas ! Madam, there's not a beau about the court looks so little like a man. He is a perfect butterfly, a thing with- out substance, and almost without shadow too. Hit nc. This rudeness is unseasonable: desist; Or I shall think this railing comes from love. Tom Thumb's a creature of that charming form, That no one can abuse, unless they love him. Must. Madam, the king. SCENE IV KING, HUNCAMUNCA. King. Let all but Huncamunca leave the room. [Exeunt CLEORA and MUSTACHA. Daughter, I havt observed of late some grief Unusual in your countenance: your eyes 57 That, like two open windows, used to show The lovely beauty of the rooms within, Have now two blinds before them. What is the cause ? Say, have you not enough of meat and drink? We've given strict orders not to have you stinted. Hunc. Alas! my lord, I value not myself That once I eat two fowls and half a pig; 58 Small is that praise ! but oh ! a maid may want What she can neither eat nor drink. King. What's that? 57 Lee hath improved this metaphor: Dost thou not view joy peeping from my eyes, The casements opened wide to gaze on thee, So Rome's glad citizens to windows rise, When they some young triumpher fain would see. Gloria/no. 58 Almahide hath the same contempt for these appetites: To eat and drink can no perfection he. Conquest of Granada. The Earl of Essex is of a different opinion, Hunc. O 59 spare my blushes; but I mean a husband. King. If that be all, I have provided one, A husband great in arms, whose warlike sword Streams with the yellow blood of slaughter'd giants, Whose name in Terra Incognita is known, Whose valor, wisdom, virtue make a noise Great as the kettle-drums of twenty armies. Hunc. Whom does my royal father mean? King. Tom Thumb. Hunc. Is it possible? King. Ha! the window-blinds are gone; 60 A country-dance of joy is in your face. Your eyes spit fire, your cheeks grow red as beef. Hunc. O, there's a magic-music in that sound, Enough to turn me into beef indeed! Yes, I will own, since licensed by your word, I'll own Tom Thumb the cause of all my grief. For him I've sighed, I've wept, I've gnawed my sheets. King. Oh ! thou shalt gnaw thy tender sheets no more. A husband thou shalt have to mumble now. Hunc. Oh! happy sound! henceforth let no one tell That Huncamunca shall lead apes in hell. Oh! I am overjoyed! and seems to place the chief happiness of a general therein: Were but commanders half so well rewarded, Then they might eat. BANKS'S Earl of Essex. But, if we may believe one who knows more than either, the devil himself, we shall find eating to be an affair of more mo- ment than is generally imagined: Gods are immortal only by their food. Lucifer, in the State of Innocence. 50 This expression is enough of itself," says Mr. D s, " utterly to destroy the character of Huncamunca! " Yet we find a woman of no abandoned character in Dry- den adventuring farther, and thus excusing herself: To speak our wishes first, forbid it pride, Forbid it modesty; true, they forbid it, But Nature does not. When we are athirst, Or hungry, will imperious Nature stay, Nor eat, nor drink, before 'tis bid fall on? Clcomenes. Cassandra speaks before she is asked: Huncamunca afterwards. Cassandra speaks her wishes to her lover: Huncamunca only to her father. 90 Her eyes resistless magic bear; Angels, I see, and gods are dancing there. LEE'S Sophonisba. 305 ACT II, Sc. V. TOM THUMB THE GREAT Kin,;. 1 see thou art. 61 Joy lightens in thy eyes, and thunders from thy brows; Transports, like lightning, dart along thy soul, As small-shot through a hedge. II it >ii. Oh! say not small. King. This happy news shall on our tongue ride post, Ourself we bear the happy news to Thumb. Yet think not, daughter, that your powerful charms Must still detain the hero from his arms; Various his duty, various his delight; Now is his turn to kiss, and now to fight, And now to kiss again. So, mighty i; - Jove, When with excessive thundering tired above, Comes down to earth, and takes a bit and then Flies to his trade of thundering back again. SCENE V GRIZZLE, HUNCAMUNCA. 83 Gris. Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamun ca, oh! Thy pouting breasts, like kettle-drums of brass, Beat everlasting loud alarms of joy; As bright as brass they are, and oh, as hard. Oh! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh! Hit nc. Ha! dost thou know me, princess as I am, 61 Mr. Dennis, in that excellent tragedy called Liberty Asserted, which is thought to have given so great a stroke to the late French king, hath frequent imitations of this beautiful speech of king Arthur: Conquest lightening in his eyes, and thun- dering in his arm. Joy lightened in her eyes. Joys like lightning dart along my soul. 82 Jove, with excessive thundering tired above, Comes down for ease, enjoys a nymph, and then Mounts dreadful, and to thundering goes again. Gloriana. 83 This beautiful line, which ought, says Mr. W , to be written in gold, is imitated in the New Sophonisba: Oh! Sophonisba; Sophonisba, oh! Oh! Narva; Narva, oh! The author of a song called Duke upon Duke hath improved it: Alas! O Nick! O Nick, alas! Where, by the help of a little false spelling, you have two meanings in the repeated words. "' That thus of me you dare to make your game? Gris. Oh! Huncamunca, well I know that you A princess are, and a king's daughter, too; But love no meanness scorns, no grandeur fears; Love often lords into the cellar bears, And bids the sturdy porter come up stairs. For what's too high for love, or what's too low? Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh ! llinic. But, granting all you say of love were true, My love, alas! is to another due. In vain to me a suitoring you come, For I'm already promised to Tom Thumb. Griz. And can my princess such a durgen wed? One fitter for your pocket than your bed! Advised by me, the worthless baby shun, Or you will ne'er be brought to bed of one. Oh take me to thy arms, and never flinch, Who am a man, by Jupiter! every inch. 85 Then, while in joys together lost we lie, I'll press thy soul while gods stand wishing by. Hutic. If, sir, what you insinuate you prove, All obstacles of promise you remove; For all engagements to a man must fall, Whene'er that man is proved no man at all. Gris. Oh! let him seek some dwarf, some fairy miss, Where no joint-stool must lift him to the kiss! But, by the stars and glory! you appear Much fitter for a Prussian grenadier; One globe alone on Atlas' shoulders rests, Two globes are less than Huncamunca's breasts; The milky way is not so white, that's flat, And sure thy breasts are full as large as that. Hnnc. Oh, sir, so strong your eloquence I find, It is impossible to be unkind. Griz. Ah! speak that o'er again; and let the sound 84 Edith, in the Bloody Brother, speaks to her lover in the same familiar language: Your grace is full of game. 65 Traverse the glittering chambers of the sky, Borne on a cloud in view of fate I'll lie, And press her soul while gods stand wish- ing by. Hannibal. 68 Let the four winds from distant corners meet, And on their wings first bear it into France; Then back again to Edina's proud walls, Till victim to the sound th' aspiring city falls. Albion Queens. 306 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT II, Sc. VII. From one pole to another pole rebound; The earth and sky each be a battledore, And keep the sound, that shuttlecock, up an hour: To Doctors-Commons for a licence I Swift as an arrow from a bow will fly. Hunc. Oh, no! lest some disaster we should meet, 'Twere better to be married at the Fleet. <,>::. Forbid it, all ye powers, a princess should By that vile place contaminate her blood; My quick return shall to my charmer prove I travel on the ;T post-horses of love. Hunc. Those post-horses to me will seem too slow Though they should fly swift as the gods, when they Ride on behind that post-boy, Opportunity. SCENE VI TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA. Thumb. Where is my princess? where's my Huncamunca? Where are those eyes, those cardmatches of love, That M light up all with love my waxen soul? Where is that face which artful nature made 6!l In the same moulds where Venus' self was cast? 8T I do not remember any metaphors so frequent in the tragic poets as those bor- rowed from riding post: The gods and opportunity ride post. Hannibal. Let's rush together, For death rides post: Duke of Guise. Destruction gallops to thy murder post. Gloriana. 68 This image, too, very often occurs: Bright as when thy eye First lighted up our loves. Attrengsebe. 'Tis not a crown alone lights up my name. Busiris. 89 There is great dissension among the poets concerning the method of making man. One tells his mistress that the mould she was made in being lost, Heaven cannot form such another. Lucifer, in Dryden, gives a merry description of his own forma- tion: Whom heaven, neglecting, made and scarce designed, But threw me in for number to the rest. State of Innocence. In one place the same poet supposes man to be made of metal: Hunc. that' 70 Oh! what is music deaf, to the ear Or a goose-pie to him that has no taste? What are these praises now to me, since I Am promised to another? Thumb. Ha! promised? Hunc. Too sure; 'tis written in the book of fate. Thumb. 71 Then I will tear away the leaf Wherein it's writ; or, if fate won't allow So large a gap within its journal-book, I'll blot it out at least. SCENE VII GLUMDALCA, TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA. Glum. ~- 1 need not ask if you are Hun- camunca, Your brandy-nose proclaims I was formed Of that coarse metal which, when she was made, The gods threw by for rubbish. In another of dough: All for Love. When the gods moulded up the paste of man, Some of their clay was left upon their hands, And so they made Egyptians. Cleomenes. In another of clay: Rubbish of remaining clay. Sebastian. One makes the soul of wax: Her waxen soul begins to melt apace. A ., , ,,. . Anne Bullen. Another of flint: Sure our two souls have somewhere been acquainted In former beings, or, struck out together, One spark to Afric flew, and one to Portugal. Sebastian. To omit the great quantities of iron, brazen, and leaden souls which are so plenty in modern authors I cannot omit the dress of a soul as we find it in Dryden: Souls shirted but with air. King Arthur. Nor can I pass by a particular sort of soul in a particular sort of description in the New Sophonisba. Ye mysterious powers, Whether through your gloomy depths I wander, Or on the mountains walk, give me the calm, The steady smiling soul, where wisdom sheds Eternal sunshine, and eternal joy. 70 This line Mr. Banks has plundered entire in his Anne Bullen. 71 Good Heaven! the book of fate before me lay, But to tear out the journal of that day. Or, if the order of the world below Will not the gap of one whole day allow, Give me that minute when she made her vow. Conquest of Granada. 72 1 know some of the commentators have imagined that Mr. Dryden, in the altercative 307 ACT II, Sc. VIII. TOM THUMB THE GREAT finnc. I am a princess; Nor need I ask who you are. Glum. A giantess; The queen of those who made and unmade queens. Hiinc. The man whose chief ambition is to be My sweetheart hath destroyed these mighty giants. Glum. Your sweetheart? Dost thou think the man who once Hath worn my easy chains will e'er wear thine ? Hunc. Well may your chains be easy, since, if fame Says true, they have been tried on twenty husbands. 73 The glove or boot, so many times pulled on, May well sit easy on the hand or foot. Glum. I glory in the number, and when I Sit poorly down, like thee, content with one, Heaven change this face for one as bad as thine. Hunc. Let me see nearer what this beauty is That captivates the heart of men by scores. [Holds a candle to her face. Oh! Heaven, thou art as ugly as the devil. Glum. You'd give the best of shoes within your shop To be but half so handsome. Hunc. Since you come 74 To that, I'll put my beauty to the test: Tom Thumb, I'm yours, if you with me will go. scene between Cleopatra and Octavia, a scene which Mr. Addison inveighs against with great bitterness, is much beholden to our author. How just this their observa- tion is I will not presume to determine. 73 " A cobbling poet indeed," says Mr. D. ; and yet I believe we may find as monstrous images in the tragic authors: I'll put down one: Untie your folded thoughts, and let them dangle loose as a bride's hair. Injured Love. Which line seems to have as much title to a milliner's shop as our author's to a shoe- maker's. 74 Mr. L takes occasion in this place to commend the great care of our author to preserve the metre of blank verse, in which Shakespeare, Jonson, and Fletcher were so notoriously negligent; and the moderns, in imitation of our author, so laudably ob- servant: Then does Your majesty believe that he can be A traitor? Earl of Essex. Every page of Sophonisba gives us instances of this excellence. Glum. Oh! stay, Tom Thumb, and you alone shall fill That bed where twenty giants used to lie. Thumb. In the balcony that o'erhangs the stage, I've seen a whore two 'prentices engage; One half-a-crown does in his fingers hold, The other shows a little piece of gold; She the half-guinea wisely does purloin, And leaves the larger and the baser coin. Glum. Left, scorned, and loathed for such a chit as this; 75 I feel the storm that's rising in my mind, Tempests and whirlwinds rise, and roll, and roar. I'm all within a hurricane, as if 70 The world's four winds were pent within my carcase. 77 Confusion, horror, murder, guts, and death! SCENE VIII KING, GLUMDALCA. King. 7S Sure never was so sad a king as I! 79 My life is worn as ragged as a coat A beggar wears; a prince should put it off. 80 To love a captive and a giantess! Oh love! oh love! how great a king art thou! My tongue's thy trumpet, and thou trum- petest, Unknown to me, within me. SI Oh, Glum- dalca! Heaven thee designed a giantess to make, But an angelic soul was shuffled in. 8 - 1 am a multitude of walking griefs, 75 Love mounts and rolls about my stormy mind. Aurengzebe. Tempests and whirlwinds through my bosom move. Cleomenes. 78 With such a furious tempest on his brow, As if the world's four winds were pent within His blustering carcase. Anne Bullen. 77 Verba Tragtca. 78 This speech has been terribly mauled by the poet. 79 My life is worn to rags, Not worth a prince's wearing. Love Triumphant. 80 Must I beg the pity of my slave? Must a king beg? But love's a greater king, A tyrant, nay, a devil, that possesses me. He tunes the organ of my voice and speaks, Unknown to me, within me. Sebastian. 81 When thou wert formed heaven did a man begin; But a brute soul by chance was shuffled in. Aurengzebe. 82 1 am a multitude Of walking griefs. New Sophonisba. 308 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT II, Sc. IX. And only on her lips the balm is found " To spread a plaster that might cure them all. Glum. What do I hear? What do I see? Oh! King. Glum. King. 84 Glum. King. 85 Glum. King. Ah! Ah ! wretched queen ! Oh! wretched king! Ah! Oh! SCENE IX TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA, PARSON. Par. Happy's the wooing that's not long a doing; For, if I guess right, Tom Thumb this night Shall give a being to a new Tom Thumb. Thumb. It shall be my endeavor so to do. Hit nc. Oh ! fie upon you, sir, you make me blush. Thumb. It is the virgin's sign, and suits you well : 88 I know not where, nor how, nor what I am; 87 I'm so transported, I have lost myself. 83 1 will take thy scorpion blood, And lay it to my grief till I have ease. Anne Bullen. 84 Our author, who everywhere shows his great penetration into human nature, here outdoes himself: where a less judicious poet would have raised a long scene of whining love, he, who understood the passions bet- ter, and that so violent an affection as this must be too big for utterance, chooses rather to send his characters off in this sullen and doleful manner, in which admi- rable conduct he is imitated by the author of the justly celebrated Eurydice. Dr. Young seems to point at this violence of passion: Passion chokes Their words, and they're the statues of despair. And Seneca tells us, " Curse leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent." The story of the Egyp- tian king in Herodotus is too well known to need to be inserted; I refer the more curious reader to the excellent Montaigne, who hath written an essay on this subject. 83 To part is death. 'Tis death to part. Ah! Oh! Don Carlos. 86 Nor know I whether What am I, who, or where. Buriris. I was I know not what, and am I know not ho\ Gloriana. 87 To understand sufficiently the beauty of this passage, it will be necessary that we Hunc. Forbid it, all ye stars, for you're so small, That were you lost, you'd find yourself no more. So the unhappy sempstress once, they say, Her needle in a pottle, lost, of hay; In vain she looked, and looked, and made her moan, For ah, the needle was for ever gone. Par. Long may they live, and love, and propagate, Till the whole land be peopled with Tom Thumbs ! 88 So, when the Cheshire cheese a maggot breeds, Another and another still succeeds: comprehend every man to contain two selfs. I shall not attempt to prove this from philosophy, which the poets make so plainly evident. One runs away from the other: Let me demand your majesty, Why fly you from yourself? Duke of Guise. In a second, one self is a guardian to the other: Leave me the care of me. Conquest of Granada. Again: Myself am to myself less near. Ibid. In the same, the first self is proud of the second: I myself am proud of me. State of Innocence. In a third, distrustful of him: Fain I would tell, but whisper it in my ear, That none besides might hear, nay, not myself. Earl of Essex. In a fourth, honors him: I honor Rome, And honor too myself. Sophonisba. In a fifth, at variance with him: Leave me not thus at variance with myself. Busirts. Again, in a sixth: I find myself divided from myself. Medea. She seemed the sad effigies of herself. Banks. Assist me, Zulema, if thou wouldst be The friend thou seemest, assist me against me. Albion Queens. From all which it appears that there are two selfs; and therefore Tom Thumb's los- ing himself is no such solecism as it hath been represented by men rather ambitious of criticising than qualified to criticise. 88 Mr. F imagines this parson to have been a Welsh one, from his simile. 309 ACT II, Sc. X. TOM THUMB THE GREAT By thousands and ten thousands they in- crease, Till one continued maggot fills the rotten cheese. SCENE X NOODLE, and then GRIZZLE. Nood. 89 Sure, Nature means to break her solid chain, Or else unfix the world, and in a rage To hurl it from its axletree and hinges; AH things are so confused, the king's in love, The queen is drunk, the princess married is. Gri~. Oh, Noodle! Hast thou Huncamunca seen? Nood. I've seen a thousand sights this day, where none Are by the wonderful bitch herself outdone. The king, the queen, and all the court, are sights. Gris. m D n your delay, you trifler ! are you drunk, ha? I will not hear one word but Huncamunca. Nood. By this time she is married to Tom Thumb. Grig. ai My Huncamunca! Nood. Your Huncamunca, Tom Thumb's Huncamunca, every man's Huncamunca. Gris. If this be true, all womankind are damned. Nood. If it be not, may I be so myself. Gris. See where she comes! I'll not be- lieve a word Against that face, upon whose "-' ample brow Sits innocence with majesty enthroned. GRIZZLE, HUNCAMUNCA. Gris. Where has my Huncamunca been? See here. The licence in my hand! ** Our author hath been plundered here, according to custom: Great Nature, break thy chain that links together The fabric of the world, and make a chaos Like that within my soul. Love Triumphant. Startle Nature, unfix the globe, And hurl it from its axletree and hinges. Albion Queens. The tottering earth seems sliding off its props. 90 D n your delay, ye torturers, proceed; I will not hear one word but Almahide. Conquest of Granada. n Mr. Dryden hath imitated this in All for Love. 82 This Miltonic style abounds in the New Sophonisba : And on her ample brow Sat majesty. Hunc. Alas! Tom Thumb. Gris. Why dost thou mention him? Hunc. Ah, me! Tom Thumb. Gris. What means my lovely Huncamunca? Hunc. Hum! Gris. Oh ! speak. Hunc. Hum ! Gris. Ha! your every word is hum: '' : You force me still to answer you, Tom Thumb. Tom Thumb I'm on the rack I'm in a flame. w Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb you love the name; So pleasing is that sound, that, were you dumb, You still would find a voice to cry Tom Thumb. Hunc. Oh! be not hasty to proclaim my doom! My ample heart for more than one has room: A maid like me Heaven formed at least for two. 81 1 married him, and now I'll marry you. Gris. Ha! dost thou own thy falsehood to my face ? Thinkest thou that I will share thy hus- band's place? Since to that office one cannot suffice, And since you scorn to dine one single dish on, Go, get your husband put into commission. Commissioners to discharge (ye gods! it fine is) The duty of a husband to your highness. Yet think not long I will my rival bear, Or unrevenged the slighted willow wear; The gloomy, brooding tempest, now con- fined Within the hollow caverns of my mind, In dreadful whirl shall roll along the coasts, Shall thin the land of all the men it boasts, 96 And cram up every chink of hell with ghosts. 83 Your every answer still so ends in that, You force me still to answer you Morat. Aurengsebe. "Morat, Morat, Morat! you love the name. Ibid. 85 " Here is a sentiment for the virtuous Huncamunca! " says Mr. D s. And yet, with the leave of this great man, the vir- tuous Panthea, in Cyrus, hath an heart every whit as ample: For two I must confess are gods to me, Which is my Abradatus first, and thee. Cyrus the Great. Nor is the lady in Love Triumphant more reserved, though not so intelligible: I am so divided, That I grieve most for both, and love both most. 86 A ridiculous supposition to any one who considers the great and extensive largeness 310 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT III, Sc. I. 97 So have I seen, in some dark winter's day, A sudden storm rush down the sky's highway, Sweep through the streets with terrible ding- dong, Gush through the spouts, and wash whole crowds along. The crowded shops the thronging vermin screen, Together cram the dirty and the clean, And not one shoe-boy in the street is seen. Hunc. Oh, fatal rashness! should his fury slay My hapless bridegroom on his wedding-day, I, who this morn of two chose which to wed, May go again this night alone to bed. 98 So have I seen some wild unsettled fool, of hell, says a commentator; but not so to those who consider the great expansion of immaterial substance. Mr. Banks makes one soul to be so expanded, that heaven could not contain it: The heavens are all too narrow for her soul. Virtue Betrayed. The Persian Princess hath a passage not unlike the author of this: We will send such shoals of murdered slaves, Shall glut hell's empty regions. This threatens to fill hell, even though it were empty: Lord Grizzle, only to fill up the chinks, supposing the rest already full. 97 Mr. Addison is generally thought to have had this simile in his eye when he wrote that beautiful one at the end of the third act of his Cato. 98 This beautiful simile is founded on a proverb which does Honor to the English language : Between two stools the breech falls to the ground. I am not so well pleased with any written remains of the ancients as with those little aphorisms which verbal tradition hath de- livered down to us under the title of prov- erbs. It were to be wished that, instead of filling their pages with the fabulous theology of the pagans, our modern poets would think it worth their while to enrich their works with the proverbial sayings of their an- cestors. Mr. Dryden hath chronicled one in heroic: Two ifs scarce make one possibility. Conquest of Granada. My Lord Bacon is of opinion that, what- ever is known of arts and sciences might be proved to have lurked in the Proverbs of Solomon. I am of the same opinion in re- lation to those above mentioned; at least I am confident that a more perfect system of ethics, as well as economy, might be com- piled out of them than is at present extant, either in the works of the ancient philoso- Who had her choice of this and that joint- stool, To give the preference to either loth, And fondly coveting to sit on both, While the two stools her sitting-part con- found. Between 'em both fall squat upon the ground. ACT III SCENE I KING ARTHUR'S Palace. 99 Ghost (solus). Hail! ye black horrors of midnight's midnoon ! Ye fairies, goblins, bats, and screech-owls, hail! And, oh! ye mortal watchmen, whose hoarse throats The immortal ghosts' dread croakings coun- terfeit, All hail ! Ye dancing phantoms, who, by day, Are some condemned to fast, some feast in fire, Now play in churchyards, skipping o'er the graves, To the 10 loud music of the silent bell, All hail! phers, or those more valuable, as more volu- minous ones of the modern divines. 99 Of all the particulars in which the mod- ern stage falls short of the ancient, there is none so much to be lamented as the great scarcity of ghosts in the latter. Whence this proceeds I will not presume to deter- mine. Some are of opinion that the moderns are unequal to that sublime language which a ghost ought to speak. One says, ludi- crously, that ghosts are out of fashion; an- other that they are properer for comedy; forgetting, I suppose, that Aristotle hath told us that a ghost is the soul of tragedy; for so I render the ? o ^.CSos TTJS Tpayta&ia? which M. Dacier, amongst others, hath mis- taken; I suppose misled by not understand- ing the Fabula of the Latins, which signifies a ghost as well as a fable. " Te premet nox, fabulxque manes." Horace. Of all the ghosts that have ever appeared on the stage, a very learned and judicious foreign critic gives the preference to this of our author. These are his words, speaking of this tragedy: "Nee quidquam in ilia admirabilius quam phasma quoddam hor- rendum, quod omnibus aliis spectris, quibus- cum scatet Angelorum tragoedia, longe (pace D ysii V. Doctiss. dixerim) praetulerim." 100 \y e have already given instances of this figure. 311 ACT III, Sc. II. SCENE II KING and GHOST. King. What noise is this? What villain dares, At this dread hour, with feet and voice pro- fane, Disturb our royal walls? Ghost. One who defies Thy empty power to hurt him; "'' one who dares Walk in thy bedchamber. King. Presumptuous slave ! Thou diest. Ghost. Threaten others with that word: 102 I am a ghost, and am already dead. King. Ye stars! 'tis well. Were thy last hour to come, This moment had been it; ' ; yet by thy shroud I'll pull thee backward, squeeze thee to a bladder, Till thou dost groan thy nothingness away. Thou flyest! 'Tis well. [Ghost retires. 104 1 thought what was the courage of a ghost! 101 Almanzor reasons in the same manner: A ghost I'll be; And from a ghost, you know, no place is free. Conquest of Granada. ioj The man w ho writ this wretched pun," says Mr. D., " would have picked your pocket:" which he proceeds to show not only bad in itself, but doubly so on so solemn an occasion. And yet, in that excellent play of Liberty Asserted, we find something very much resembling a pun in the mouth of a mistress, who is parting with the lover she is fond of: VI. Oh, mortal woe! one kiss, and then farewell. Irene. The gods have given to others to fare well. O! miserably must Irene fare. Agamemnon, in the Victim, is full as face- tious on the most solemn occasion that of sacrificing his daughter: Yes, daughter, yes; you will assist the priest; Yes, you must offer up your vows for Greece. 103 I'll pull thee backwards by thy shroud to light, Or else I'll squeeze thee, like a bladder, there, And make thee groan thyself away to air. Conquest of Granada. Snatch me, ye gods, this moment into noth- ing. Cyrus the Great. 101 So, art thou gone? Thou canst no con- quest boast. I thought what was the courage of a ghost. Conquest of Granada. Yet, dare not, on thy life Why say I that, Since life thou hast not? Dare not walk again Within these walls, on pain of the Red Sea. For, if henceforth I ever find thee here, As sure, sure as a gun, I'll have thee laid Ghost. Were the Red Sea a sea of Hol- land's gin, The liquor (when alive) whose very smell I did detest, did loathe yet, for the sake Of Thomas Thumb, I would be laid therein. King. Ha! said you? Ghost. Yes, my liege, I said Tom Thumb, Whose father's ghost I am once not un- known To mighty Arthur. But, I see, 'tis true, The dearest friend, when dead, we all forget. King. 'Tis he it is the honest Gaffer Thumb. Oh! let me press thee in my eager arms, Thou best of ghosts! thou something more than ghost! Ghost. Would I were something more, that we again Might feel each other in the warm embrace. But now I have the advantage of my king, 103 For I feel thee, whilst thou dost not feel me. King. But say, 10 thou dearest air, Oh ! say what dread, Important business sends thee back to earth ? Ghost. Oh! then prepare to hear which but to hear Is full enough to send thy spirit hence. Thy subjects up in arms, by Grizzle led, Will, ere the rosy-fingered morn shall ope The shutters of the sky, before the gate Of this thy royal palace, swarming spread. 107 So have I seen the bees in clusters swarm, So have I seen the stars in frosty night*, So have I seen the sand in windy days. So have I seen the ghosts on Pluto's shore, So have I seen the flowers in spring arise, So have I seen the leaves in autumn fall, So have I seen the fruits in summer smile, So have I seen the snow in winter frown. King Arthur seems to be as brave a fellow as Almanzor, who says most heroically, In spite of ghosts I'll on. 105 The ghost of Lausaria, in Cyrus, is a plain copy of this, and is therefore worth reading: Ah, Cyrus! Thou mayest as well grasp water, or fleet air, As think of touching my immortal shade. Cyrus the Great. 106 Thou better part of heavenly air. Conquest of Granada. 107 " A string of similes," says one, " proper to be hung up in the cabinet of a prince." 312 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT III, Sc. VI. King. D n all thou hast seen! dost thou, beneath the shape Of Gaffer Thumb, come hither to abuse me With similes, to keep me on the rack? Hence or, by all the torments of thy hell, 108 I'll run thee through the body, though thou'st none. Ghost. Arthur, beware! I must this moment hence, Not frighted by your voice, but by the cocks ! Arthur beware, beware, beware, beware! Strive to avert thy yet impending fate; For, if thou'rt killed to-day, To-morrow all thy care will come too late. SCENE III KING, solus. King. Oh! stay, and leave me not uncer- tain thus! And, whilst thou tellest me what's like my fate, Oh ! teach me how I may avert it too ! Cursed be the man who first a simile made! Cursed every bard who writes! So have I seen Those whose comparisons are just and true, And those who liken things not like at all. The devil is happy that the whole creation Can furnish out no simile to his fortune. SCENE IV KING, QUEEN. Queen. What is the cause, my Arthur, that you steal Thus silently from Dollallolla's breast? Why dost thou leave me in the 109 dark alone, When well thou knowest I am afraid of sprites ? King. Oh, Dollallolla! do not blame my love! I hoped the fumes of last night's punch had laid Thy lovely eyelids fast. But, oh! I find There is no power in drams to quiet wives; Each morn, as the returning sun, they wake, And shine upon their husbands. 108 This passage hath been understood sev- eral different ways by the commentators. For my part, I find it difficult to understand it at all. Mr. Dryden says I've heard something how two bodies meet, But how two souls join I know not. So that, till the body of a spirit be better understood, it will be difficult to understand how it is possible to run him through it. 109 Cydaria is of the same fearful temper with Dollallolla. I never durst in darkness be alone. Indian Emperor. Queen. Think, Oh think! What a surprise it must be to the sun, Rising, to find the vanished world away. What less can be the wretched wife's sur- prise When, stretching out her arms to fold thee fast, She folds her useless bolster in her arms. 110 Think, think, on that. Oh! think, think well on that! I do remember also to have read 111 In Dryden's Ovid's Metamorphoses, That Jove in form inanimate did lie With beauteous Denae: and, trust me, love, 112 1 feared the bolster might have been a Jove. King. Come to my arms, most virtuous of thy sex; Oh, Dollallolla! were all wives like thee, So many husbands never had worn horns. Should Huncamunca of thy worth partake, Tom Thumb indeed were blest. Oh, fatal name! For didst thou know one quarter what I know, Then wouldst thou know Alas! what thou wouldst know! Queen. What can I gather hence? Why dost thou speak Like men who carry rareeshows about? " Now you shall see, gentlemen, what you shall see." O, tell me more, or thou hast told too much. SCENE V KING, QUEEN, NOODLE. Nood. Long life attend your majesties serene, Great Arthur, king, and Dollallolla, queen! Lord Grizzle, with a bold rebellious crowd, Advances to the palace, threatening loud, Unless the princess be delivered straight, And the victorious Thumb, without his pate, They are resolved to batter down the gate. SCENE VI KING, QUEEN, HUNCAMUNCA, NOODLE. King. See where the princess comes! Where is Tom Thumb? 110 Think well of this, think that, think every way. Sophonisba. 111 These quotations are more usual in the comic than in the tragic writers. 112 -phis distress," says Mr. D , " I must allow to be extremely beautiful, and tends to heighten the virtuous character of Dollal- lolla, who is so exceeding delicate, that she is in the highest apprehension from the in- animate embrace of a bolster. An example worthy of imitation for all our writers of tragedy." 313 ACT III, Sc. VIII. TOM THUMB THE GREAT I In nc. Oh! sir, about an hour and half ago He sallied out to encounter with the foe, And swore, unless his fate had him misled, From Grizzle's shoulders to cut off his head, And serve't up with your chocolate in bed. King. 'Tis well, I found one devil told us both. Come, Dollallolla, Huncamunca, come; Within we'll wait for the victorious Thumb: In peace and safety we secure may stay, While to his arm we trust the bloody fray; Though men and giants should conspire with gods, 113 He is alone equal to all these odds. Queen. He is, indeed, " ' a helmet to us all; While he supports we need not fear to fall; His arm dispatches all things to our wish, And serves up every foe's head in a dish. " Credat Judaeus Appella, Non ego," says Mr. D . " For, passing over the ab- surdity of being equal to odds, can we pos- sibly suppose a little insignificant fellow I say again, a little insignificant fellow able to vie with a strength which all the Samsons and Herculeses of antiquity would be unable to encounter? " I shall refer this incredu- lous critic to Mr. Dryden's defence of his Almanzor; and, lest that should not satisfy him, I shall quote a few lines from the speech of a much braver fellow than Almanzor, Mr. Johnson's Achilles: Though human race rise in embattled hosts, To force her from my arms Oh! son of Atreus! By that immortal power, whose deathless spirit Informs this earth, I will oppose them all. Victim. 114 " I have heard of being supported by a staff," says Mr. D., " but never of being supported by an helmet." I believe he never heard of sailing with wings, which he may read in no less a poet than Mr. Dryden: Unless we borrow wings, and sail through air. Love Triumphant. What will he say to a kneeling valley? I'll stand Like a safe valley, that low bends the knee To some aspiring mountain. Injured Love. I am ashamed of so ignorant a carper, who doth not know that an epithet in tragedy is very often no other than an expletive. Do not we read in the New Sophonisba of " grinding chains, blue plagues, white occa- sions, and blue serenity? " Nay, it is not the adjective only, but sometimes half a sentence is put by way of expletive, as, " Beauty pointed high with spirit," in the same play; and, "In the lap of blessing, to be most curst," in the Revenge. Void is the mistress of the house of care, While the good cook presents the bill of fare; Whether the cod, that northern king of fish, Or duck, or goose, or pig, adorn the dish, No fears the number of her guests afford, But at her hour she sees the dinner on the board. SCENE VII A Plain. GRIZZLE, POODLE, and Rebels. (,!!'. Thus far our arms with victory are crowned; For, though we have not fought, yet we have found 115 No enemy to fight withal. Food. Yet I, Methinks, would willingly avoid this day, 110 This first of April, to engage our foes. Gri~. This day, of all the days of the year, I'd choose, For on this day my grandmother was born. Gods ! I will make Tom Thumb an April- fool; 117 Will teach his wit an errand it ne'er knew, And send it post to the Elysian shades. Food. I'm glad to find our army is so stout, Nor does it move my wonder less than joy. Gris. 118 What friends we have, and how we came so strong, I'll softly tell you as we march along. SCENE VIII Thunder and Lightning. TOM THUMB, GLUM- DALCA, cum suis. Thumb. Oh, Noodle! hast thou seen a day like this? 119 The unborn thunder rumbles o'er our heads, 115 A victory like that of Almanzor: Almanzor is victorious without fight. Conquest of Granada. us Well have we chose an happy day for fight; For every man, in course of time, has found Some days are lucky, some unfortunate. King Arthur. 117 We read of such another in Lee: Teach his rude wit a flight she never made, And send her post to the Elysian shade. Gloriana. 118 These lines are copied verbatim in the Indian Emperor. 118 Unborn thunder rolling in a cloud. Conquest of Granada. 314 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT III, Sc. IX. and earth in wild confusion 120 As if the gods meant to unhinge the world; And heaven hurl; Yet will I boldly tread the tottering ball. Merl. Tom Thumb! What voice is this I hear? Thumb. Merl. Thumb. Merl. Glum. Thumb. Tom Thumb f Again it calls. Tom Thumb! It calls again, Appear, whoe'er thou art; I fear thee not. Merl. Thou hast no cause to fear, I am thy friend, Merlin by name, a conjurer by trade, And to my art thou dost thy being owe. Thumb. How! Merl. Hear then the mystic getting of Tom Thumb. 121 His father was a ploughman plain, His mother milked the cow; And yet the way to get a son This couple knew not how. Until such time the good old man To learned Merlin goes, And there to him, in great distress, In secret manner shows; How in his heart he wished to have A child, in time to come, To be his heir, though it may be No bigger than his thumb: Of which old Merlin was foretold That he his wish should have; And so a son of stature small The charmer to him gave. Thou'st heard the past, look up and see the future. Thumb. 122 Lost in amazement's gulf, my senses sink; See there, Glumdalca, see another 123 me! Glum. O, sight of horror! see, you are devoured By the expanded jaws of a red cow. Merl. Let not noble mind, these sights deter thy 120 Were heaven and earth in wild confusion hurled, Should the rash gods unhinge the rolling world, Undaunted would I tread the tottering ball, Crushed, but unconquered, in the dreadful fall. Female Warrior. 121 See the History of Tom Thumb, page 2. 122 Amazement swallows up my sense, And in the impetuous whirl of circling fate Drinks down my reason. Persian Princess. 123 I have outfaced myself. What! am I two? Is there another me? King Arthur. 124 For, lo ! a sight more glorious courts thy eyes. See from afar a theatre arise; There ages, yet unbofn, shall tribute pay To the heroic actions of this day; Then buskin tragedy at length shall choose Thy name the best supporter of her muse. Thumb. Enough: let every warlike music sound. We fall contented, if we fall renown'd. SCENE IX LORD GRIZZLE, FOODLE, Rebels, on one side; TOM THUMB, GLUMDALCA, on the other. Food. At length the enemy advances nigh, 125 1 hear them with my ear, and see them with my eye. Griz. Draw all your swords: for liberty we fight, 128 And liberty the mustard is of life. Thumb. Are you the man whom men famed Grizzle name? Gris. 127 Are you the much more famed Tom Thumb? Thumb. The same. Griz. Come on; our worth upon ourselves we'll prove; For liberty I fight. Thumb. And I for love. [A bloody engagement between the two armies here; drums beating, trumpets sounding, thunder and lightning. They fight off and on several times. Some fall. GRIZZLE and GLUMDALCA remain. 124 The character of Merlin is wonderful throughout; but most so in this prophetic part. We find several of these prophecies in the tragic authors, who frequently take this opportunity to pay a compliment to their country, and sometimes to their prince. None but our author (who seems to have de- tested the least appearance of flattery) would have passed by such an opportunity of being a political prophet. 123 1 saw the villain, Myron; with these eyes I saw him. Busiris. In both which places it is intimated that it is sometimes possible to see with other eyes than your own. 126 " This mustard," says Mr. D., " is enough to turn one's stomach. I would be glad to know what idea the author had in his head when he wrote it." This will be, I be- lieve, best explained by a line of Mr. Dennis: And gave him liberty, the salt of life. Liberty Asserted. The understanding that can digest the one will not rise at the other. 127 Han. Are you the chief whom men famed Scipio call? Scip. Are you the much more famous Hannibal? Hannibal. 315 ACT III, Sc. X. TOM THUMB THE GREAT Glum. Turn, coward, turn; nor from a woman fly. Gric. Away thou art too ignoble for my arm. Glum. Have at thy heart. Gris. Nay, then I thrust at thine. Glum. You push too well; you've run me through the guts. And I am dead. Gris. Then there's an end of one. Thumb. When thou art dead, then there's an end of two, 118 Villain. Gris. Tom Thumb! Thumb. Rebel! Gris. Tom Thumb! Thumb. Hell! Griz. Huncamunca ! Thumb. Thou hast it there. Griz. Too sure I feel it. Thumb. To hell then, like a rebel as you are, And give my service to the rebels there. Gris. Triumph not, Thumb, nor think thou shalt enjoy Thy Huncamunca undisturbed; I'll send r - J My ghost to fetch her to the other world; 130 It shall but bait at heaven, and then re- turn. 131 But, ha ! I feel death rumbling in my brains: 132 Some kinder sprite knocks softly at my soul, 128 Dr. Young seems to have copied this engagement in his Buriris: Myr. Villain ! Mem. Myron! Myr. Rebel! Mem. Myron! Myr. Hell! Mem. Mandane! 128 This last speech of my Lord ' Grizzle hath been of great service to our poets: I'll hold it fast As life, and when life's gone I'll hold this last; And if thou takest it from me when I'm slain, I'll send my ghost, and fetch it back again. Conquest of Granada. i3o My sou i should with such speed obey, It should not bait at heaven to stop its way. Lee seems to have had this last in his eye: 'Twas not my purpose, sir, to tarry there; I would but go to heaven to take the air. Gloriana. IS1 A rising vapor rumbling in my brains. Cleomenes. 132 Some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul, To tell me fate's at hand. And gently whispers it to haste away. I come, I come, most willingly I come. 133 So when some city wife, for country air, To Hampstead or to Highgate does repair, Her to make haste her husband does implore, And cries, " My dear, the coach is at the door:" With equal wish, desirous to be gone, She gets into the coach, and then she cries " Drive on ! " Thumb. With those last words 134 he vomited his soul, Which, like whipt cream, the devil will swallow down. Bear off the body, and cut off the head, Which I will to the king in triumph lug. Rebellion's dead, and now I'll go to break- fast. SCENE X KING, QUEEN, HUNCAMUNCA, Courtiers. King. Open the prisons, set the wretched free, And bid our treasurer disburse six pounds To pay their debts. Let no one weep to-day. Come, Dollallolla; 'curse that odious name! It is so long, it asks an hour to speak it. By heavens! I'll change it into Doll, or Loll, Or any other civil monosyllable, That will not tire my tongue. Come, sit thee down. Here seated let us view the dancers' sports; Bid 'em advance. This is the wedding-day Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom Thumb; Tom Thumb ! who wins two victories 137 to-day, And this way marches, bearing Grizzle's head. A dance here. 133 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this simile in his eye, when he says, My soul is packing up, and just on wing. Conquest of Granada. 131 And in a purple vomit poured his soul. Cleomenes. 135 The devil swallows vulgar souls Like whipt cream. Sebastian. 138 How I could curse my name of Ptolemy! It is so long, it asks an hour to write it. By heaven! I'll change it into Jove or Mars! Or any other civil monosyllable, That will not tire my hand. Cleomenes, 137 Here is a visible conjunction of two days in one, by which our author may have either intended an emblem of a wedding, or to insinuate that men in the honey-moon are apt to imagine time shorter than it is. It brings into my mind a passage in the comedy called The Coffee-House Politician: We will celebrate this day at my house to- morrow. 316 TOM THUMB THE GREAT ACT III, So. X. Nood. Oh! monstrous, dreadful, terrible, Oh! Oh! Deaf be my ears, for ever blind my eyes! Dumb be my tongue! feet lame! all senses lost! 138 Howl wolves, grunt bears, hiss snakes, shriek all ye ghosts! King. What does the blockhead mean? Nood. I mean, my liege, 139 Only to grace my tale with decent horror. Whilst from my garret, twice two stories high, I looked abroad into the streets below, I saw Tom Thumb attended by the mob; Twice twenty shoe-boys, twice two dozen links, Chairmen and porters, hackney-coachmen, whores; Aloft he bore the grizly head of Grizzle; When of a sudden through the streets there came A cow, of larger than the usual size, And in a moment guess, Oh! guess the rest! And in a moment swallowed up Tom Thumb. King. Shut up again the prisons, bid my treasurer Not give three farthings out hang all the culprits, Guilty or not no matter. Ravish virgins: Go bid the schoolmasters whip all their boys ! Let lawyers, parsons, and physicians loose, To rob, impose on, and to kill the world. Nood. Her majesty the queen is in a swoon. Queen. Not so much in a swoon but I have still Strength to reward the messenger of ill news. [Kills NOODLE. Nood. O! I am slain. Cle. My lover's killed, I will revenge him 80 . [Kills the QUEEN. Hunc. My mamma killed! vile murderess, beware. [Kills CLEORA. Dood. This for an old grudge to thy heart. [Kills HUN CAM UN CA. Must. And this I drive to thine, O Doodle! for a new one. [Kills DOODLE. 138 These beautiful phrases are all to be found in one single speech of King Arthur, or The British Worthy. 139 I was but teaching him to grace his tale With decent horror. Cleomenes. King. Ha! murderess vile, take that. [Kills MUST. 140 And take thou this. [Kills himself, and falls. So when the child, whom nurse from danger guards, Sends Jack for mustard with a pack of cards, Kings, queens, and knaves, throw one an- other down, Till the whole pack lies scattered and o'erthrown; So all our pack upon the floor is cast, And all I boast is that I fall the last. [Dies. 140 \y e may say w ith Dryden, Death did at length so many slain forget, And left the tale, and took them by the great. I know of no tragedy which comes nearer to this charming and bloody catastrophe than Cleomenes, where the curtain covers five principal characters dead on the stage. These lines too I asked no questions then, of who killed who? The bodies tell the story as they lie seem to have belonged more properly to this scene of our author; nor can I help imagining they were originally his. The Rival Ladies, too, seem beholden to this scene: We're now a chain of lovers linked in death; Julia goes first, Gonsalvo hangs on her, And Angelina hangs upon Gonsalvo, As I on Angelina. No scene, I believe, ever received greater honors than this. It was applauded by several encores, a word very unusual in tragedy. And it was very difficult for the actors to escape without a second slaughter. This I take to be a lively assurance of that fierce spirit of liberty which remains among us, and which Mr. Dryden, in his Essay on Dramatic Poetry, hath observed: "Whether custom," says he, " hath so insinuated it- self into our countrymen, or nature hath so formed them to fierceness, I know not; but they will scarcely suffer combats and other objects of horror to be taken from them." And indeed 1 am for having them encouraged in this martial disposition: nor do I believe our victories over the French have been owing to anything more than to those bloody spectacles daily exhibited in our tragedies, of which the French stage is so entirely clear. 317 OLIVER GOLDSMITH SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER OLIVER GOLDSMITH, who " touched nothing that he did not adorn," as- sayed no dramatic composition until near his fortieth year. His days of ragged roving and garret toil were then so far behind him, " Noll Goldsmith, hack-writer," had so long since given place to the great Dr. Goldsmith, the friend of Johnson, Reynolds, and Burke, and member of the famous " Lit- erary Club," that his early struggles need not long detain us. His birth in the mean hamlet of Pallas in Longford, Ireland, November 10, 1728; his desultory boyhood in his father's poor parish and at many an Irish school ; his four unhappy years at Trinity College, Dublin ; the season of idle waiting and of aimless wandering that followed, are of little import to the student of his dramas. " He was a plant that flowered late," said Dr. Johnson ; " there appeared nothing remarkable about him when he was young." With the thirties close upon him, came London years of the lean kine, during which he tried his hand at every calling apothecary's clerk, physician, corrector of the press, usher at Peckham School. His literary career opens ignobly as a publisher's hack, making prefaces to order, grinding out re- views, revamping books with butterfly lives. But before he had reached the "mezzo cammin " of life, he had entered upon the great work which he was destined to do. The admirable prose of The Bee and of The Citizen of the World was succeeded by the more admirable verse of The Traveller in 1764 and of The Hermit in 1765. After The Vicar of Wakefield of the next year, no one can question Goldsmith's claim to the rank which his genius has won. During the few years that remain to him there are other great achievements, that make us quite forget the hack-work of his Histories and of Animated Nature (1769-1774). The Deserted Village (1770) is as memorable as his dramas. Then night closes about him, and early in April, 1774, his body finds a resting-place under the stones of the Temple. Goldsmith's supremacy in every field of his various endeavor is so readily acknowledged now and his merits seem so very obvious, that it is hard for us to realize the struggles through which he came into his own. 318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER As doubt and suspense disturbed the essayist, the poet, the novelist, before his works found the light amid loud applause, so long and agonized waiting harrowed the sensitive soul of the dramatist. The history of the first of his two plays is one of a battle not only against entrenched opposition, but against that indifference which is often harder to combat than actual enmity. In The Good Natured Man, begun in 1766, Goldsmith set himself resolutely against that " genteel " or " sentimental comedy," which, born of the reaction against the coarseness of the Restoration drama and fostered by the milk of human kindness in Richardson's novels, had now attained its full development on both sides of the Channel. Of the comedie larmoyante Goldsmith wrote thus in a paper contributed by him to the Westminster Magazine (December, 1772) : "A new species of dramatic composition has been introduced, under the name of sentimental comedy, in which the virtues of private life are exhibited, rather than the vices exposed; and the dis- tresses rather than the faults of mankind make our interest in the piece. These comedies have had of late great success, perhaps from their novelty, and also from their flattering every man in his favorite foible. In these plays almost all the characters are good, and exceedingly generous; they are lavish enough of their tin money on the stage ; and though they want humor, have abundance of sentiment and feeling. If they happen to have faults or foibles, the spectator is taught, not only to pardon, but to applaud them, in consideration of the goodness of their hearts; so that folly, instead of being ridiculed, is commended, and the comedy aims at touching our passions with- out the power of being truly pathetic." The status of sentimental comedy was now greatly strengthened by the vogue of a namby-pamby specimen of the genre, Hugh Kelly's False Delicacy, the success of which at Drury Lane early in 1768 was hardly a happy augury for the reception of Goldsmith's comedy at Covent Garden a week later. There was much else to discourage the new dramatist. Garrick, the Drury Lane actor-manager, had kept him long waiting in fuming impatience, and then Colman of Covent Garden, into whose hands the play passed, had held the dejected author off for six months more. Despite a dispirited manager and an unequal cast, The Good Natured Man won mild favor; but cries of " Low ! " " Low ! " greeted the natural humor of its bailiff scene. When Goldsmith contrasted the half-success of his laughable exposure of follies with the tremendous triumph of spurious sensibility, he had every reason to complain that " humor seems to be departing from the stage." Sentimental comedy, undisturbed, ran its lachrymose course for five years more, before Goldsmith struck another blow this time with a stronger weapon. His second comedy, afterwards called She Stoops to Conquer, was finished, we are told, by the end of 1771, but it languished for over a year in Colman's hands before preparations were made for its presentation. In- deed, this timid manager was " prevailed on at last by much solicitation, nay a kind of force to bring it on" (Johnson). If Goldsmith drew a favor- 319 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER able omen from the success of Foote's burlesque of genteel comedy, The Handsome Housemaid or Piety in Pattens in the Haymarket in 17/3, his hopes must have been dashed by the continued despondency of Colman and by the apathy of the first cast of actors, many of whom threw up their parts after several dull rehearsals. The failure of the play was deemed so certain that it was announced even in the box-office; and Goldsmith himself frankly admitted to Newbery, the purchaser of the copyright, his own large doubts of its success. These doubts grew as the time of the presentation approached ; and the tavern dinner, at which Goldsmith's friends gathered on the fateful Ides of March, the day of the performance, must have been an occasion of torture to the apprehensive author, who could " hardly speak a word, but was so choked that he could not swallow a mouthful." After the dinner, his nervous fears so mastered him, that he dared not accompany his friends to the playhouse, but spent his time, during the early scenes of the play, drearily pacing the Mall of St. James' Park. When he was persuaded by a friend who found him there to repair to the theatre, his ears were greeted by " a solitary hiss at the improbability of Mrs. Hardcastle, in her own gar- den, supposing herself forty miles off on Crackskull Common." At the sight of his alarm Colman won his undying hatred by this mean jest : " Psha ! Doctor, don't be afraid of a squib, when we have been sitting these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder." This managerial comment was as untrue as it was unkind, for the enthusiastic reception of the play seems to have been assured from the rise of the curtain. " It was received throughout with the greatest acclamations," says an eye-witness. And that writer of sentimental comedy, Cumberland, assuredly a none too kindly witness, adds : " All eyes were upon Johnson, who sat in a front row in a side box ; and when he laughed, everybody thought himself warranted to roar." Even Horace Wai- pole, who found in the new comedy much to condemn, admitted that it had " succeeded prodigiously." This success was as permanent as it was immediate. She Stoops to Conquer ran its merry course this season of 1773 (the tenth performance being given by royal command), was acted in the summer by Foote at the Haymarket, and was resumed the next winter at Covent Garden. The actors, particularly Lewes as Young Marlow and Quick as Tony Lumpkin, were made men. Five editions of the play appeared within the year. And the gains of the improvident author seem to have been large. From that day to this the comedy's hold on the stage, public or private, has never weakened. In Forster's phrase, " It still continues to add its yearly sum to the harmless stock of public pleasure." Moreover, a blow was dealt to " sentimental comedy," from which it never recovered, being finally done to - death by The School for Scandal four years later in 1777, with the same actors in the chief roles. Yet the patrons of the sentimental did not yield without a struggle. The criticism of the elegant Horace Walpole, pompous and pretentious, 320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER though it may seem to us now, is valuable in illustrating a point of view that has in it certain elements of reason : " Dr. Goldsmith has written a comedy no, it is the lowest of all farces; it is" not "the subject I condemn, though very vulgar, but the execution. The drift tends to no moral, no edification of any kind the situations, however, are well imagined and make one laugh in spite of the grossness of the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and total improbability of the whole plan and conduct. But what disgusts me most is that, though~fh~e characters are very low and aim at low humor, not one of them says a sentence that is natural or marks any character at all." This attack resolves itself into four substantial charges : that the play is T *low " ; that it has no higher purpose than to arouse laughter ; that the motif and incidents are improbable; and finally, that the characterization is inadequate. Each and all of these are summarized in the accusation that She Stoops to Conquer is not a comedy at all but sheer farce. Let us now,, weigh each clause in this sweeping indictment. The charge that Goldsmith is " low " means little more than that he turned to other and older standards of drama than those of the prevailing comedy of sensibility. " When I undertook to write a comedy," he declares in his preface to The Good Matured Man, " I confess I was strongly pre- possessed in favor of the poets of the last age and strove to imitate them. The term, ' genteel comedy,' was then unknown among us and little more was desired by an audience than nature and humor in whatever walks of life they are most conspicuous." In this return to fresh and natural humor his chief guide seems to have been George Farquhar. As Austin Dobson points out, he was reported by rumor to have played the part of Scrub in his wandering youth and he certainly assigned the role of Sir Harry Wildair to the shabby hero of The Adventures of a Strolling Player. In She Stoops to Conquer there are several reminiscences of The Beaux' Stratagem: Miss Hardcastle compares herself, in her maid's disguise, to Cherry: Marlow's desire to see the embroidery (III, i) recalls Archer's speech to Mrs. Sullen; and in Sullen, as we shall see later, Tony Lumpkin finds a partial prototype. As the term, " low," had been fastened upon Farquhar by Pope and upon Fielding by Richardson, it seems, as applied to Goldsmith, to carry the dis- tinction of a brevet. And yet it rankled, as his many references show. In his Present State of Polite Learning he anticipates by fifteen years Walpole's criticism : " By the power of one single monosyllable, our critics have almost got the victory over humor amongst us. Does the poet paint the absurdi- ties of the vulgar, then he is low ; does he exaggerate the features of folly, to render it more thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very low." And the seedy tavern companions at The Three Jolly Pigeons (I, 2) cry out with uncon- scious irony against all that is " low." To the second charge that She Stoops to Conquer seems designed merely to excite laughter, Goldsmith himself would have promptly pleaded guilty. "That is all I require," he said to a friend who declared that "he had 321 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER laughed exceedingly " on the opening night. And Johnson, too, proclaimed laughter to be the proper criterion of success in the lighter drama, when he said of this very play, " I know of no comedy for years that has so much exhilarated an audience or answered so much the great end of comedy in making an audience merry." And there is no doubt that this laughter is perennial. Criticism may declare the first scene dramatically ineffective and regard the second that of the alehouse as sharply and clumsily divided into two halves; but after Tony Lumpkin's impish misdirection of the travellers has once released the flood of mirth, it sweeps through one de- lightful situation after another, bearing away with it on a high tide of frolic all critical doubts of reader or play-goer. Nor is this humorous satisfaction the idle and unmeaning laughter awakened by empty farce, as Walpole would imply. It finds full warrant in the brisk and gay dialogues, the generous use of dramatic irony, the new and joyous turn given the time-worn formula of mistaken identity, and in the skill with which anticipation is aroused and then abundantly gratified. The motive force of the merry intrigue never seems inadequate. Nor need we enter into any grave rebuttal of the charge that " all things befall preposterously." It is small defence of the probability of The Mis- takes of a Night (Goldsmith's subtitle) to point to that delicious misad- venture of the seventeen-year old Goldsmith, who was cleverly misled by a waggish fencing-master into taking his ease at the home of a great Irish squire and was not undeceived until after breakfast on the morrow, when " he was looking at his only guinea with pathetic aspect of farewell." Nor is it enough to remind the reader that Tony's practical joke upon his mother was actually perpetrated by Sheridan at the expense of Madame de Genlis. That these incidents actually happened makes them seem not a whit less incredible. Equally beyond belief is Marlow's failure even to glance at Miss Hardcastle during their first interview. All this, as Johnson says, " bor- ders upon farce." In that pleasant borderland of infinite possibilities excel- lent preparation for the incidents, clever handling of the plot, and naturalness of characters may impart, however, a momentary convincingness to the most riotous extravagances and absurdities. Of such realistic treatment Gold- smith is a master. She Stoops to Conquer is obviously a comedy of situation rather than of character; but few will now agree with Walpole that its persons are un- natural or merely farcical. The elder Hardcastles are, in their origin, con- ventional stage figures, but they are so delightfully realized for us that the irascibility of the man and the doting fondness of the woman for her impish son attain to the level of " comic dignity." Kate Hardcastle plays her bar- maid role with an unforced sprightliness that recalls her model in The Beaux' Stratagem. Hastings, typical fine fellow, and that lively lass, Constantia Neville, are more truly figures of comedy than the Faulkland and Julia of Sheri- dan's Rivals. As has often been pointed out, Marlow's natural timidity is 322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER as truly revealed in his excess of impudence as in his excess of bashfulness; and " the high comic intention of the character is never lost in the merely comic situation" (Forster). The crowning glory of the play is of course that impish sprite, Tony Lumpkin. Whatever he may owe to the clownish heir of Steele's comedy, The Tender Husband, Humphry Gubbin, whose relation to an income of 1500 closely resembles his own, he seems rather a composite of the more familiar figures of clown and puck, of Farquhar's Sullen and Shakspere's Robin Goodfellow. He exhibits all the young squire's awkwardness, sheepishness, loutish ignorance, love of low company, and pride of purse ; he shares the village elf's buoyancy of spirit, irresponsibility, cunning, and delight in mischief that never degenerates into malice. He indeed is of the essence of farce, for such a demon of fun needs no motive for his rogueries. It is best to leave She Stoops to Conquer in that mirthful " debatable land " of farce-comedy with such worthy fellows as The Taming of the Shrew, The Merry Wives of Windsor, and The School for Scandal. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER OR THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. DEAR SIR, By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honor to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this per- formance. The undertaking a comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, dear Sir, your most sincere friend and admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 323 PROLOGUE SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER PROLOGUE By DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, and holding a Handkerchief to his Eyes. Excuse me, sirs, I pray I can't yet speak I'm crying now and have been all the week ! 'Tis not alone this mourning suit, good masters ; I've that within for which there are no plasters! Pray would you know the reason why I'm crying? The Comic muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop : I am undone, that's all shall lose my bread I'd rather, but that's nothing lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and / shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals will succeed ! Poor Ned and 7 are dead to all intents, We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us! They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us, But why can't I be moral? Let me try My heart thus pressing fixed my face and eye With a sententious look, that nothing means (Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes), Thus I begin All is not gold that glitters, Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters. When ignorance enters, folly is at hand; Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble, And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble. I give it up morals won't do for me; To make you laugh I must play tragedy. One hope remains hearing the maid was ill, A doctor comes this night to show his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He in five draughts prepared, presents a potion : A kind of magic charm for be assured, If you will swallow it, the maid is cured. 324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT I, So. I. But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he gives ; Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; If not, within he will receive no fee! The college you, must his pretentions back, Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack. DRAMATIS PERSONS MEN SIR CHARLES MARLOW. YOUNG MARLOW (His SON). HARDCASTLE. HASTINGS. TONY LUMPKIN. DIGGORY. WOMEN MRS. HARDCASTLE. Miss HARDCASTLE. Miss NEVILLE. MAID. Landlords, Servants, &c., &c. ACT I SCENE I A CHAMBER IN AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country, but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbor, Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and af- fectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as inside pas- sengers, but in the very basket. Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times, indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripple- gate, the lame dancing-master: and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old man- ners, old books, old wine; and, I believe, Dorothy [taking her hand], you'll own I have been pretty fond of on old wife. Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothy's and your old wife's. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that. Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty, makes just fifty and seven! Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle: I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband; and he's not come to years of discretion yet. Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely! Mrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year. Hard. Learning, quotha! A mere com- position of tricks and mischief! Mrs. Hard. Humor, my dear: nothing but humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humor. Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond! If burning the footmen's shoes, frighting the maids, and worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wip to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face ! Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any 325 ACT I, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him? Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle ! No, no, the ale-house and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to! Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. Hard. And truly, so am I; for he some- times whoops like a speaking-trumpet [TONY hallooing behind the scenes] O, there he goes A very consumptive figure, truly ! Enter TONY, crossing the stage. Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovey? Tony. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear: you look most shock- ingly. Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. Hard. Ay; the ale-house, the old place: I thought so. Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. Tony. Not so low, neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse doctor, Little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night, at least. Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to dis- appoint myself! Mrs. Hard. [Detaining him]. You shan't go. Tony. 1 will, I tell you. Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. [Exit hauling her out. HARDCASTLE solus. Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and discre- tion out of doors? There's my pretty dar- ling, Kate; the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence! Dressed out as usuai, my Kate! Goodness! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the in- digent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the evening, I put on my housewife's dress, to please you. Hard. Well, remember, I insist on the terms of our agreement; and, by-the-bye, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. Miss Hard. I protect, sir, I don't com- prehend your meaning. Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. Miss Hard. Indeed! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me, how shall I behave? It's a thousand to one I shan't like him; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Hard. Depend upon it, child, I'll never control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. Miss Hard. Is he? Hard. Very generous. Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. Hard. Young and brave. Miss Hard. I am sure I shall like him. Hard. And very handsome. Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more [kissing his hand], he's mine, I'll have him! Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved young fel- lows in all the world. Miss Hard. Eh! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has un- done all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. How- ever, if he be so young, so handsome, and 'so 320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT I, Sc. II. everything, as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have him. Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It is more than an even wager, he may not have you. Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my glass for its flattery. Set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. Hard. Bravely resolved! In the mean- time I'll go prepare the servants for his re- ception; as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. {Exit. Miss HARDCASTLE sola. Miss Hard. Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; these he put last; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then reserved, and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife? Yes, and can't I but I vow I'm dis- posing of the husband before I have secured the lover! Enter Miss NEVILLE. Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is there anything whimsical about me? Is it one of my well-looking days, child? Am I in face to-day? Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, now I look again bless me! sure no acci- dent has happened among the canary birds or the goldfishes? Has your brother or the cat been meddling? Or has the last novel been too moving? Miss Hard. No; nothing of all this, have been threatened I can scarce get it out I have been threatened with a lover! Miss Neville. And his name Miss Hard. Is Marlow. Miss Neville. Indeed! Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Mar- low. Miss Neville. As I live, the most inti- mate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. Miss Hard. Never. Miss Neville. He's a very singular char- acter, I assure you. Among women of repu- tation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of an- other stamp: you understand me? Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed! I hall never be able to manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? Has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony, as usual? .Ui'.i-.v Neville. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss Neville. , A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son, and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allans. Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time and all were well. [Exeunt. SCENE II AN ALE-HOUSE ROOM. Several shabby fellows, with punch and to- bacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest: a mallet in his hand. O nines. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo! First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'Squire is going to knock him- self down for a song. Omnes. Ay, a song, a song. Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this ale-house, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let school-masters puzzle their brain. With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning, Let them brag of their Heathenish Gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians; Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They're all but a parcel of pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll ! When Methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 327 ACT I, Sc. II. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! O nines. Bravo, bravo ! First Fellow. The 'Squire has got spunk in him. Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. Third Fellow. O damn anything that's low, I cannot bear it! Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel thing at any time. If so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accord- ingly. Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, though I am obli- gated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my poison if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes. Water Parted, or the minuet in Ariadne. Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 'Squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd then show what it was to keep choice of company. Second Fellow. O, he takes after his own father for that. To be sure, old 'Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his- fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls in the whole county. Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age I'll be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning, matter? Well, Stingo, what's the Enter LANDLORD. Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a postchaise at the door. They have lost their way upo' the forest; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. [Exit LANDLORD.] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob. TONY solus. Tony. Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound, this half year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I'm afraid afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can! Enter LANDLORD, conducting HASTINGS. MARLOW and Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore! Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that un- accountable reserve of yours, that would not let us enquire more frequently on the way. Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet; and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been enquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in? Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came? Hastings. No, sir, but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that you have lost your way. Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came? Marlow. That's not necessary towards di- recting us where we are to go. Tony. No offence; but question for ques- tion is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, 328 SHE STOOPS TO COXQUER ACT II, Sc. I. old-fashioned, whimsical fellow with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son? Hastings. We have not seen the gentle- man, but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole The son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of ! Marlow. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son, an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. Tony. He-he-hem then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. Hastings. Unfortunate! Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gen- tlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's. [Wink- ing upon the LANDLORD.] Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh, you understand me. Landlord. Master Hardcastle's! Lack-a- daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bot- tom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane. Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane! Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, until you came to four roads. Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ! Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take only one of them. Marlow. O, sir, you're facetious! Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crack- skull Common: there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward, till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Com- ing to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill Marlow. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude! Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow? Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception, though, perhaps, the landlord can accommodate us. Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. [After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.] I have hit it. Don't you think, Stingo, our land- lady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with three chairs and a bolster? Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony. You do, do you? then let me see what if you go on a mile further, to the Buck's Head; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county ? Hastings. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. Landlord [apart to TONY]. Sure, you ben't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you? Tony. Mum, you fool, you. Let them find that out. VI o them.} You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the roadside. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way? Tony. No, the landlord : no: but I tell you though, rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gen- tleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company, and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace! Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but 'a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country. Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, -vc shall want no further connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say? Tony. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. [To the LANDLORD.] Mum. Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant damned mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. ACT II SCENE I AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward Servants. Hardcastle. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. Omnes. Ay, ay. Hard. When company conies, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. Omnes. No, no. Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place your- self behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead, you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 329 ACT II, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Diggory. Ay, mind how 1 hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill Hard. You must not be so talkative, Dig- gory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly impossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's al- ways wishing for a mouthful himself. Hard. Blockhead! Is not a bellyful in the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlor? Stay your stomach with that re- flection. Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the story of Ould Grouse in the gun- room: I can't help laughing at that he! he! he! for the soul of me! We have laughed at that these twenty years ha! ha! ha! Hard. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please [to DIGGORY] Eh, why don't you move? Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. Hard. What, will nobody move? First Sen-ant. I'm not to leave this pleace. Second Servant, I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartain. Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. Hard. You numskulls! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O, you dunces! I find I must begin all over again. But don't I hear a coach drive into the yard? To your posts, you blockheads! I'll go in the meantime and give my old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLE. Diggory. By the elevens, my pleace is gone quite out of my head. Roger. I know that my pleace is to be everywhere ! First Servant. Where the devil is mine? Second Servant. My pleace is to be no- where at all; and so I'ze go about my busi- ness! [Exeunt Servants, running about as if frighted, different ways. Enter Servant with candles, showing in MAR- LOW and HASTINGS. Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very wel- come. This way. Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique but creditable. Marlow. The usual fate of a large man- sion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, that in good inns, you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns, you are fleeced and starved. Hastings. You have lived pretty much among them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance. Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life has been chiefly spent in a college, or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly ac- quainted with a single modest woman ex- cept my mother But among females of an- other class, you know Hastings. Ay, among them you are im- pudent enough of all conscience! Marlow. They are of *, you know. Hastings. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler; you look for all the world as if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. Marlow. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I'll be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. Hastings. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard you 330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT II, Sc. I. lavish upon the barmaid of an inn, or even a college bedmaker Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine things to them. They freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burn- ing mountain, or some such bagatelle. But to me, a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation. Hastings. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to marry! Marlow. Never, unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an Eastern bride- groom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, madam, wijl you marry me? No, no, that's a strain much above me, I assure you! Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father? Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low. Answer yes, or no, to all her demands But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her face, till I see my father's again. Hastings. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover. Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be in- strumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know you, as my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honor do the rest. Hastings. My dear Marlow! But I'll sup- press the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father's consent, and her own in- clination. Marlow. Happy man! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward unprepos- sessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's ap- prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury Lane. Pshaw! this fellow here to interrupt us. Enter HARDCASTLE. Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Marlow [aside]. He has got our names from the servants already. [To him.'] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. [To HASTINGS.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. Hastings. I fancy, George, you're right: the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. Hard. Mr. Marlow Mr. Hastings gentle- men pray be under no constraint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the cam- paign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a re- treat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Mar- low, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marl- borough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison Marlow. Don't you think the centre d'or waistcoat will do with the plain brown ? Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hastings. I think not: brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Marlow. The girls like finery. Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. " Now," says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him you must have heard of George Brooks; " I'll pawn my dukedom," says he, " but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood!" So Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor. Hard. Punch, sir! [Aside.] This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with! Marlow. Yes, sir, punch! A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be com- fortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know. Hard. Here's cup, sir. Marlow [aside]. So this fellow, in his Lib- erty Hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. Hard. [Taking the cup]. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my 331 ACT II, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? Here, Mr. Mar- low, here is our better acquaintance! [Drinks. Mar low [aside], A very impudent fellow this! but he's a character, and I'll humor him a little. Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. Hastings [aside], I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman. Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose ? Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there's no business for us that sell ale. Hastings. So, then you have no turn for politics, I find. Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other, people; but, find- ing myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about Heyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. Hastings. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, and amusing them with- out, you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it. Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor. Marlow [After drinking]. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall. Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Marlow [aside]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. Hastings. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you at- tack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. [Drinks. Hard. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's almost time to talk about sup- per. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper? Hard, For supper, sir! [Aside.] Was ever such a request to a man in his own house ! Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. Hard, [aside]. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. [To him.] Why, really, sir, as for supper I can't well tell. My Dorothy, and the cook maid, settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. Marlow. You do, do you? Hard. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. Marlow. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. Hard. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet, I don't know how: our Bridget, the cook maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house. Hastings. Let's see your list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. Marlow [To HARDCASTLE, who looks at them with surprise]. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way, too. Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper. I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. Hastings [aside]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel ! We shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. But let's hear the bill of fare. Marlow [Perusing]. What's here? For the first course; for the second course; for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the whole Joiners' Company. or the Corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hastings. But let's hear it. Marlow [Reading]. For the first course at the top, a pig, and pruin sauce. Hastings. Damn your pig, I say! Marlow. And damn your pruin sauce, say I! Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with pruin sauce, is very good eating. Marlow. At the bottom, a calf's tongue and brains. Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir; I don't like them. Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves, I do. 332 ACT II, Sc. I. Hard, [aside]. Their impudence confounds me. [To them.'] Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? Marlow. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a florentine, a shaking pud- ding, and a dish of tiff taff taffety cream ! Hastings. Confound your made dishes, I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but if there be anything you have a particular fancy to Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of. Hard. 1 entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. Marlow. Leave that to you! I protest, sir, you must excuse me, I always look to these things myself. Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make your- self easy on that head. Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. [.-/.v/..'V.J A very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. {.Aside.} This may be modern modesty, but I never say anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. [Exeunt MARLOW and HARDCASTLE. HASTINGS solus. Hastings. So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant to please him ? Ha ! what do I see ! Miss Neville, by all that's happy! Enter Miss NEVILLE. Miss Neville. My dear Hastings! To what unexpected good fortune? to what acci- dent am I to ascribe this happy meeting ? Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn. Miss Neville. An inn! sure you mistake! my aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to think this house an inn? Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow whom we accidentally met at a house hard by directed us thither. Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often, ha! ha! ha! ha! Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you? He of whom I have such just appre- hensions ? Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she has made a conquest. Hastings. Thou dear dissembler! You must know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be re- freshed; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws of marriage are respected. Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India Director, and chiefly con- sists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeeding. The in- stant they are put into my possession you shall find me ready to make them and my- self yours. Hastings. Perish the baubles! Your per- son is all I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mis- take. I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house be- fore our plan was ripe for execution. Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in the deception? Miss Hardcastle is just returned from walking; what if we still con- tinue to deceive him? This, this way [They confer. Enter MARLOW. Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only himself, but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us, too; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. What have we got here? Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me con- gratulate you The most fortunate accident! Who do you think is just alighted? Marlow. Cannot guess. Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hard- castle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your ac- quaintance. Happening to dine in the neigh- borhood, they called, on their return to take fresh horses, here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky? eh! 333 ACT II, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Marlow [aside]. I have just been mortified enough of all conscience, and here comes something- to complete my embarrassment. Hastings. Well ! but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world? Marlow. Oh! yes. Very fortunate a most joyful encounter But our dresses, George, you know, are in disorder What if we should postpone the happiness till to-mor- row? To-morrow at her own house It will be every bit as convenient And rather more respectful To-morrow let it be. [Offering to go. Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will show the ardor of your im- patience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. Marlow. O! the devil! how shall I support it? Hem! hem! Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem! Hastings. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter! Enter Miss HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking, a bonnet, &c. Hastings [Introducing them]. Miss Hard- castle, Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. Miss Hard, [aside]. Now, for meeting my modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. [After a pause, in which he appears 'eery uneasy and disconcerted.] I'm glad of your safe arrival, sir I'm told you had some accidents by the way. Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be sorry madam or rather glad of any accidents that are so agreeably con- cluded. Hem ! Hastings [To him]. You never spoke bet- ter in your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll insure you the victory. Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You that have seen so much of the finest company can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. Marlow [Gathering courage], 1 have lived, indeed, in the world, madam; but I have kept very little company. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. Hastings [To him]. Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. Marlow [To him]. Hem! Stand by me, then, and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up again. Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life, were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have had much more to cen- sure than to approve. Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was al- ways willing to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. Hastings [To him]. Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good company. I be- lieve our being here will but embarrass the interview. Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company of all things. [To him.] Zounds! George, sure you won't go? How can you leave us? Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll retire to the next room. [To him.] You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. Miss Hard. [After a pause]. But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir. The ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. Marlow [Relapsing into timidity]. Pardon me, madam, I I I as yet have studied- only to deserve them. Miss Hard. And that some say is the very worst way to obtain them. Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex. But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. Miss Hard. Not at all, sir; there is noth- ing I like so much as grave conversation myself: I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. Marlowe. It's a disease of the mind, madam. In the variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting a relish for um-a-um. Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, wanting a relish for re- fined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. Marlow. My meaning, madam, but in- finitely better expressed. And I can't help observing a Miss Hard, [aside]. Who could ever sup- pose this fellow impudent upon some occa- sions. [To him.] You were going to ob- serve, sir Marlow. I was observing, madam 1 pro- test, madam, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Hard, [aside]. I vow and so do I. [To him.] You were observing, sir, that in this 334 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT II, Sc. I. age of hypocrisy something about hypocrisy, sir. Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy, there are few who upon strict enquiry do not a a a Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. Marlow [aside]. Egad! and that's more than I do myself! Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypo- critical age there are few that do not con- demn in public what they practise in private, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. Marlow. True, madam; those who have most virtue in their mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there's something so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force pray, sir, go on. Marlow. Yes, madam. I was saying that there are some occasions when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the ^and puts us upon a a a Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely, a want of courage upon some occasions as- sumes the appearance of ignorance, and be- trays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. Marlow. Yes, madam. I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor to attend you ? Miss Hard. Well then, I'll follow. Marlow [aside"]. This pretty smooth dia- logue has done for me. [Exit. Miss HARDCASTLE sola. Miss Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Was there ever such a sober sentimental interview? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his un- accountable bashfulness, is pretty well, too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little con- fidence, it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody? that, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. Enter TONY and Miss NEVILLE, followed by MRS. HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS. Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con? I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engaging. Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be to blame. Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a re- lation you want to make me, though; but it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do, so I beg you'll keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. [She follows coquetting him to the back scene. Mrs. Hard. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertaining. There's nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. Hastings. Never there! You amaze me! From your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Rane- lagh, St. James's or Tower Wharf. Mrs. Hard. O! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neighboring rustics; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places where the nobility chiefly resort? All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tcte from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fash- ions as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings? Hastings. Extremely elegant and dcgagee, upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose? Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum- book for the last year. Hastings. Indeed. Such a head in a side- box, at the Play-house, would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a City Ball. Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little particular or one may escape in the crowd. Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress! [Bowing.] Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dress- ing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle: all I can say will never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it over like my Lord Pately, with powder. Hastings. You are right, madam; for, as among the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are none old. Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it into a /./. for my own wearing! Hastings. Intolerable! At your age you 335 ACT II, So. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER may wear what you please, and it must be- come you. Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town ? Hastings. Some time ago forty was all the mode; but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. Mrs. Hard. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion! Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite circle, would be con- sidered as a child, as a mere maker of samplers. Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels as the oldest of us all. Hastings. Your niece, is she? And that young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should presume ? Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are con- tracted to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a day, as if they were man and wife already. [To them.} Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Con- stance, this evening ? Tony. I have been saying no soft things; but that it's very hard to be followed about so! Ecod! I've not a place in the house now that's left to myself but the stable. Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear. He's in another story behind your back. Miss Neville. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private. Tony. That's a damned confounded crack. Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. [Measuring. Miss Neville. O lud! he has almost cracked my head. Mrs. Hard. O, the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so! Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod! I'll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your education? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon! Did not I work that waist- coat to make you genteel? Did not I pre- scribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating? Tony. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the complete housewife ten times over; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincy next spring. But, ecod! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper? Wasn't it all for your good? Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; not to keep dinging it, ding- ing it into one so. Mrs. Hard. That's false; I never see you when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the ale-house or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with your agreeable, wild notes, unfeeling monster! Tony. Ecod! Mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like? But I see he wants to break my heart, I see he does. Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lec- ture the young gentleman a little. I'm cer- tain I can persuade him to his duty. Mrs. Hard. Well! I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation. Was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy? [Exeunt MRS. HARDCASTLE and Miss NEVILLE. HASTINGS. TONY. Tony [singing]. There was a young man riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee. Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together, and they said, they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman? Tony. That's as I find 'um. Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer! And yet she ap- pears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. Tony. That's because you don't know her as well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her; and there's not a more bitter cantankerous toad in all Christendom! Hastings [aside]. Pretty encouragement, this, for a lover! Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's breaking. Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent! Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her playmates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. 336 ACT III, Sc. I. Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're flunj in a ditch. Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. Yes, you must allow her some beauty. Tony. Bandbox! She's all a made up thing, mun. Ah! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bitter bargain off your hands ? Tony. Anon. Hastings. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy? Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would take her? Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her. Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the last drop of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and maybe get you a part of her fortin besides, in jewels, that you little dream of. Hastings. My dear 'Squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. Tony. Come along then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you have done with me. [Singing. We are the boys That fears no noise Where the thundering cannons roar. [Exeunt. ACT III [SCENE I. THE HOUSE.] Enter HARDCASTLE solus. Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fireside already. He took off his boots in the par- lor, and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shocked at it. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed. Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress as I bid you; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. Miss Hard. 1 find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety. Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when I recom- mended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description! Hard. I was never so surprised in my life! He has quite confounded all my faculties! Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it! And a man of the world, too! Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad, what a fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. Hard. A good deal assisted by bad com- pany and a French dancing-master. Miss Hard. Sure, you mistake, papa! a French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look, that awkward address, that bashful manner Hard. Whose look? whose manner, child? Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's: his mauvaise honte, his timidity struck me at the first sight. Hard. Then your first sight deceived you; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses ! Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw anyone so modest. Hard. And can you be serious! I never saw such a bouncing swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. Miss Hard. Surprising! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect; censured the manners of the age; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed; tired me with apologies for being tiresome; then left the room with a bow, and, " madam, I would not for the world detain you." Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before. Asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer. Interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun, and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch! Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. Hard. If he be what he has shown him- self, I'm determined he shall never have my consent. Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. 337 ACT III, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Hard. In one thing then we are agreed to reject him. Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming; if you find him more respectful, and I more importunate I don't know the fellow is well enough for a man Certainly we don't meet many such at a horse race in the country. Hard. It we should find him so. But that's impossible. The first appearance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in that. Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance. Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my good sense won't end with a sneer at my understand- ing? Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling con- tradictions, he may please us both, perhaps. Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to make further discoveries ? Hard. Agreed. But depend on't I'm in the right. Miss Hard. And depend on't I'm not much in the wrong. [Exeunt. Enter TONY, running in with a casket. Tony. Ecod! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O! my genus, is that you? Enter HASTINGS. Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing to be recon- ciled at last? Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off. Tony. And here's something to bear your charges by the way. [Giving the casket.] Your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them, and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them! Hastings. But how have you procured them from your mother? Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother's bureau, how could I go to the ale-house so often as I do? An honest man may rob himself of his own at any time. Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you; Miss Neville is en- deavoring to procure them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of obtain- ing them. Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough, she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head! Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost them. Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage that. I don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds! here they are! Morrice, Prance! [Exit HASTINGS. TONY, MRS. HARDCASTLE, Miss NEVILLE. Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels? It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thou- sand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my lady Kill-day- light, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back? Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me? Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see, if with such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear, does your cousin Con want any jewels, in your eyes, to set off her beauty? Tony. That's as thereafter may be. Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things. They would make you look like the court of king Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. They may be miss- ing, for aught I know to the contrary. Tony [apart to MRS. HARD.]. Then why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for them. Tell her they're lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard, [apart to TONY]. You know, my dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you? He! he! he! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. 338 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT III, Sc. I. Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them, you should have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know; but we must have patience wherever they are. Miss Nez'ille. I'll not believe it; this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they're too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss. Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to be found. Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found, I'll take my oath on't! Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am ! Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others. Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them; and, in the meantime, you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. Miss Neville. I detest garnets! Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You shall have them. [Exit. Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. Was ever anything so pro- voking to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her trumpery. Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Neville. My dear cousin! Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. [Exit Miss NEVILLE.] Zounds! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catharine wheel! Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. Confusion! thieves! robbers! We are cheated, plundered, broke open, un- done! Tony. What's the matter, what's the mat- ter, mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family ! Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has been broke open, the jewels taken out, and I'm undone! Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! the laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broke open, and all taken away. Tony. Stick to that; ha, ha, ha! stick to that. I'll bear witness, you know, call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. Tony. Sure I know they're gone, and I am to say so. Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha! ha! I know who took them well enough, ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a block- head, that can't tell the difference between jest and earnest? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby ! Tony. That's right, that's right: You must be in a bitter passion, and then no- body will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross- grained brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear witness that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you block- head, you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of /;,-)-.' Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster? I'll teach you to vex your mother, I will! Tony. I can bear witness to that. [He runs off, she follows him. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and MAID. Miss Hard. What an unaccountable crea- ture is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn, ha! ha! I don't won- der at his impudence. Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman as you passed by in your present dress, asked. me if you were the bar- maid ? He mistook you for the barmaid, madam ! Miss Hard. Did he? Then as I live I'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem? Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives company. By 339 Miss Hard. And are you sure he not remember my face or person? does ACT III, So. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Maid. Certain of it! Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so; for though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me. Maid. But what do you hope from keep- ing him in his mistake? Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is to take my gen- tleman off his guard, and like an invisible champion of romance examine the giant's force before I offer to combat. Maid. But you are sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice, so that he may mistake that, as he has already mis- taken your person? Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant. Did your honor call? Attend the Lion there. Pipes and to- bacco for the Angel. The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour ! Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. [Exit MAID. Enter MARLOW. Marlow. What a bawling in eve-y part of the house; I have scarce a moment's re- pose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story. If I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her curtsey down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recol- lection. [Walks and muses. Miss Hard. Did you call, sir? did your honor call ? Marlow [Musing]. As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental for me. Miss Hard. Did your honor call? [She still places herself before him, he turning away. Marlow. No, child! [Musing.] Besides from the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. Marlow. No, no! [Musing.'] I have pleased my father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow please myself by returning. [Taking out his tablets, and perusing. Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir? Marlow. I tell you, no. Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a parcel of servants. Marlow. No, no, I tell you. [Looks full in her face.] Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted 1 wanted 1 vow, child, you are vastly handsome ! .Wi.o- Hard. O la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly ma- licious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your a what d'ye call it in the house? Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. Marlow. One may call in this house, 1 find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be dis- appointed in that, too ! Miss Hard. Nectar! nectar! that's a liquor there's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. Marlow. Of true English growth, I as- sure you. Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eigh- teen years. Marlow. Eighteen years! Why one would think, child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you? Miss Hard. O! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated. Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. [Approaching.] Yet nearer I don't think so much. [Approach- ing.] By coming close to some women they look younger still; but when we come very close indeed [Attempting to kiss her]. Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. Marlow. I protest, child, you use me ex- tremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be ac- quainted ? Miss Hard. And who wants to be ac- quainted with you? I want no such acquaint- ance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle that was here awhile ago in this obstropalous manner. I'll warrant me, be- fore her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a justice of peace. Marlow [aside]. Egad! she has hit it, sure enough. [To her.] In awe of her, child? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward, squinting thing, no, no! I find you don't know me. I laughed, and rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me! Miss Hard. O! then, sir, you are a favor- ite, I find, among the ladies? Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to follow. At the Ladies' Club in 340 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT IV, Sc. I. town I'm called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. {.Offering to salute her. Miss Hard. Hold, sir; you were introduc- ing me to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a favorite there, you say? Marlow. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Man- trap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Longhorns, old Miss Biddy Buck- skin and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. Miss Hard. Then it's a very merry place, I suppose. Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and old women can make us. Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! ha! ha! Marlow [aside]. Egad! I don't quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child! Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have for minding their work or their family. Marlow [aside]. All's well, she don't laugh at me. [To her.] Do you ever work, child? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that. Marlow. Odso! Then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and draw pat- terns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work you must apply to me. [Seizing her hand. Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise. Miss Hard. Ay, but the colors don't look well by candle light. You shall see all in the morning. [Struggling. Marlow. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires beyond the power of re- sistance. Pshaw! the father here! My old luck: I never nicked seven that I did not throw amesace three times following. [Exit MARLOW. Hard. So, madam! So I find this is your modest lover. This is your humble admirer that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so? Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest man I first took him for, you'll be convinced of it as well as I. Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious ! Didn't I see him seize your hand? Didn't I see him haul you about like a milkmaid? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, for- sooth ! Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he has already en- croached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it modesty. But my son-in-law, madam, must have very dif- ferent qualifications. Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. Hard. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. Miss Hard. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy you. Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me? Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt. ACT IV [SCENE I. THE HOUSE.] Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. Hastings. You surprise me! Sir Charles Marlow expected here this night? Where have you had your information? Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few hours after his son. Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He knows me; and should he find me here, would dis- cover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family. Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe. Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the meantime, I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses; and, if I should not see him further directions. again, will write him [Exit. Miss Neville, Well! success attend you. In the meantime, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. Enter MARLOW, followed by a SERVANT. Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the only place I have is the seat of a post- coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you? Have you put it into her own hand*? 341 ACT IV. Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Seri-ant, Yes, your honor. Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she? Set-ran*. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough; she asked me how I came by it? and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. [Ex-it SERVANT. Marlow. Ha! ha! ha! They're safe, how- ever. What an unaccountable set of beings have we got amongst! This little barmaid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. Enter HASTINGS. Hastings. Bless me! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too! Marlow. Give me joy, George! Crown me, shadow me with laurels! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don't want for success among the Women. Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honor's modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent upon us? Marlow. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely little thing that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle? Hastings. Well! and what then? Marlow. She's mine, you rogue, you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips but egad! she would not let me kiss them though. Hastings. But are you sure, so very sure of her? Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above-stairs, and I am to im- prove the pattern. Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honor? Marlow. Pshaw! pshaw! we all know the honor of the barmaid of an inn. I don't in- tend to rob her, take my word for it; there's nothing in this house I shan't honestly pay for! Hastings. 1 believe the girl has virtue. Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up? It's in safety ? Marlow. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! numbskull ! I have taken better precautions for you than you did for yourself. 1 have Hastings. What ? Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. Hastings. To the landlady! Marlow. The landlady. Hastings. You did ! Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its forth-coming, you know. Hastings. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. Marlow. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow that I acted prudently upon this occa- sion? Hastings [aside]. He must not see my un- easiness. Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted, though, methinks. Sure nothing has hap- pened ? Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge? Marlow. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! ha! Hastings. He! he! he! They're safe, how- ever. Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. Hastings [aside}. So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. [To him.] Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on the pretty barmaid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be as successful for yourself as you have been for me. [Ex-it. Marlow. Thank ye, George! I ask no more. Ha! ha! ha! Enter HARDCASTLE. Hard. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no longer, and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. [To him.] Mr. Marlow, your ser- vant. I'm your very humble servant. [Bowing low. Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. [Aside.] What's to be the wonder now? Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to be more wel- come than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so? Marlow. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing to your own con- duct, that of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that's no fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar, I did, I assure you. [To the side scene.] Here, let one of my servants come up. [To him.] My posi- 342 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT IV, Sc. I. tive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my defi- ciencies below. Hard. Then they had your orders for what they do ! I'm satisfied ! Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. Enter SERVANT, drunk. Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah! What were my orders? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good of the house? Hard, [aside]. I begin to lose my pa- tience. Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet Street for ever! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, sir, dammy ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup upon my conscience, sir. Marlow. You see, my old friend, the fel- low is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in a beer- barrel. Hard. Zounds! He'll drive me distracted if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow. Sir; I have submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. Marlow. Leave your house ! Sure, you jest, my good friend! What, when I'm do- ing what I can to please you! Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me; so I desire you'll leave my house. Marlow. Sure, you cannot be serious! At this time of night, and such a night! You only mean to banter me! Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious; and, now that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, sir; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly. Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. [In a serious tone.] This your house, fellow! It's my house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me leave this house, sir? I never met with such impudence, curse me, never in my whole life before! Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did! To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, This house is mine, sir. By all that's impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, sir [Bantering], as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows, perhaps you may take a fancy to them? Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir, bring me your bill, and let's make no more words about it. Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apartment ? Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave you and your infernal house di- rectly. Hard. Then there's a mahogany table, that you may see your own face in. ' Marlow. My bill, I say. Hard. I had forgot the great chair, for your own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. Marlow. Zounds! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no more on't. Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me, I was taught to ex- pect a well-bred modest man, as a visitor here, but now I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. [Exit. Marlow. How's this! Sure, I have not mistaken the house? Everything looks like an inn. The servants cry " coming." The attendance is awkward; the barmaid, too, to attend us. But she's here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child? A word with you. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. [Aside.] I believe he begins to find out his mistake, but it's too soon quite to undeceive him. Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one ques- tion. What are you, and what may your business in this house be? Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. Marlow. What? A poor relation? Miss Hard. Yes, sir. A poor relation ap- pointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them. Marlow. That is, you act as the barmaid of this inn. Miss Hard. Inn! O law! What brought that in your head? One of the best families in the county keep an inn! Ha, ha, ha, old Mr. Hardcastle's house an inn! Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house! Is this house Mr. Hardcastle's house, child? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be? Marlow. So then all's out, and I have been damnably imposed on. O. confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall be stuck up in caricatura 343 ACT IV, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER in all the print-shops. The Dullissimo Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an inn-keeper! What a swaggering puppy must he take me for! What a silly puppy do I find myself! There again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for the barmaid! Miss Hard. Dear me! dear me! I'm sure there's nothing in my behavor to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. But it's over this house I no more show my face in! Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done noth- ing to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry [Pretend- ing to cry.] if he left the family upon my account. I'm sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, since I have no for- tune but my character. Marlow [aside]. By heaven, she weeps. This is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. [To her.] Excuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune and edu- cation, make an honorable connexion impos- sible; and I can never harbor a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honor, or bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely. Miss Hard, [aside]. Generous man! I now begin to admire him. [To him.] But I'm sure my family is as good as Miss Hard- castle's, and though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind, and, until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune. Marlow. And why now, my pretty sim- plicity? Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a dis- tance from one, that if I had a thousand pound I would give it all to. Marlow [aside]. This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay I'm undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. [To her.] Your partiality in my favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly, and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a father, so that I can scarcely speak it it affects me! Farewell! [Exit. Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the character in which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. Enter TONY, Miss NEVILLE. Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing; but she believes it was all a mis- take of the servants. Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure, you won't forsake us in this distress. If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad things. But what can I do? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistlejacket, and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two more, for fear she should sus- pect us. [They retire, and seem to fondle. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do I see? Fondling together, as I'm alive! I never saw Tony so sprightly be- fore. Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty doves? What, billing, exchanging stolen glances, and broken murmurs ! Ah ! Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then, to be sure. But there's no love lost between us. Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at home. In- deed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it? Tony. O! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming. Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin! Who can help admiring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless, [Patting his cheek.] ah! it's a bold face. Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence! Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel eyes, and her pretty long fin- gers, that she twists this way and that, over the haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. Mrs. Hard. Ah, he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear? 344 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT IV, Sc. I. You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. Enter Diggory. Where's DlGGORY. the 'Squire ? I have got a letter for your worship. Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. Tony. Who does it come from? Diggory. Your worship mun ask that of the letter itself. Tony. I could wish to know, though. [Turning the letter, and gazing on it. Miss Neville [aside]. Undone, undone! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. [To MRS. HARDCASTLE.] But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed you must know, madam this way a little, for he must not hear us. [They confer.] Tony [Still gazing]. A damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print-hand very well. But here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the tail. To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire. It's very odd, I can read the out- side of my letters, where my own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it's all buzz. That's hard, very hard; for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. Mrs. Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ! Miss Neville. Yes, madam; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him again. Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks. Tony [Still gazing]. A damned up and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. [Reading.] Dear Sir. Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, and an 5, but whether the next be an izzard or an R. con- found me, I cannot tell! Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear? Can I give you any assistance? Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand better than I. [Twitching the letter from her.] Do you know who it is from? Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Gin- ger the feeder. Miss Neville. Ay, so it is. [Pretending to read.] " Dear 'Squire, Hoping that you're in health, as I am at this present. tlemen of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds um odd battle um long fighting um, here, here, it's all about cocks, and fighting; it's of no consequence, here, put it up, put it up. [Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him. Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the world! I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea! Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence! [Giving MRS. HARDCASTLE the letter. Mrs. Hard. How's this ! [Reads.] " Dear 'Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet un- able to perform the journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall run distracted! My rage chokes me. Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you'll sus- pend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design that belongs to another. Mrs. Hard. [Curtseying very low]. Fine spoken, madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, madam. [Changing her tone.] And you, you great ill- fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut. Were you too joined against me? But I'll defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off with inc. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll v arrant me. You, too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! I'll show you that I wish you bet- ter than you do yourselves. Neville. So now I'm [Exit. completely Miss ruined. Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. Miss Neville. What better could be ex- pected from being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I made him ? Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens that I thought you could never be making believe. Enter HASTINGS. The gen- 345 Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman? ACT V, Sc. I. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there who betrayed you. not mine. Ecod, it was her doing, Enter MARLOW. Marlow. So I have been finery used here among you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. Tony. Here's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose presently. Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gen- tleman to whom we all owe every obliga- tion. Marlow. What can I say to him? a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction. Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. Hastings. An insensible cub. Marlow. Replete with tricks and mis- chief. Tony. Baw! damme, but I'll fight you both one after the other, with baskets. Marlow. As for him, he's below resent- ment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, re- quires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this a time for explana- tions? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. Marlow. But, sir Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it was' too late to undeceive you. Be pacified. Enter SERVANT. Servant. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, madam. The horses are Miss Neville. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with appre- hension ! Enter SERVANT. Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waiting. Miss Neville. O, Mr. Marlow! if you knew what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I'm sure it would convert your resentment into pity. Marlow. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase the happi- ness of our future connection. If Mrs. Hard. [Within]. Miss Neville. Con- stance, why, Constance, I say. Miss Neville. I'm coming. Well, con- stancy. Remember, constancy is the word. [Exit. Hastings. My heart! How can I support this? To be so near happiness, and such happiness ! Marlow [To TONY]. You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your folly. What might be amusement to you, is here disap- pointment, and even distress. Tony [From a reverie]. Ecod, I have hit it. It's here. Your hands. Yours and yours, my poor Sulky. My boots there, ho! Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden; and if you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you leave to take putting to. Your hat and things are in the mv b st horse, and Bet T ouncer into the next room. We are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit SERVANT. Miss Neville. Well, well; I'll come pres- ! ently. Marlow [To Hastings]. Was it well done, sir, to assist in rendering me ridiculous? To hang me out for the scorn of all my ac- quaintance? Depend upon it, sir, I shall ex- pect an explanation. Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that subject, to deliver what I en- trusted to yourself, to the care of another, sir? Miss Nei'ille. Mr. Hastings. Mr. Marlow. Why will you increase my distress by this groundless dispute? I implore, I entreat you Enter SERVANT. bargain! Come along. My boots, ho! [Exeunt. Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mis- tress is impatient. [Exit SERVANT. 346 ACT V SCENE I CONTINUES. Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT. Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say? Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off in a post-coach, and the young 'Squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by this time. Hastings. Then all my hopes are over. Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is ar- rived. He and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake ' this half-hour. They are coming this way. Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So ACT V, Sc. I. now to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. [Exit. Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLE. Hard. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime com- mands. Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your advances. Hard. And yet he might have seen some- thing in me above a common innkeeper, too. Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon innkeeper; ha! ha! ha! Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships hereditary: and though my daughter's fortune is but small Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to inc.' My son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they like each other, as you say they do Hard. If, man! I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as good as told me so. Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant him. Enter MARLOW. Mar low. I come, sir, on-e more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion. Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never like you the worse for it. Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow; if I am not deceived, you have something more than approbation there- abouts. You take me. Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that hap- piness. Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what, as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between you; but mum. Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has passed be- tween us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that my impu- dence has been passed upon all the rest of the family. Hard. Impudence! No, I don't say that Not quite impudence Though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, But she has told no tales, I as- I never gave her the slightest I like modesty in its sometimes, sure you. Marlow. cause. Hard. Well, well, place well enough. But this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father and I will like you the better for it. Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you; and as I'm sure you like her Marlow. Dear sir I protest, sir Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you. Marlow. But hear me, sir Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it, every moment's delay will be doing mischief, so Marlow. But why won't you hear me? By all that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. Hard, [aside']. This fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond bearing. Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations ! Marlow. As heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted with- out reluctance. I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. [/:.;/. Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted. Hard. And I'm astonished at the delib- erate intrepidity of his assurance. Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon his truth. Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her veracity. Enter Miss HARDCASTLE. Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely, and without reserve; has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection? Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir! But since you require unreserved sin- cerity, I think he has. Hard. [To SIR CHARLES]. You see. Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one interview? Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. Hard. [To SIR CHARLES]. You see. Sir Charles. tachment? Miss Hard. Sir Charles. Miss Hard. But did he profess any at- A lasting one. Did he talk of love? Much, sir. 347 ACT V, Sc. II. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER Sir Charles. Amazing! And all this for- mally ? Miss Hard. Formally. Hard. Now, . my friend, I hope you are satisfied. Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do. Said some civil things of my face, talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his conversation among women to be modest and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting manner by no means describes him, and I am confident he never sat for the picture. Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my sincerity? If you and my papa, in about half-an-hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in person. Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. [Exit. Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I describe I fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt. SCENE II CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. Enter HASTINGS. Hastings. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow, who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he, and perhaps with news of my Constance. Enter TONY, booted and spattered. Hastings. My honest 'Squire! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friendship. Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by-the-bye, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. Hastings. But how? Where did you leave your fellow-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed? Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it: rabbit me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such rarment. Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies? I die with impatience. Tony. Left them? Why, where should I leave them, but where I found them? Hastings. This is a riddle. Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house? Hastings. I'm still astray. Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. Hastings. Ha, ha, ha, I understand; you took them in a round, while they supposed themselves going forward. And so you have at last brought th.m home again? Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-Bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy - Tree Heath, and from that, with a circum- bendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse- pond at the bottom of the garden. Hastings. But no accident, I hope. Tony. No, no. Only mother is confound- edly frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey, and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge afoot to follow you. Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'Squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville; if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. {Exit HASTINGS.] She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook. Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt that laid us against the quick- set hedge has done my business. Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way! Where- abouts do you think we are, Tony ? 348 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT V, Sc. II. Tony. By my guess we should be upon Crack-skull Common, about forty miles from home. Mrs. Hard. O lud! O lud! the most no- torious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on't. Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man that's gal- loping behind us? No; it's only a tree. Don't be afraid. Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat moving behind the thicket? Mrs. Hard. O death! Tony. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coining towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us, we are undone. Tony [aside}. Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one of his night walks. [To her.} Ah, it's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow. Mrs. Hard. Good heaven defend us! He approaches. Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger I'll cough and cry hem. When I cough be sure to keep close. [MRS. HARDCASTLE hides behind a tree in the back scene. Enter HARDCASTLE. Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge in safety? Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedi- gree's. Hem. Mrs. Hard. [From behind}. Ah! I find there's danger. Hard. Forty miles in three hours; sure, that's too much, my youngster. Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem. Mrs. Hard. [From behind}. Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. Hard. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know from whence it came? Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. please. Hem. We'll go in if you Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself. I am certain I heard two voices, and am resolved [Raising his voice.} to find the other out. 349 Mrs. Hard. [From behind}. Oh! he's com- ing to find me out. Oh! Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth hem I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him. Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. Mrs. Hard. [Running forward from behind}. O lud, he'll murder my poor boy, my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman, spare my child, if you have any mercy. Hard. My wife! as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come, or what does she mean? Mrs. Hard. [Kneeling}. Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to jus- tice, indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. Hard. 1 believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me? Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from home? What has brought you to follow us? Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits! So far from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door! [To him.} This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you! [To her.} Don't you know the gate, and the mulberry-tree; and don't you remember the horsepond, my dear? Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horsepond as long as I live; I have caught my death in it. [To TONY.] And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this? I'll teach you to abuse your mother, I will. Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. Mrs. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the stage. Exit. Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. [Exit. Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus? If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolu- tion, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. Miss Ncrillc. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness. Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very mo- ACT V, Sc. III. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER nu-iit. Perish fortune. Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a mon- arch's revenue. Let me prevail. Miss Nerille. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve you. Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you. {Exeunt. SCENE III CHANGES [TO A ROOM AT MR. HARDCASTLE'S]. Enter SIR CHARLES and Miss HARDCASTLE. Sir Charles. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. Miss Hard. I am proud of your approba- tion; and, to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes. Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. {Exit SIR CHARLES. Enter MARLOW. Marlow. Though prepare " for setting out, I come once more to take leave, nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. Miss Hard. {In her own natural manner]. I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you think proper to regret. Marlow {aside]. This girl every moment improves upon me. {To her.] It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of edu- cation and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight; and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I'll urge noth- ing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence ? I must remain contented with the slight ap- probation of imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES from behind. Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. Marlow. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined sim- plicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence, and conscious virtue. Sir Charles. What can it mean? He amazes me! Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush! Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connexion, in which there is the smallest room for repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a tran- sient passion, to load you with confusion? Do you think I could ever relish that happi- ness, which was acquired by lessening yours ! Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your wishes; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct. Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll de- sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity; but, seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connection, where 7 must appear mercen- ary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer? Marlow security? {Kneeling]. Does this look like Does this look like confidence? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase my diffi- dence and confusion. Here let me con- tinue - Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me! Is this your indifference, your unin- teresting conversation ! Hard. Your cold contempt! your formal interview! What have you to say now? Marlow. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean? Hard. It means that you can say and 350 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ACT V, Sc. III. unsay thing's at pleasure. That you can ad- dress a lady in private, and deny it in public; that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter! Mar low. Daughter! this lady your daugh- ter! Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My Kate, whose else should she be? Marlow. Oh, the devil! Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me for. [Curtseying.] She that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' Club: ha, ha, ha! Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this; it's worse than death! Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you ? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy: or the loud confident crea- ture, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning; ha, ha, ha! Marlow. O, curse on my noisy head. I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone. Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. {.They retire, site tormenting hint to the back scene. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE, TONY. Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not. Hard. Who gone? Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor, here. Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connection. Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune, that remains in this family to console us for her loss. Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary ? Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. But you know, if your son, when of age, re- fuses to marry his cousin, her whole for- tune is then at her own disposal. Hard. Ah, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his re- fusal. Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE. Mrs. Hard, [aside]. What! returned so soon? I begin not to like it. Hastings [to HARDCASTLE]. For my late at- tempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent, I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty. Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, 1 was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I'm now recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer connection. Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a modern novel. Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now offer you? What signifies my refusing? can't refuse her till I'm of You age, Tony. know I father. Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your moth- er's desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare, you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father? Hard. Above three months. Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. [Taking Miss NEVILLE'S hand.} Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spin- ster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again! Sir Charles. O brave 'Squire! Hastings. My worthy friend! Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring! Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy, sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favor. Hastings [to Miss HARDCASTLE]. Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. Hard. [Joining their hands]. And I say so, too. And Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper, to-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the Mis- 351 EPILOGUES SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER takes of the Night shall be crowned with a Ogles and leers with artificial skill, merry morning; so boy, take her; and as you Till having lost in age the power to kill, have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish j She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives, the eventful his- tory The fifth and last act still remains for me. is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. EPILOGUE BY DR. GOLDSMITH. Well, having stooped to conquer with success, And gained a husband without aid from dress, Still as a barmaid, I could wish it too, As I have conquered him to conquer you: And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty barmaids have done execution. Our life is all a play, composed to please, " We have our exits and our entrances." The first act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of everything afraid; Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, / hopes as how to girc you satisfaction. Her second act displays a livelier scene, Th' unblushing barmaid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. On 'Squires and Cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, Even Common Councilmen forget to eat. The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'Squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher; Pretends to taste, at Operas cries caro, And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro. Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride, Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheap- side: The barmaid now for your protection prays, Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes. EPILOGUE To be spoken in the character of Tony Lumpkin. BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ. Well now all's ended and my comrades gone, Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son? A hopeful blade! in town I'll fix my station, And try to make a bluster in the nation. As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her, Off in a crack I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. Why should not I in the great world appear? I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year; No matter what a man may here inherit, In London 'gad, they've some regard for spirit. I see the horses prancing up the streets, And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets; Then hoikes to jiggs and pastimes ev'ry night Not to the plays they say it a'n't polite, To Sadler's-Wells perhaps, or Operas go, And once by chance, to the roratorio. Thus here and there, for ever up and down, We'll set the fashions too, to half the town; And then at auctions money ne'er regard, Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a yard: Zounds, we shall make these London gentry say, We know what's damned genteel, as well as they. 352 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL SHERIDAN'S great years may be divided naturally into two periods, one from 1774 to 1779, when he wrote his plays, the other from 1780 to 1812, when he sat in the House of Commons. In each period he delighted and astonished his contemporaries, in one by his comedies, which were a bril- liant departure from the dull moralizing of the sentimental drama, in the other by his orations, which in their immediate effect upon his highly culti- vated audiences are unequalled in the history of modern eloquence. The pity of his life is that his latter years should furnish a miserable anti- climax of domestic unhappiness, business misfortune, and public neglect. Sheridan's ancestry does in some measure account for his genius. His grandfather, Rev. Thomas Sheridan, eccentric, learned, witty, the friend of Swift, and his father, the actor Thomas Sheridan, who as teacher of elocu- tion had fashionable London at his feet, were men of very considerable intellectual ability. His mother was even more remarkable ; she was the author of a novel that was commended by Dr. Johnson and Charles Fox, as well as of three comedies, one of which furnished her son witTTideas for his own plays. This son, Richard Brinsley, was born in Dublin in 1751, and at the age of eleven entered the great public school of Harrow, where he remained for seven years. Then instead of going to the university he studied oratory with his father in London for two years till the family moved to Bath. Bath was then at the height of its glory as the pleasure city of Eng- land, and it became the youthful Sheridan's training school more effectually than either Oxford or Cambridge could have been. Here he observed life in all its cosmopolitan frivolity, studied those varied types of humanity that gather in fashionable resorts, and, stored up in his mind the raw material out of which he later made his wonderful comedies. Here, too, he came into public prominence as the protector and suitor of the gifted and beau- tiful singer, Elizabeth Linley, who, as Frances Burney said, had engrossed " all eyes, ears, hearts." To escape the persistent and distasteful addresses of a married man named Matthews she determined to flee to a convent in 353 THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL France and accepted the glad services of Sheridan as her escort. So after a stormy passage to Dunkirk they proceeded to Calais, where, it seems, they were married, and thence to Lille. Here Miss Linley entered a con- vent, intending to remain " either till Sheridan came of age, or till he was in a position to support a wife." But Mr. Linley, the father, appeared and changed all that. He took the youthful lovers back with him to London, but at the end of a year, in 1773, he was induced to give his consent to their marriage according to the rites of the English Church, since their French " marriage " was not binding. Sheridan meanwhile fought two duels with ^the obnoxious Matthews and succeeded in driving him at least for a time from Bath. As a means of support Sheridan now turned to the theatre, and by the end of 1774 he was able to announce the appearance of his first play, The Rivals, which was actually presented at Covent Garden Theatre Janu- ary 17, 1775. High hopes were, however, disappointed. The house was crowded, but a hostile claque hissed disapproval ; the excessive length of the play, the extravagance of some of the conceits, and the execrable acting of certain performers, especially Lee, who had the part of Sir Lucius O'Trigger, justified the unqualified damning of the play. Sheridan at once withdrew and revised it, and in ten days he again offered it to the public with the gratifying result that it "was received with the warmest bursts of approbation by a crowded and apparently impartial audience." As a thank-offering to the actor Clinch, who in the later performances had displaced the luckless Lee, Sheridan wrote a skit in forty-eight hours called St. Patrick's Day or The Scheming Lieutenant. It was presented at Covent Garden on May 2, 1775, and five more times that season. It is so slight that it merely calls for mention. In contrast to this plaything Sheridan's next piece, the comic opera The Duenna, revealed his best skill and won instantaneous and astonishing success. Mr. Linley, Sheridan's father-in-law and an accomplished musician, wrote the score, and the author and the composer worked so well together that, as Sichel says, "the music fitted it like a glove." It was perfomed on November 21, 1775, and ran for seventy-five nights. To-day only the lyrics remain to please ; the opera is never acted and the wit has largely faded away. In recognition of Sheridan's literary merit Dr. Johnson had him elected (1777) to the Literary Club, remarking that " he who has written the two best comedies of his age [The Rivals and The Duenna] is surely a considerable man." " In~i77fLon Garrick's retirement from the managership of Drury Lane Theatre Sheridan with two others acquired Garrick's half interest, and Sheridan was appointed manager in Garrick's stead. He worked over and expurgated Vanbrugh's The Relapse and under the title of The Trip to Scarborough he brought it out in his own theatre on February 24, 1777. It ran through ninety-nine performances. On May 8 of the same year he produced the greatest of his comedies, The School for Scandal, which ran 354 THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL for twenty nights that season and for sixty-five the next. His next play, The Critic, , .ajmrlesque, like Buckingham's The Rehearsal and Fielding's ToYff Thumb, scored another triumph in 1779. Then when the theatre seemed to be opening" to him a success unparalleled in his century, he stopped. Parliament had a greater lure; he preferred to be himself an actor on the stage of national political life. So he entered the House of Commons in 1780 and remained there till, overwhelmed with debt, he was unable to meet election expenses in i8ij3_and was forced to turn his back forever upon St. Stephens. His rise to fame was rapid and his oratorical spell was soon upon the House. He was at the zenith of his glory in 1787-88 when he delivered his two great speeches against Hastings, one known as the " Begum speech," the other the accusation at the trial! Contemporary evidence points to the stupendous e'ffect which these speeches had upon the listeners, who represented the wealth, the no- bility, and the brains of England, an effect which we to-day are unable to feel, so much has the power and personality of the orator vanished from the written words. His greatest rival Burke, who lives to-day in his orations , as Sheridan does not, said that the Begum speech was ''the-most astonishing i effort of eloquence, argument] and wit united", of which there is any record 1 or tradition." While Sheridan was thus winning fame in the House, his affairs in Drury Lane were suffering from neglect and mismanagement. The theatre had to be repaired and enlarged at great expense ; the costly production of Ireland's Shaksperean forgery Vortigern and Rowena (1796), by which Sheridan was completely taken in, was an utter failure. Two adaptations from the GerlnarTof Rotzebue, The Strangers (1798) and Pizarro (1799), stayed temporarily the coming of disaster, but when in 1809 the theatre was burned, Sheridan knew that failure was complete. Meanwhile his wife had died ( 1792)7 affd Vsecond wife married in 1795 did not bring him happiness and did increase his financial worries. His ill-starred friendship with the disreputable Prince" of ~Wates"tatignt him all too well not to put his trust in princes. The closing years of his life were filled with suffering from disease and persecution by creditors, so that while he lay dying, a sheriff was in^ attendance. The end came in 1816 and then the nation characteristically made haste to give him a magnificent funeral in West- minster Abbey, where fittingly he lies in the Poets' Corner. By the time the eighteenth century was entering upon its last quarter the sentimental drama had about run its course. Goldsmith in The Good- natured Man (1768) and She Stoops to Conquer (17/3) and Sheridan in The t Rivals (1774) forswore allegiance to The goddess of the woful countenance The Sentimental Muse. 355 THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Comedy became once more, in Meredith's phrase, "the fountain of sound sense, not the less perfectly sound because of its sparkle." The influence of the decaying fashion persists, however, in the sentimental nature of young Honeywood in The Good-Natured Man as it does in the somewhat similar character of Charles Surface and in the hypocritical moralizing of Joseph Surface in The School for Scandal, but it has pretty well disappeared in She Stoops to Conquer. The sub-plot of The Rivals is wholly sentimental in appearance, but it is so manipulated that it becomes the object_pf mild satire ra.ther_than of tearful sympathy; it is just saved from being actual burlesque. Actual buTleSqtte comes in The Critic, as when Sneer in speaking of the sentimental play says : " that's a genteel comedy, not a translation only taken from the French : it is written in a style which they have lately tried to run down ; the true sentimental, and nothing ridiculous in it from the beginning to the end"; and again in all seriousness he is made to say: " the theatre, in proper hands, might certainly be made the school of morality ; but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go there principally ,,for their entertainment." The sentimentaLcO-medy was dead. Yet neither Goldsmith nor Sheridan struck out a new or original path. They but adapted to new conditions the comedy of the Restoration, es- pecially that of Congreve and Farquhar; they followed Steele in his moral reaction from the indecency of the earlier plays without sinking into moral- izing and dulness. It is comparatively easy to trace resemblances in situation and characterization between the plays of Sheridan and those of his predeces- sors. Thus in The Rivals critics have traced the pedigree of Mrs. Malaprop from Mrs. Tryfort in the elder Mrs. Sheridan's A Journey to Bath to Dogberry in Much Ado and Dame Quickly in Henry IV , they have shown the marked family resemblance of Lydia Languish to Biddy Tipkin in Steele's The Tender Husband; they might also show the similarity in con- duct and manner of Captain Absolute and Fag to Bevil Jr. and Tom in Steele's Conscious Lovers and of Lucy to Phillis in the same play ; they might point out that as Lydia will lose most of her fortune if she mar- ries without her aunt's consent, so Millamant in Congreve's The Way of the World runs a similar risk under similar conditions. Likewise in The School originals have been found -for the Surface brothers in Blifil and Tom Jones in Fielding's novel as well as in nearly all the hypocrites and their foils in earlier literature, for Sir Peter and Lady Teazle in Mr. and Mrs. Pinchwife in Wycherley's The Country Wife, and for the scandal scenes in the cabal nights in Congreve's The Way of the World All this and more Sheridan anticipated when he said : " Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; and the imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of its offspring, and doubts whether it has created or adopted." Yet there was nothing of the mere copyist about Sheridan, His servants, for instance, talk and act more cleverly than is natural to those in their 356 THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL station so do their counterparts in Restoration comedy, who in turn are modelled on the servants in Latin drama, but they are all vital and fit per- fectly into their environment. The dialogue is witty, but it is as distinctly Sheridan's as the dialogue of Mirabell and Millamant is Congreve's. We recognize its flavor at once in the scenes between Acres and Sir Lucius, in those between Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, and in the scandal scenes. In his manipulation of plot, too, he shows extraordinary skill. Thus he avoids the intricacy that makes Congreve's plays hard to follow. In both The Way of the World and The Rivals the object of the hero is to marry the heroine without losing the money she will forfeit if she marries without her aunt's consent. Congreve invents an elaborate scheme to win the aunt's consent, whereas Sheridan subordinates the matter of the aunt's approval to a sort of merry by-play as of less importance than the swift and happy union of the lovers. The interest of The Rivals is primarily theatrical. .The play has success- fully held the stage from its second performance with Quick as Acres to its modern presentation with Joseph Jefferson in the same role. The sentimental sub-plot is usually excised, since the~~Interesf in what was due only to the time has died with the time. The connection of the sub-plot with the main plot is, moreover, so slight that no loss is experienced as a result of the amputation. Even though Faulkland's fine-spun jealousies are the object of mild ridicule and though he serves as a foil to the romantic Lydia, the audience which has to listen to the utterance of his self-torturing suspicions will inevitably be bored. But_irL. the main_ plot there is not a dull moment. The audience from the first is let into the Absolute-Beverley secret and it soon learns of the trick that is being played on Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Rejoicing in its superior knowledge it is delighted in seeing how the mystified characters act in the complications which they could not foresee. So we have the highly comic scenes of Acres's arousing Faulkland's jealousy about Julia, of Sir Anthony's proposing a marriage to his son, each working at cross purposes, of Lucy's duplicities, of Captain Absolute's appeasing his father, of his posing as Beverley and thus deceiving Mrs. Malaprop and Lydia, and of his own discomfiture at the revelation of his pose, of Acres's challenging Beverley, and of the final clearing up on the duelling field. We are tickled when we see some persons who think they are controlling events caught by their own cleverness, and others who seem to be the victims of circum- stance blundering into good luck; we laugh when a person for whom a trap is laid walks promptly into it, or when two characters wholly mis- understand each other and appear highly ridiculous to all but themselves; and we are vastly entertained when Bob Acres tries to bolster up a sinking courage and is treated as if he were a reckless fire-eater. We have likewise the same theatrical pleasure in the characters and their words as we have in their actions. Sir Anthony's choleric temper will 357 THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL always amuse any audience ; Bob Acres with his referential oaths and his inflated courage is a perpetual joy ; Mrs. Malaprop deranges her epitaphs to the unfailing delight of all who hear aspersions cast on her parts of speech. One is hurried along with such speed in the constant bustle of the action and the rapid fire of dialogue that no time remains to question the reasonableness of the characters or their speeches. Apart from the ex- citement of the theatre one realizes that Sir Anthony is made more precipitate than he would be in actual life, that Bob Acres manages his account of Julia's conduct too well for the occasion, and that he manufactures oaths too cleverly for the blockhead he is, that Mrs. Malaprop is so much " the queen of the dictionary " that one sees design on the part of her creator. But on the boards Sheridan's cleverness captures his audience before it has time to protest. The exuberance of Sheridan's humor, indeed, carries his audience off its feet. It has all the marks of youth and genius, " rather," as Brander Matthews says, " the frank feeling for fun and appreciation of the incongru- ous . . . than the deeper and broader humor which we see at its full in Moliere and Shakspere." One fully realizes that the leading characters are superficially portrayed Sir Anthony, Mrs. Malaprop, and Acres, that Sheri- dan does not touch in this play the springs of laughter that lie so close to the springs of tears. A youth of twenty-three could not plumb such comic depths or by means of humorous revelation make us know a man like Falcon- bridge or Falstaff. The humor of The Rivals is more " abundantly laughter- compelling" than the extremely clever wit of The School. Indeed Sheridan in the earlier play seems more like the youthful Shakspere of the rollicking comedies, while in the later play he resembles the finished artist of the Restoration comedy who wrote The Way of the World. The present admirably articulated plot of The School for Scandal is the result of evolution through several stages. The scandal scenes go back to a short skit laid in Bath and called The Slanderers a Pump-Room ' Scene; the Teazle affair and the intrigue of Lady Sneerwell to two other scenes intended at first for separate plays. " Solomon " and " Mrs." Teazle are much less pleasant people to know than Sir Peter and his lady, and their relation to each other is the familiar one of January and May with its inevitable quarrellings. In the second scene Maria is the orphaned niece and dependant of Lady Sneerwell, who " hides a passion for Sir Charles Clerimont . . . and tries to break off the attachment between him and Maria by pretending to dote on Sir Benjamin Backbite (the villain of the piece) and getting the girl to write love-letters for her to that precursor of Joseph Surface" (Sichel). Clerimont is thus made to believe Maria false, while Backbite makes love to both women. Sheridan indicates elsewhere that the finale was to consist in Backbite's mistaking the aunt in the dark for the niece and locking her in a cupboard. This incident is the germ of the screen scene. The Clerrmont plot is sentimental and melodramatic, but it was toned 358 THE RIVALS AND THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL down when the hero was changed from a " romantic paragon into a good- hearted spendthrift." These three parts were now merged and such transformations achieved as made possible the present play. The scandal scenes were developed into the inimitable opening scene which takes up the greater part of Act P, the scene (II, ii) in which Lady Teazle finds herself quite at home in the School for Scandal and Sir Peter does not, and that (V, ii) in which is discussed with unholy enthusiasm the affair of the Teazles and Joseph Surface. These form a sort of background into which the main concerns of the comedy are so skilfully merged that to separate them would mean cutting the living tissue of the piece. One cannot but notice the advance over The Rivals in the constructive ingenuity of the plotting. The Clerimont plot was very considerably changed and improved. Backbite be- came a mere scandal-monger to make way for Joseph Surface. Clerimont was transformed into Charles Surface, the brother of Joseph, both of whom had been wards of Sir Peter Teazle. Sir Rowland Harpur was brought into the Surface family as the uncle of the brothers, was called Sir Oliver Surface, and was made an old bachelor friend of Sir Peter. Maria is made independent of Lady Sneerwell. Moses was invented to fit in with the new spendthrift hero Charles. Joseph was altered from a scheming villain to a " sentimental knave." Two splendid climactic scenes were in- vented, one, the auction of the pictures, to bring to a head the spendthrift and generous impulses of Charles, the other, the screen scene, to reveal the knavery of Joseph and straighten out the affairs of the Teazles. Such faults as the play has are hardly noticed in the performance. One does not stop to question the probability of the off-stage arrival in the screen scene of the fourth person in some versions, Lady Sneerwell while Joseph is entertaining Lady Teazle, Sir Peter, and Charles, or the likelihood that he would leave them alone while he is disposing of this unwelcome visitor. The fun and the suspense shut out all questionings. Even the speeches directed to the audience for their information, the asides and soliloquies, the conveniently happy and unhappy meetings at unexpected moments, the rather palpable business of Stanley, are not noticed in the theatrical effectiveness of the whole. Indeed Sheridan dares to follow a strong climax with what would be flat anti-climaxes unless properly managed ; but so deliciously are these scenes presented that the gossip which rages about Lady Teazle, the revelation of the identity of Stanley and Premium with Sir Oliver, and the exposure of Lady Sneerwell but carry the comedy to a triumphant close. The character-drawing of The School is immensely superior to that of The Rivals. Sir Peter is far more human than Sir Anthony. One realizes that he has not been created for the sake of the scene but that the scene is built naturally about him. He is a fine old country gentleman who has fallen in love with a young, pretty, and, at heart, good girl whose head has been turned by her new environment. One admires as well as loves him; 359 PROLOGUE THE RIVALS whereas one regards Sir Anthony much as one would an exceedingly funny caricature. Charles and Joseph are counterpart presentments of the senti- mental type : one is the hero, the reliever of the distressed so long as the distress is not due to his non-payment of just bills, the devoted nephew, who cherishes one portrait, the reformed rake, who flees from folly to the sanctuary of " Love and You," as he says to Maria in the closing words of the play ; the other is the moralizer, who keeps his sentiments for all but his friends, and in whom the type, because it was made utterly contemptible, was killed for dramatic presentation. It is very pleasant to see this representa- tive of a decadent society reduced to ineffective protestation by one whose heart is yet sound though it had approached the perilous verge that separates moral life and death. No play in our volume has had a more brilliant theatrical record. From that memorable occasion on May 8, 1777, when " a house packed with every section of society welcomed an epoch-making play" (Sichel) to the summer of 1909 when Sir Beerbohm Tree delighted audiences in His Majesty's Theatre, London, the comedy has demonstrated the permanency of Sheridan's wit, which is " steeped in the very brine of conceit and sparkles like salt in the fire." A gala performance at the Grand Opera House, Toronto, in the presence of the Governor-General of Canada, the Marquis of Dufferin, the great grandson of the author, was given exactly a hundred years after the premiere. It has for over a century had a brilliant history on the Ameri- can stage. It has also been produced in Paris, Vienna, Venice, and in an adapted form in Bombay. PROLOGUE BY THE AUTHOR Spoken by Mr. Woodward and Mr. Quick Enter Serjeant at Law and Attorney. Serj. WHAT'S here ! a vile cramp hand ! I cannot see Without my spectacles. Alt. [Aside] He means his fee. Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money. Serj. The scrawl improves. [More] O come, 'tis pretty plain. How's this? The poet's brief again! O ho! Cast, I suppose? Att. O pardon me no no We found the court, o'erlooking stricter laws, 360 THE RIVALS PROLOGUE Indulgent to the merits of the cause; By judges mild, unused to harsh denial, A rule was granted for another trial. Serj. Then heark'ee, Dibble, did you wend your pleadings? Errors, no few, we've found in our proceedings. Att. Come, courage, sir, we did amend our plea, Hence your new brief, and this refreshing fee. Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet. Serj. And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet 1 Att. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig. Serj. Full-bottomed heroes thus, on signs, unfurl A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl! Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days, This wig is warmer than a bush of bays. Att. Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply, Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tye Do you, with all those blushing powers of face, And wonted bashful hesitating grace, Rise in the court, and flourish on the case. [Exit. Serj. [Addressing the audience] For practice, then, suppose this brief will show it, Me, Serjeant Woodward, council for the poet. Used to the ground I know 'tis hard to deal With this dread court, from whence there's no appeal; No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law, Or, damned in equity escape by flaw: But judgment given your sentence must remain; No writ of error lies to Drury-lane! Yet, when so kind you seem 'tis past dispute We gain some favor, if not costs of suit. No spleen is here! I see no hoarded fury; I think I never faced a milder jury ! Sad else our plight ! where frowns are transportation, A hiss the gallows, and a groan, damnation! But such the public candor, without fear My client waives all right of challenge here. No newsman from our session is dismissed, Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list ; His faults can never hurt another's ease, His crime at worst a bad attempt to please: Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all, And by the general voice will* stand or fall. 361 PBOLOQUE THE RIVALS PROLOGUE BY THE AUTHOR Spoken on the tenth night, by Mrs. Bulkley GRANTED our cause, our suit and trial o'er, The worthy serjeant need appear no more : In pleading I a different client choose ; He served the poet I would serve the Muse. Like him, I'll try to merit your applause, A female counsel in a female's cause. Look on this form, where humor, quaint and sly, Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye; Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles ; While her light mask or covers satire's strokes, Or hides the conscious blush her wit provokes. Look on her well does she seem formed to teach? Should you expect to hear this lady preach? Is grey experience suited to her youth? Do solemn sentiments become that mouth? Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prove To every theme that slanders mirth or love. Yet, thus adorned with every graceful art To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart Must we displace her, and instead advance The goddess of the woful countenance The sentimental Muse? Her emblems view, The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue! View her too chaste to look like flesh and blood Primly portrayed on emblematic wood ! There, fixed in usurpation, should she stand, She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand: And having made her votaries weep a flood, Good heaven ! she'll end her comedies in blood Bid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown! Imprison Quick, and knock Ned Shuter down; While sad Barsanti, weeping o'er the scene, Shall stab herself or poison Mrs. Green. Such dire encroachments to prevent in time, Demands the critic's voice the poet's rhyme. Can our light scenes add strength to holy laws? 362 THE RIVALS ACT I, So. I. Such puny patronage but hurts the cause: Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask; And moral truth disdains the trickster's mask. For here their favorite stands, whose brow severe And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear; Who, when oppressed by foes her worth creates, Can point a poniard at the guilt she hates. DRAMATIS PERSONS MEN SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE. CAPT. ABSOLUTE. FAULKLAND. ACRES. SIR Lucius O'TRIGGER. FAG. DAVID. COACHMAN. WOMEN MRS. MALAPROP. LYDIA LANGUISH. JULIA. LUCY. Maid, Boy, Servants, &c. SCENE. BATH. TIME OF ACTION, FIVE HOURS. ACT I SCENE I A Street in Bath. COACHMAN crosses the stage. Enter FAG, looking after him. Fag. What ! Thomas ! Sure, 'tis he. What ! Thomas ! Thomas ! Coach. Hay! Odd's life! Mr. Fag! give us your hand, my old fellow-servant. Fag. Excuse my glove, Thomas. I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad. Why, my prince of charioteers, you look as hearty! but who the deuce thought of seeing you in Bath! Coach. Sure, Master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postilion be all come! Fag. Indeed ! Coach. Aye! Master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make him a visit: so he'd a mind to gi't the slip, and whip ! we were all off at an hour's warning. Fag. Aye, aye ! hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir Anthony Absolute! Coach. But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master? Odd! Sir Anthony will stare to see the Captain here! Fag. I do not serve Capt. Absolute now. Coach. Why sure! Fag. At present I am employed by En- sign Beverley. Coach. I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better. Fag. I have not changed, Thomas. Coach. No! Why, didn't you say you had left young master? Fag. No. Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no farther: briefly then Capt. Absolute and Ensign Beverley are one and the same person. Coach. The devil they are! Fag. So it is indeed, Thomas; and the Ensign half of my master being on guard at present the Captain has nothing to do with me. Coach. So, so! What, this is some freak, I warrant ! Do tell us, Mr. Fag, the mean- ing o't you know I ha' trusted you. Fag. You'll be secret, Thomas? Coach. As a coach-horse. Fag. Why then the cause of all this is LOVE, Love, Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter. Coarli. Aye, aye; I guessed there was a lady in the case: but pray, why does your master pass only for Ensign/ Now if he had shammed General, indeed Fag. Ah! Thomas, there lies the mystery 363 ACT I, Sc. II. THE RIVALS o' the matter. Hark'ee, Thomas, my master is in love with a lady of a very singular taste: a lady who likes him better as a half -pay Ensign than if she knew he was son and heir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet with three thousand a-year! Coach. That is an odd taste indeed! But has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag? Is she rich, hey? Fag. Rich! Why, I believe she owns half the stocks ! Z ds ! Thomas, she could pay the nation 1 debt as easy as I could my washerwoman ! She has a lap-dog that eats out of gold, she feeds her parrot with small pearls, and all her thread-papers are made of bank-notes! Coach. Bravo! Faith! Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least. But does she draw kindly with the Captain? Fag. As fond as pigeons. Coach. May one hear her name? Fag. Miss Lydia Languish. But there is an old tough aunt in the way; though, by the by she has never seen my master for he got acquainted with Miss while on a visit in Gloucestershire. Coach. Well I wish they were once har- nessed together in matrimony. But pray, Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this Bath? I ha' heard a deal of it Here's a mort o' merry-making hey ? Fag. Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well 'tis a good lounge. Though at present we are, like other great assemblies, divided into parties High -roomians and Low-roomians. However, for my part, I have resolved to stand neuter; and so I told Bob Brush at our last committee. I',.,.;,-/-. But what do the folks do here? Fag. Oh! there are little amusements enough. In the morning we go to the Pump- room (though neither my master nor I drink the waters); after breakfast we saunter on the Parades, or play a game at billiards; at night we dance. But d n the place, I'm tired of it: their regular hours stupify me not a fiddle nor a card after eleven! How- ever Mr. Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private parties. I'll introduce you there, Thomas you'll like' him much. Coach. Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne you know his master is to marry Madam Julia. Fag. 1 had forgot. But Thomas, you must polish a little indeed you must. Here now this wig! what the devil do you do with a wig, Thomas? None of the London whips of any degree of ton wear wigs now. Coach. More's the pity! more's the pity, I say. Odd's life! when I heard how the law- yers and doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how 'twould go next: Odd rabbit it! when the fashion had got foot on the Bar, I guessed 'twould mount to the Box ! But 'tis all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag: and look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine the law- yers and doctors may do as they will. Fag. Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that. Coach. Why, bless you, the gentlemen of the professions ben't all of a mind for in our village now, tho'ff Jack Gauge, the exciseman, has ta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick, the farrier, swears he'll never forsake his bob, tho' all the college should appear with their own heads! Fag. Indeed! well said, Dick! But hold- mark ! mark ! Thomas. Coach. Zooks! 'tis the Captain! Is that the lady with him? Fag. No! no! that is Madam Lucy my master's mistress's maid. They lodge at that house. But I must after him to tell him the news. Coach. Odd! he's giving her money! Well, Mr. Fag Fag. Good bye, Thomas. I have an ap- pointment in Gyde's Porch this evening at eight; meet me there, and we'll make a little party. [Exeunt severally. SCENE II A Dressing-Room in MRS. MALAPROP'S Lodgings. LYDIA sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand. LUCY, as just returned from a message. Lucy. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at. Lyd. And could not you get " The Reward of Constancy " ? Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. Lyd. Nor " The Fatal Connection "f Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. Lyd. Nor " The Mistakes of the Heart "f Lucy. Ma'am, as ill-luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away. Lyd. Heigh-ho ! Did you inquire for " The Delicate Distress " ? Lucy. Or " The Memoirs of Lady Wood- ford"? Yes indeed, ma'am. I asked every where for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read. Lyd. Heigho-ho! Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and I be- lieve cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes. Well, child, what hare you brought me ? Lucy. Oh! here, ma'am. [Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.} This is " The Gordian Knot," and this 364 THE RIVALS ACT I, Sc. II. " Peregrine Pickle.'' Here are " The Tears of Sensibility " and " Humphry Clinker." This is " The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, writ- ten by herself," and here the second volume of " The Sentimental Journey." Lyd. Heigh-ho ! What are those books by the glass? Lucy. The great one is only " The Whole Duty of Man "where I press a few blonds, ma am. Lyd. Lucy. Lyd. Lucy. Lyd. Lucy. Very well give me the sal volatile. Is it in a blue cover, ma'am ? My smelling bottle, you simpleton! Oh, the drops! Here, ma'am. No note, Lucy ? No, indeed, ma'am but I have seen a certain person- Lyd. What, my Beverley ! Well, Lucy? /../,;.. O ma'am! he looks so desponding and melancholic ! Lyd. Hold, Lucy! here's some one com- ingquick! see who it is. [Exit Lucy.] Sure- ly I heard my cousin Julia's voice! Re-enter LUCY. Lucy. Lud! ma'am, here is Miss Melville. Lyd. Is it possible! Enter JULIA. Lyd. My dearest Julia, how delighted am How unexpected was this I ! [Embrace] happiness ! Jul. True, Lydia and our pleasure is the greater. But what has been the matter? you were denied to me at first ! Lyd. Ah ! Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you! But first inform me what has conjured you to Bath? Is Sir Anthony here? Jul. He is we are arrived within this hour and I suppose he will be here to wait on Mrs. Malaprop as soon as he is dressed. Lyd. Then, before we are interrupted, let me impart to you some of my distress ! I know your gentle nature will sympathize with me, tho' your prudence may condemn me ! My letters have informed you of my whole connection with Beverley; but I have lost him, Julia! my aunt has discovered our intercourse by a note she intercepted, and has confined me ever since! Yet, would you believe it? she has fallen absolutely in love with a tall Irish baronet she met one night since we have been here, at Lady Macshuffle's rout. Jul. You jest, Lydia! Lyd. No, upon my word. She absolutely carries on a kind of correspondence with him, under a feigned name though, till she chooses to be known to him; but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you. Jul. Then surely she is now more indulg- ent to her niece. Lyd. Quite the contrary. Since she has discovered her own frailty she is become more suspicious of mine. Then I must in- form you of another plague! That odious Acres is to be in Bath to-day; so that I pro- test I shall be teased out of all spirits! Jul. Come, come, Lydia, hope the best. Sir Anthony shall use his interest with Mrs. Malaprop. Lyd. But you have not heard the worst. Unfortunately I had quarrelled with my poor Beverley just before my aunt made the dis- covery, and I have not seen him since to make it up. Jul. What was his offence? Lyd. Nothing at all! But, I don't know how it was, as often as we had been together we had never had a quarrel! And somehow I was afraid he would never give me an op- portunity. So last Thursday I wrote a letter to myself to inform myself that Beverley was at that time paying his addresses to another woman. I signed it your friend un- known, showed it to Beverley, charged him with his falsehood, put myself in a violent passion, and vowed I'd never see him more. Jul. And you let him depart so, and have not seen him since? Lyd. 'Twas the next day my aunt found the matter out. I intended only to have teased him three days and a half, and now I've lost him for ever! Jul. If he is as deserving and sincere ns you have represented him to me, he will never give you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you tell me he is but an ensign, and you have thirty thousand pounds! Lyd. But you know I lose most of my fortune if I marry without my aunt's con- sent, till of age; and that is what I have determined to do ever since I knew the penalty. Nor could I love the man who would wish to wait a day for the alternative. Jul. Nay, this is caprice! Lyd. What, does Julia tax me with caprice? I thought her lover Faulkland had enured her to it. Jul. I do not love Lyd. But a-propos I suppose? Jul. Not yet, upon my word nor has he the least idea of my being in Bath. Sir An- thony's resolution was so sudden I could not inform him of it. Lyd. Well, Julia, you are your own mis- tress (though under the protection of Sir Anthony), yet have you for this long year been the slave to the caprice, the whim, the jealousy of this ungrateful Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the right of a hus- band, while you suffer him to be equally im- perious as a lover. Jul. Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were contracted before my father's death. That, and some consequent embarrassments, . have delayed what I know to be my Faulk- even his faults. -you have sent to him, 365 ACT I, Sc. II. THE RIVALS land's most ardent wish. He is too generous to trifle on such a point. And for his char- acter, you wrong him there too. No, Lydia, he is too proud, too noble to be jealous. If he is captious, 'tis without dissembling; if fretful, without rudeness. Unused to the foppery of love, he is negligent of the little duties expected from a lover but being un- hackneyed in the passion, his love is ardent and sincere; and as it engrosses his whole soul, he expects every thought and emotion of his mistress to move in unison with his. Yet, though his pride calls for this full re- turn his humility makes him undervalue those qualities in him which should entitle him to it; and not feeling why he should be loved to the degree he wishes, he still sus- pects that he is not loved enough. This tem- per, I must own, has cost me many unhappy hours; but I have learned to think myself bis debtor for those imperfections which arise from the ardor of his love. Lyd. Well, I cannot blame you for de- fending him. But tell me candidly, Julia, had he never saved your life, do you think you should have been attached to him as you are? Believe me, the rude blast that overset your boat was a prosperous gale of love to him! Jiil. Gratitude may have strengthened my attachment to Mr. Faulkland, but I loved him before he had preserved me; yet surely that alone were an obligation sufficient. Lyd. Obligation ! Why, a water-spaniel would have done as much. Well, I should never think of giving my heart to a man be- cause he could swim! Jnl. Come, Lydia, you are too inconsider- ate. Lyd. Nay, I do but jest. What's here? Enter LUCY in a hurry. Lucy. O ma'am, here is Sir Anthony Ab- solute just come home with your aunt. Lyd. They'll not come here. Lucy, do you watch. [Exit LUCY. Jnl. Yet I must go. Sir Anthony does not know I am here, and if we meet he'll detain me to show me the town. I'll take another opportunity of paying my respects to Mrs. Malaprop, when she shall treat me as long as she chooses with her select words so in- geniously misapplied, without being mispro- nounced. Re-enter LUCY. Lucy. O Lud! ma'am, they are both com- ing up stairs. Lyd. Well, I'll not detain you, coz. Adieu, my dear Julia. I'm sure you are in haste to send to Faulkland. There through my room you'll find another stair-case. Jul. Adieu. [Embrace. Exit JULIA. Lyd. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick! Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet throw Roderick Random into the closet put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa cram Ovid behind the bolster there put The Man of Feeling into your pocket so, so, now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyce's Ser- mons open on the table. Lucy. O burn it, ma'am! the hair-dresser has torn away as far as Proper Pride. Lyd. Never mind open at Sobriety. Fling me Lord Chesterfield's Letters. Now for 'em. Enter MRS. MALAPROP, and SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE. Mrs. Mai. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate simpleton, who wants to dis- grace her family, and lavish herself on a fel- low not worth a shilling! Lyd. Madam, I thought you once Mrs. Mai. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all thought does not become a young woman. The point we would request of you is that you will promise to forget this fellow to illiterate him, I say, quite from your mem- ory. Lyd. Ah! madam! our memories are in- dependent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. Mrs. Mai. But I say it is, miss. There is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. Sir Anth. Why sure she won't pretend to remember what she's ordered not! Aye, this comes of her reading ! Lyd. What crime, madam, have I com- mitted to be treated thus? Mrs. Mai. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing? Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. Mrs. Mai. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know, that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a black-a-moor and yet, miss, you are sensi- ble what a wife I made! and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed! But suppose we were 366 THE RIVALS ACT I, Sc. II. going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley? Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. Mrs. Mai. Take yourself to your room. You are fit company for nothing but your own ill-humors. Lyd. Willingly, ma'am. I cannot change for the worse. [Exit LYDIA. Mrs. Mai. There's a little intricate hussy for you! Sir Anth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heavens! I'd as soon have them taught the black-art as their alphabet! Mrs. Mai. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy. Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Mala- prop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand they were half-bound volumes, with marbled covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress ! Mrs. Mai. Those are vile places, indeed! Sir Anth. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an ever-green tree of dia- bolical knowledge ! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last. Mrs. Mai. Well, but Sir Anthony, your wife, Lady Absolute, was fond of books. Sir Anth. Aye and injury sufficient they were to her, madam. But were I to choose another helpmate, the extent of her erudi- tion should consist in her knowing her sim- ple letters, without their mischievous com- binations; and the summit of her science be her ability to count as far as twenty. The first, Mrs. Malaprop, would enable her to work A. A. upon my linen; and the latter would be quite sufficient to prevent her giving me a shirt No. 1 and a stock No. 2. Mrs. Mai. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony, you surely speak laconically ! Sir Anth. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in mod- eration now, what would you have a woman know? Mrs. Mai. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflamma- tory branches of learning neither would It be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instru- ments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her at nine years old to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and arti- fice. Then, sir, she should have a supercil- ious knowledge in accounts; and as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; but above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of or- thodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do; and like, vise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she :s saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it. Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question. But, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important point in debate, you say you have no objection to my proposal. Mrs. Mai. None, I assure you. I am under no positive engagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better success. Sir Anth. Well, madam, I will write for the boy directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for some time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with his regiment. Mrs. Mai. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side. Sir Anth. Objection! let him object if he dare! No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy di- rectly. My process was always very simple in their younger days, 'twas "Jack do this;" if he demurred I knocked him down and if he grumbled at that I always sent him out of the room. Mrs. Mai. Aye, and the properest way, o* my conscience ! nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres' his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invoca- tions; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an object not altogether il- legible. Sir Anth. Madam, I will handle the sub- ject prudently. Well, I must leave you and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to en- force this matter roundly to the girl; take my advice keep a tight hand if she rejects this proposal clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants for- get to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about! [Exit SIR ANTH. Mrs. Mai. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get her from under my intuition. She has somehow discovered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'Trigger Sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me! No, the girl is such simpleton I should have made her confess 367 ACT II, Sc. I. THE RIVALS it. Lucy! Lucy! [Calls] Had she been one of your artificial ones I should never have trusted her. Enter LUCY. Lucy. Did you call, ma'am? Mrs. Mai. Yes, girl. Did you see Sir Lucius while you was out? Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him. Mrs. Mai. You are sure, Lucy, that you never mentioned Lucy. O Gemini! I'd sooner cut my tongue out. Mrs. Mai. Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on. Lucy. No, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. So, come to me presently, and I'll give you another letter to Sir Lucius. But mind, Lucy if ever you betray what you are entrusted with (unless it be other peo- ple's secrets to me) you forfeit my malevo- lence forever: and your being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your locality. [Exit MRS. MALAPROP. Lucy. Ha! ha! ha! So, my dear simplicity, let me give you a little respite. [Altering her manner] Let girls in my station be as fond as they please of appearing expert, and knowing in their trusts commend me to a mask of silliness, and a pair of sharp eyes for my own interest under it! Let me see to what account I have turned my simplicity lately [Looks at a paper] For abetting Miss Lydia Languish in a design of running away with an Ensign! in money sundry times twelve pound twelve gowns, five hats , ruffles, caps &c., &c. numberless! From the said Ensign, within this last month, six guineas and a half. About a quarter's pay! Item, from Mrs. Malaprop, for betraying the young people to her when I found matters were likely to be discovered two guineas, and a black paduasoy. Item, from Mr. Acres, for carrying divers letters which I never deliv- ered two guineas, and a pair of buckles. Item, from Sir Lucius O'Trigger three crowns two gold pocket-pieces and a silver snuff- box! Well done, simplicity! Yet I was forced to make my Hibernian believe that he was corresponding, not with the aunt, but with the niece: for, though not over rich, I found he had too much pride and delicacy to sacrifice the feelings of a gentleman to the necessities of his fortune. [Exit. ACT II SCENE I CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE'S Lodgings. CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE and FAG. Fag. Sir, while I was there Sir Anthony quire after his health, and to know if he was at leisure to see you. Abs. And what did he say on hearing I was at Bath? Fag. Sir, in my life I never saw an elderly gentleman more astonished! He started back two or three paces, rapt out a dozen inter- jectoral oaths, and asked what the devil had brought you here! Abs. Well, sir, and what did you say? Fag. O, I lied, sir I forget the precise lie; but you may depend on't, he got no truth from me. Yet, with submission, for fear of blunders in future, I should be glad to fix what has brought us to Bath, in ordar that we may lie a little consistently. Sir Anthony's servants were curious, sir, very curious indeed. Abs. Fag. You have said nothing to them ? O, not a word, sir, not a word. Mr. Thomas, indeed, the coachman (whom I take to be the discreetest of whips) Abs. S'death! you rascal! you have not trusted him! Fag. O, no, sir! no no not a syllable, upon my veracity! He was, indeed, a little inquisitive; but I was sly, sir devilish sly! My master (said I), honest Thomas (you know, sir, one says honest to one's inferiors), is come to Bath to recruit. Yes, sir I said, to recruit and whether for men, money, or constitution, you know, sir, is nothing to him, nor any one else. Abs. Well recruit will Jo let it be so Fag. O, sir, recruit will do surprisingly. Indeed, to give the thing an air, I told Thomas that your Honor had already en- listed five disbanded cha-'rmen, seven minor- ity waiters, and thirteen billiard markers. Abs. You blockhead, never say more than is necessary. Fag. 1 beg pardon, sir I beg pardon. But, with submission, a lie is nothing unless one supports it. Sir, whenever I draw on my invention for a good current lie, I always forge indorsements, as well as the bill. Abs. credit Well, take care you don't hurt your by offering too much security. Is came in: I told him you had sent me to in- 368 Mr. Faulkland returned? Fag. He is above, sir, changing his dress. Abs. Can you tell whether he has been informed of Sir Anthony's and Miss Melville's arrival ? Fag. I fancy not, sir; he has seen no one since he came in, but his gentleman, who was with him at Bristol. I think, sir, I hear Mr. Faulkland coming down. Abs. Go tell him I am here. Fag. Yes, sir. [Going] I beg pardon, sir, but should Sir Anthony call, you will do me the favor to remember that we are recruit- ing, if you please. Abs. Well, well. Fag. And in tenderness to my character, THE RIVALS ACT II, Sc. I. if your Honor could bring in the chairmen and waiters, I shall esteem it as an obliga- tion; for though I never scruple a lie to serve my master, yet it hurts one's con- science to be found out. [Exit. Abs. Now for my whimsical friend. If he does not know that his mistress is here, I'll tease him a little before I tell him Enter FAULKLAND. Faulkland, you're welcome to Bath again; you are punctual in your return. Faulk. Yes; I had nothing to detain me when I had finished the business I went on. Well, what news since I left you? How stand matters between you and Lydia? Abs. Faith, much as they were. I have not seen her since our quarrel; however, I expect to be recalled every hour. Faulk. Why don't you persuade her to go off with you at once? Abs. What, and lose two thirds of her fortune ? You forget that, my friend. No, no, I could have brought her to that long ago. Faulk. Nay then, you trifle too long. If you are sure of her, propose to the aunt in your own character, and write to Sir An- thony for his consent. Abs. Softly, softly, for though I am con- vinced my little Lydia would elope with me as Ensign Beverley, yet am I by no means certain that she would take me with the im- pediment of our friends' consent, a regular humdrum wedding, and the reversion of a good fortune on my side. No, no, I must prepare her gradually for the discovery, and make myself necessary to her, before I risk it. Well, but Faulkland, you'll dine with us to-day at the hotel? Faulk. Indeed, I cannot. I am not in spirits to be of such a party. Abs. By Heavens! I shall forswear your company. You are the most teasing, cap- tious, incorrigible lover! Do love like a man! Faulk. I own I am unfit for company. Abs. Am not / a lover; aye, and a ro- mantic one too? Yet do I carry every where with me such a confounded farago of doubts, fears, hopes, wishes, and all the flimsy furniture of a country miss's brain? Faulk. Ah! Jack, your heart and soul are not, like mine, fixed immutably on one only object. You throw for a large stake, but losing you could stake, and throw again: but I have set my sum of happiness on this cast, and not to succeed were to be stript of all. Abs. But, for Heaven's sake! what grounds for apprehension can your whimsical brain conjure up at present? Has Julia missed writing this last post? pr was her lat too tender, or too cool; or too grave, or too gay; or Faulk. Nay, nay, Jack. Abs. Why, her love her honor her prudence, you cannot doubt. Faulk. O! upon my soul, I never have. But what grounds for apprehension did you. say ? Heavens ! are there not a thousand ! I fear for her spirits her health her life. My absence may fret her; her anxiety for my return, her fears for me, may oppress her gentle temper. And for her health does not every hour bring me cause to be alarmed? If it rains, some shower may even then have chilled her delicate frame! If the wind be keen, some rude blast may have affected her! The heat of noon, the dews of the evening, may endanger the life of her, for whom only I value mine. O! Jack, when delicate and feeling souls are separated, there is not a feature in the sky not a movement of the elements, not an aspiration of the breeze, but hints some cause for a lover's apprehension ! Abs. Aye, but we may choose whether we will take the hint or no. Well then, Faulk- land, if you were convinced that Julia was well and in spirits, you would be entirely content ? Faulk. I should be happy beyond meas- ure I'm anxious only for that. Abs. Then to cure your anxiety at once Miss Melville is in perfect health, and is at this moment in Bath ! Faulk. Nay, Jack don't trifle with me. Abs. She is arrived here with my father within this hour. Faulk. Can you be serious? Abs. 1 thought you knew Sir Anthony better than to be surprised at a sudden whim of this kind. Seriously then, it is as I tell you upon my honor. Faulk. My dear friend! Hollo, Du- Peigne! my hat. My dear Jack now nothing: on earth can give me a moment's uneasiness. Enter FAG. Fag. Abs. Sir, Mr. Acres just arrived is below. Stay, Faulkland, this Acres lives within a mile of Sir Anthony, and he shall tell you how your mistress has been ever since you left her. Fag, show the gentle- man up. [Exit FAG. Faulk. What, is he much acquainted in the family? Abs. O, very intimate. I insist on your not going: besides, his character will divert you. Faulk. Well, I should like to ask him a few questions. Abs. He is likewise a rival of mine- that is of my oilier self's, for he does not think his friend Capt. Absolute ever saw the lady in question; and it is ridiculous 369 ACT II, Sc. I. THE RIVALS enough to bear him complain to me of one Beverley, a concealed sculking rival, who Faulk. Hush ! He's here. Enter ACRES. Acres. Hah! my dear friend, noble captain, and honest Jack, how do'st thou ? Just ar- rived, faith, as you see. Sir, your humble servant. Warm work on the roads, Jack! Odds, whips and wheels ! I've travelled like a comet, with a tail of dust all the way as long as the Mall. Abs. Ah! Bob, you are indeed an ec- centric planet; but we know your attrac- tion hither. Give me leave to introduce Mr. Faulkland to you. Mr. Faulkland, Mr. Acres. Acres. Sir, I am most heartily glad to see you: Sir, I solicit your connections. Hey, Jack, what, this is Mr. Faulkland, who ? Abs. Aye, Bob, Miss Melville's Mr. Faulkland. Acres. Od'so! she and your father can be but just arrived before me: I suppose you have seen them. Ah ! Mr. Faulkland, you are indeed a happy man. Faulk. I have not seen Miss Melville yet, sir. I hope she enjoyed full health and spirits in Devonshire ? Acres. Never knew her better in my life, sir never better. Odd's blushes and blooms! she has been as healthy as the German Spa. Faulk. Indeed! I did hear that she had been a little indisposed. Acres. False, false, sir only said to vex you: quite the reverse, I assure you. Faulk. There, Jack, you see she has the advantage of me; I had almost fretted my- self ill. Abs. Now are you angry with your mis- tress for not having been sick. Faulk. No, no, you misunderstand me: yet surely a little trifling indisposition is not an unnatural consequence of absence from those we love. Now confess isn't there something unkind in this violent, ro- bust, unfeeling health ? Abs. O, it was very unkind of her to be well in your absence, to be sure! Acres. Good apartments, Jack. Faulk. Well, sir, but you were saying that Miss Melville has been so exceedingly well what, then, she has been merry and gay, I suppose ? Always in spirits hey? Acres. Merry! Odds crickets! she has been the belle and spirit of the company wherever she has been so lively and enter- taining ! so full of wit and humor ! Faulk. There, Jack, there! O, by my soul! there is an innate levity in woman, that nothing can overcome. What! happy and I away! Abs. Have done. How foolish this is! Just now you were only apprehensive for your mistress's spirits. Faulk. Why, Jack, have I been the joy and spirit of the company? Abs. No, indeed, you have not. Faulk. Have I been lively and enter- taining ? Abs. O, upon my word, I acquit you. Faulk. Have I been full of wit and humor ? Abs. No, faith; to do you justice, you have been confounded stupid indeed. Acres. What's the matter with the gentle- man? Abs. He is only expressing his great sat- isfaction at hearing that Julia has been so well and happy that's all hey, Faulk- land? Faulk. Oh! I am rejoiced to hear it yes, yes, she has a happy disposition! Acres. That she has indeed. Then she is so accomplished so sweet a voice so ex- pert at her harpsichord such a mistress of flat and sharp, squallante, rumblante, and qu: verante ! there was this time month. Odds minnums and crotchets! how she did chirup at Mrs. Piano's concerts! Faulk. There again, what say you to this? You see she has been all mirth and song not a thought of me! Abs. Pho! man, is not music the food of love? Faulk. Well, well, it may be so. Pray, Mr. what's his d d name ? Do you re- member what songs Miss Melville sung? Acres. Not I, indeed. Abs. Stay now, they were some pretty, melancholy, purling-stream airs, I warrant; perhaps you may recollect; did she sing " When absent from my soul's delight " ? Acres. No, that wa'n't it. Abs. Or "Go, gentle gales"? "Go, gentle gales! " [Sings.} Acres. O no! nothing like it. Odds slips! now I recollect one of them " My heart's my own, my will is free." [Sings.] Faulk. Fool ! fool that I am ! to fix all my happiness on such a trifler! S'death! to make herself the pipe and ballad-monger of a circle ! to soothe her light heart with catches and glees! What can you say to this, sir? Abs. Why, that I should be glad to hear my mistress had been so merry, sir. Faulk. Nay, nay, nay I am not sorry that she has been happy no, no, I am glad of that I would not have had her sad or sick yet surely a sympathetic heart would have shown itself even in the choice of a song she might have been temper- ately healthy, and, somehow, plaintively gay; but she has been dancing too, I doubt not! 370 THE RIVALS ACT II, Sc. I. Acres. What about dancing? does the gentleman say Abs. He says the lady we speak of dances as well as she sings. Acres. Aye, truly, does she. There was at our last race-ball Faulk. Hell and the devil! There! there! I told you so! I told you so! Oh! she thrives in my absence! Dancing! but her whole feelings have been in opposition with mine ! I have been anxious, silent, pensive, sedentary my days have been hours of care, my nights of watchfulness. She has been all Health! Spirit! Laugh! Song! Dance! Oh! d ned, d ned levity! Abs. For Heaven's sake! Faulkland, don't expose yourself so. Suppose she has danced, what then? Does not the ceremony of so- ciety often oblige Faulk. Well, well, I'll contain myself. Perhaps, as you say for form sake. What, Mr. Acres, you were praising Miss Melville's manner of dancing a minuet hey? Acres. Oh I dare insure her for that but what I was going to speak of was her country dancing: Odds swimmings! she has such an air with her! Faulk. Now disappointment on her! De- fend this, Absolute, why don't you defend this? Country-dances! jiggs, and reels! Am I to blame now? A minuet I could have forgiven I should not have minded that I say I should not have regarded a minuet but country-dances! Z ds! had she made one in a cotillon I believe I could have for- given even that but to be monkey-led for a night! to run the gauntlet thro' a string of amorous palming puppies ! to show paces like a managed filly! O Jack, there never can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and delicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance; and even then, the rest of the couples should be her great uncles and aunts ! Abs. Aye, to be sure ! grand-fathers and grand-mothers ! Faulk. If there be but one vicious mind in the set, 'twill spread like a contagion the action of their pulse beats to the lasciv- ious movement of the jigg their quivering, warm -breathed sighs impregnate the very air the atmosphere becomes electrical to love, and each amorous spark darts thro' every link of the chain! I must leave you I own I am somewhat flurried- confounded looby has perceived it. ind that [Going. hurry to Abs. Aye aye, you are in throw yourself at Julia's feet. Faulk. I'm not in a humor to be trifled with. I shall see her only to upbraid her. [Going. Abs. Nay, but stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. Acres for his good news. Faulk. D n his news! [Exit FAULKLAND. 371 Abs. Ha! ha! ha! Poor Faulkland! Five minutes since " nothing on earth could give him a moment's uneasiness!" Acres. The gentleman wa'n't angry at my praising his mistress, was he? Abs. A little jealous, I believe, Bob. Acres. You don't say so? Ha! ha! jeal- ous of me? that's a good joke. Abs. There's nothing strange in that, Bob: let me tell you, that sprightly grace and insinuating manner of yours will do some mischief among the girls here. Acres. Ah! you joke ha! ha ! mischief ha! ha! But you know I am not my own property; my dear Lydia has forestalled me. She could never abide me in the country, because I used to dress so badly but odds frogs and tambours! I shan't take matters so here now ancient madam has no voice in it. I'll make my old clothes know who's master. I shall straightway cashier the hunt- ing-frockand render my leather breeches incapable. My hair has been in training some time. Abs. Indeed! Acres. Aye and tho'ff the side-curls are a little restive, my hind-part takes to it very kindly. Abs. O, you'll polish, I doubt not. Acres. Absolutely I propose so. Then if I can find out this Ensign Beverley, odds triggers and flints! I'll make him know the difference o't. Abs. Spoke like a man. But pray, Bob, I observe you have got an odd kind of a new method of swearing Acres. Ha! ha! you've taken notice of it? 'Tis genteel, isn't it? I didn't invent it myself, though; but a commander in our militia a great scholar, I assure you says that there is no meaning in the common oaths, and that nothing but their antiquity makes them respectable; because, he says, the ancients would never stick to an oath or two, but would say, by Jove! or by Bacchus! or by Mars! or by Venus! or by Pallas! according to the sentiment; so that to swear with propriety, says my little ma- the " oath should be an echo to the sense"; and this we call the oath referential, or sentimental swearing ha! ha! ha! 'Tis genteel, isn't it? Abs. Very genteel, and v^ry new, in- deedand I dare say will supplant all other figures of imprecation. Acres. Aye, aye, the best terms will grow obsolete. D ns have had their day. jor, Enter Fag. Sir, there is FAG. a gentleman below all I show him into be gone the parlor? Abs. Aye you may. Acres. Well, I must ACT II, Sc. I. THE RIVALS Abs. Fag. Stay; who is it. Fag? Your father, sir. Abs. You puppy, why didn't you show him up directly? [Exit FAG. Acres. You have business with Sir An- thony. I expect a message from Mrs. Mala- prop at my lodgings. I have sent also to my dear friend, Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Adieu, Jack! We must meet at night. Odds bottles and glasses ! you shall give me a dozen bumpers to little Lydia. Abs. That I will, with all my heart. [Exit ACRES. Abs. Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has heard nothing of the business that has brought me here. I wish the gout had held him fast soul! in Devonshire, with all my Enter SIR ANTHONY. Abs. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey? Abs. Yes, sir, I am on duty. Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, tho' I did not expect it, for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long. Abs. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray frequently that you may continue so. Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard with all my heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. Abs. Sir, you are very good. Sir Anth. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to Ax you at once in a noble independence. Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of rea- son more lively than the sensations even of filial affection. Sir Anth. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks. Abs. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude: I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army ? Sir Anth. O, that shall be as your wife chooses. Abs. My wife, sir! Sir Anth. Aye, aye, settle that between you settle that between you. Abs. A wife, sir, did you say? Sir Anth. Aye, a wife why, did not I mention her before ? Abs. Not a word of it, sir. Sir Anth. Odd so! I mus'n't forget her, tho'. Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage the fortune is saddled with a wife. But I suppose that makes no difference. Abs. Sir! sir! you amaze me! S*> Anth. Why, what the d 1's the mat- ter with the fool? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. Abs. 1 was, sir. You talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not a word of a wife. Sir Anth. Why what difference does that make? Odds life, sir! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on It, as it stands. Abs. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady? Sir Anth. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly. Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reason- able, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more un- reasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of. Abs. Then, sir, I must tell you plain- ly that my inclinations are fixed on an- other. Sir Anth. They are, are they? Well, that's lucky because you will have more merit in your obedience to me. Abs. Sir, my heart is engaged to an angel. Sir Anth. Then pray let it send an excuse. It is very sorry but business prevents its waiting on her. Abs. But my vows are pledged to her. Sir Anth. Let her foreclose, Jack; let her foreclose; they are not worth redeeming: besides, you have the angel's vows in ex- change, I suppose; so there can be no loss there. Abs. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point I can- not obey you. Sir Anth. Hark'ee, Jack; I you for some time with patience have heard -I have been cool quite cool; but take care you know I am compliance itself when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy. Abs. Sir, I must repeat it in this I cannot obey you. 372 THE RIVALS ACT II, Sc. II. Sir Anth. Now, d n me! if ever I call you Jack again while I live! Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me. Sir Anth. Sir, I won't hear a word not a word ! not one word ! so give me your promise by a nod and I'll tell you what, Jack I mean, you dog if you don't, by Abs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness! to Sir Anth. Z ds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the Crescent; her one eye shall roll like the Bull's in Coxe's museum she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew she shall be all this, sirrah ! yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty. Abs. This deed! is reason and moderation in- Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes ! Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life. Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir! 1 know you are laughing in your sleeve: I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah! Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty bet- ter. Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence! if you please. It won't do with me, I promise you. Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do. Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word. Sir Anth. So you will fly out! Can't you be cool, like me? What the devil good can passion do! Passion is of no service, you im- pudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There you sneer again ! don't provoke me ! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper you do, you dog! you play upon the weak- ness of my disposition! Yet take care the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! but mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do every thing on earth that I choose, why confound you! I may in time forgive you -- If not, z - ds! don't enter the same hemisphere with me! don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an at- mosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five- and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you, I'll unget you! and d n me, if ever I call you Jack again! [Exit SIR ANTHONY. ABSOLUTE, solus. Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate father I kiss your hands. What a tender method of giving his opinion in these matters Sir Anthony has! I dare not trust him with the truth. I wonder what old wealthy hag it is that he wants to bestow on me! Yet he married himself for love! and was panion ! a gay n his corn- youth a bold intriguer, and Enter FAG. Fag. Assuredly, sir, our father is wrath to a degree. He comes down stairs eight or ten steps at a time muttering, growling, and thumping the bannisters all the way: I, and the cook's dog, stand bowing at the door rap! he gives me a stroke on the head with his cane; bids me carry that to my master; then kicking the poor turnspit into the area, d ns us all for a puppy triumvirate I Upon my credit, sir, were I in your place, and found my father such very bad company, I should certainly drop his acquaintance. Abs. Cease your impertinence, sir, at present. Did you come in for nothing more?' Stand out of the way! [Pushes him aside, and exit. FAG, solus. Fag. Soh! Sir Anthony trims my master. He is afraid to reply to his father then vents his spleen on poor Fag! When one is. vexed by one person, to revenge one's self on another who happens to come in the way is the vilest injustice! Ah! it shows the worst temper the basest Enter ERRAND-BOY. Boy. Mr. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you. Fag. Well, you little, dirty puppy, you need not haul so! The meanest disposition! the Boy. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag! Fag. Quick, quick, you impudent jacka- napes! am I to be commanded by you too? you little, impertinent, insolent, kitchen- bred [Exit, kicking and beating him. SCENE II The North Parade. Enter LUCY. Lucy. So I shall have another rival to add to my mistress's list Captain Absolute. However, I shall not enter his name till my pur.<; has received notice in form. Poor Acres is dismissed! Well, I have done him a last friendly office in letting him know that Beverley was here before him. Sir Lucius is generally more punctual when he 373 ACT II, Sc. II. THE RIVALS expects to bear from his dear Dalia, as he calls her: I wonder he's not here! I have a little scruple of conscience from this deceit; tho' I should not be paid so well, if my hero knew that Delia was near fifty, and her own mistress. I could not have thought he would have been so nice, when there's a golden egg in the case, as to care whether he has it from a pullet or an old hen! Enter SIR Lucius O'TRIGGER. Sir Luc. Hah ! my little embassadress upon my conscience, I have been looking for you. I have been on the South Parade this half-hour. Lucy. [Speaking simply'] O gemini ! and I have been waiting for your worship here on the North. Sir Luc. Faith! may be that was the reason we did not meet; and it is very comi- cal, too, how you could go out and I not see you for I was only taking 1 a nap at the Parade Coffee-house, and I chose the window on purpose that I might not miss you. Lucy. My stars! Now I'd wager a six- pence I went by while you were asleep. Sir Luc. Sure enough it must have been so and I never dreamt it was so late, till I waked. Well, but my little girl, have you got nothing for me? Lucy. Yes, but I have: I've got a letter for you in my pocket. Sir Luc. O faith! I guessed you weren't come empty-handed. Well let me see what the dear creature says. Lucy. There, Sir Lucius. [Gives him a letter. Sir Luc. [Reads] " Sir there is often a sudden incentive impulse in love, that has a greater induction than years of domestic combination: such was the commotion I felt at the first superfluous view of Sir Lucius O'Trigger." Very pretty, upon my word. " As my motive is interested, you may be assured my love shall never be miscella- neous." Very well. " Female punctuation forbids me to say more; yet let me add, that it will give me joy infallible to find Sir Lucius worthy the last criterion of my affections. Yours, while meretricious DELIA." Upon my conscience! Lucy, your lady is a great mistress of language. Faith, she's quite the queen of the dictionary! for the devil a word dare reft iming at her call tho' one would think it was quite out of hearing. Lucy. Aye, sir, a lady of her experience Sir Luc. Experience! what, at seventeen? Lucy. O true, sir but then she reads so my stars! how she will read off-hand! Sir Luc. Faith, she must be very deep read to write this way tho' she is rather an arbitrary writer too for here are a great many poor words pressed into the service of this note, that would get their habeas corpus from any court in Christendom. How- ever, when affection guides the pen, Lucy, he must be a brute who finds fault with the style. Lucy. Ah! Sir Lucius, if you were to hear how she talks of you! Sir Luc. O tell her I'll make her the best husband in the world, and Lady O'Trig- ger into the bargain! But we must get the old gentlewoman's consent and do every- thing fairly. Lucy. Nay, Sir Lucius, I thought you wa'n't rich enough to be so nice! Sir Luc. Upon my word, young woman, you have hit it: I am so poor that I can't afford to do a dirty action. If I did not want money I'd steal your mistress and her fortune with a great deal of pleasure. However, my pretty girl [Gives her money"], here's a little something to buy you a rib- band; and meet me in the evening, and I'll give you an answer to this. So, hussy, take a kiss before-hand to put you in mind. [Kisses her. Lucy. O lud! Sir Lucius I never seed such a gemman ! My lady won't like you if you're so impudent. Sir Luc. Faith she will, Lucy That same pho! what's the name of it? Modesty! is a quality in a lover more praised by the women than liked; so, if your mistress asks you whether Sir Lucius ever gave you a kiss, tell her fifty my dear. Lucy. What, would you have me tell her a lie? Sir Luc. Ah, then, you baggage! I'll make it a truth presently. [Kisses her. Lucy. For shame now; here is some one coming. Sii- Luc. O faith, I'll quiet your con- science. [Sees FAG. Exit, humming a tune. Enter FAG. So, so, ma'am. I humbly beg par- O lud! now, Mr. Fag you flurry Fag. don. Lucy. one so. Fag. Come, come, Lucy, here's no one by so a little less simplicity, with a grain or two more sincerity, if you please. You play false with us, madam. I saw you give the baronet a letter. My master shall know this and if he don't call him out I will. Lucy. Ha! ha! ha! you gentlemen's gen- tlemen are so hasty. That letter was from Mrs. Malaprop, simpleton. She is taken with Sir Lucius's address. Fac,. What tastes some people have! Why, I suppose I have walked by her window an hundred times. But what says our young lady? Any message to my master? Lucy. Sad news, Mr. Fag! A worse rival 374 THE RIVALS ACT III, Sc. I. than Acres ! Sir Anthony Absolute has pro- posed his son. Fag. What, Captain Absolute? Lucy. Even so. I overheard it all. Fag. Ha! ha! ha! very good, faith. Good-bye, Lucy, I must away with this news. Lucy. Well, you may laugh but it is true, I assure you. [Going} But Mr. Fag tell your master not to be cast down by this. Fag. O, he'll be so disconsolate! Lucy. And charge him not to think of quarrelling with young Absolute. Fag. Never fear! never fear! Lucy. Be sure bid him keep up his spirits. Fag, We will we will. [Exeunt severally. ACT III SCENE I The North Parade. Enter ABSOLUTE. Abs. Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough, faith! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet a-while. He has too summary a method of pro- ceeding in these matters and Lydia shall not yet lose her hopes of an elopement. However, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, in- deed but I can assure him it is very sincere. So, so here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff. [Steps aside. Enter SIR ANTHONY. Sir Anth. No I'll die sooner than for- give him. Die, did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper. An obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters! for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regi- ment, and allowing him fifty pounds a-year, beside his pay ever since! But I have done with him; he's any body's son for me. I never will see him more, never never- never ^never ! Abs. Now for a penitential face. Sir Anth. Fellow, get out of my way. Abs. Sir, you see a penitent before you. Sir Anth. I see an impudent scoundrel before me. Abs. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will. Sir Anth. What's that? Abs. I have been revolving, and reflect- ing, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me. Sir Anth. Well, sir? Abs. I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you were pleased to men- tion concerning duty, and obedience, and authority. Sir Anth. Well, puppy? Abs. Why then, sir, the result of my reflections is a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction. Sir Anth. Why, now you talk sense absolute sense I never heard any thing more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again! Abs. I am happy in the appellation. Sir Anth. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented my telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rap- ture! prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish ? Abs. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire? Sir Anth. Worcestershire! No. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment? Abs. Malaprop! Languish! I don't re- member ever to have heard the names be- fore. Yet, stay I think I do recollect some- thing. Languish! Languish! She squints, don't she? A little, red-haired girl? Sir Anth. Squints? A red-haired girl! Z ds, no! Abs. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person. Sir Anth. Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen? Abs. As to that, sir, I am quite indif- ferent. If I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes ! so innocently wild ! so bashfully irreso- lute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blush- ing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! O Jack, lips smiling at their own discretion; and if not smiling, more sweetly pouting; more lovely in sul- lenness ! Abs. [Aside] That's she, indeed. Well done, old gentleman! Sir Anth. Then, Jack, her neck! O Jack! Jack! Abs. And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or the aunt? Sir Anth. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was of your 375 ACT III, Sc. II. age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched any thing old or ugly to gain an empire. Abs. Not to please your father, sir? Sir Antli. To please my father! Z ds! not to please O, my father! Oddso ! yes yes ! if my father, indeed, had desired that's quite another matter. Tho' he wa'n't the indulgent father that I am, Jack. Abs. I dare say not, sir. Sir An tli. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful? Abs. Sir, I repeat it; if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being hand- some; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and tho' one eye may be very agreeable, yet as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, 1 would not wish to affect a singularity in that article. Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you're an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock. You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only to dust the com- pany's regimentals on! Odds life! I've a great mind to marry the girl myself! Abs. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady 'tis the same to me I'll marry the niece. Sir Anth. Upon my word, Jack, thou'rt either a very great hypocrite, or but come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie I'm sure it must come, now d n your demure face! come, confess, Jack you have been lying ha'n't you? You have been lying, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'n't: so now, own, my dear Jack, you have been playing the hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you if you ha'n't been lying and playing the hypo- crite. Abs. I'm sorry, sir, that the respect and' duty which I bear to you should be so mis- taken. Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty!' But come along with me, I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Abs. Where does she lodge, sir? Sir Anth. What a dull question! Only on: the Grove here. Abs. O! then I can call on her in my way to the coffee-house. Sir Anth. In your way to the coffee- house! You'll set your heart down in your way to the coffee-house, hey? Ah! you leaden-nerved, wooden-hearted dolt! But come along, you shall see her directly; her eyes shall be the Promethian torch to you come along. I'll never forgive you if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience. If you don't, egad, I'll marry the girl myself! [Exeunt. SCENE II JULIA'S Dressing-Room. FAULKLAND, solus. Faulk. They told me Julia would return directly; wonder she is not yet come! How mean does this captious, unsatisfied temper of mine appear to my cooler judgment! Yet I know not that I indulge it in any other point: but on this one subject, and to this one object, whom I think I love beyond my life, I am ever ungenerously fretful, and madly capricious ! I am conscious of it yet I cannot correct myself! What tender, honest joy sparkled in her eyes when we met! How delicate was the warmth of her expressions!! was ashamed to appear less happy though I had come resolved to wear a face of coolness and upbraiding. Sir An- thony's presence prevented my proposed ex- postulations; yet I must be satisfied that she has not been so very happy in my absence. She is coming! Yes! I know the mmbleness of her tread when she thinks her impatient Faulkland counts the mo- ments of her stay. Enter JULIA. Jut. I had not hoped to see you again so soon. Faulk. Could I, Julia, be contented with my first welcome restrained as we were by the presence of a third person? Jill. O Faulkland, when your kindness can make me thus happy, let me not think that I discovered more coolness in your first salutation than my long-hoarded joy could have presaged. Faulk. 'Twas but your fancy, Julia. I was rejoiced to see you to see you in such health. Sure I had no cause for coldness? Jul. Nay then, I see you have taken something ill. You must not conceal from me what it is. Faulk. Well then shall I own to you? but you will despise me, Julia nay, I despise myself for it. Yet I will own, that my joy at hearing of your health and arrival here, by your neighbor Acres, was some- thing damped by his dwelling much on the high spirits you had enjoyed in Devonshire on your mirth your singing dancing, and 37B THE RIVALS ACT III, Sc. II. I know not what! For such is my temper, Julia, that I should regard every mirthful moment in your absence as a treason to constancy. The mutual tear that steals down the cheek of parting- lovers is a com- pact that no smile shall live there till they meet again. Jul. Must I never cease to tax my Faulk- land with this teasing minute caprice? Can the idle reports of a silly boor weigh in your breast against my tried affection? Faulk. They have no weight with me, Julia: no, no I am happy if you have been so yet only say that you did not sing with mirth say that you thought of Faulkland in the dance. Jnl. I never can be happy in your absence. If I wear a countenance of con- tent, it is to show that my mind holds no doubt of my Faulkland's truth. If I seemed sad it were to make malice triumph, and say that I had fixed my heart on one who left me to lament his roving, and my own credulity. Believe me, Faulkland, I mean not to upbraid you when I say that I have often dressed sorrow in smiles, lest my friends should guess whose unkindness had caused my tears. Faulk. You were ever all goodness to me. O, I am a brute when I but admit a doubt of your true constancy! Jul. If ever, without such cause from you, as I will not suppose possible, you find my affections veering but a point, may I become a proverbial scoff for levity and base ingratitude. Faulk. Ah! Julia, that last word is grat- ing to me. I would I had no title to your gratitude! Search your heart, Julia; per- haps what you have mistaken for love, is but the warm effusion of a too thankful heart! Jul. For what quality must I love you? Faulk. For no quality! To regard me for any quality of mind or understanding were only to esteem me. And for person I have often wished myself deformed, to be convinced that I owed no obligation there for any part of your affection. Jul. Where Nature has bestowed a show of nice attention in the features of a man, he should laugh at it as misplaced. I have seen men who in this vain article perhaps might rank above you; but my heart has never asked my eyes if it were so or not. Faulk. Now this is not well from you, Julia. I despise person in a man. Yet if you loved me as I wish, though I were an /Ethiop, you'd think none so fair. Jul. I see you are determined to . be un- kind. The contract which my poor father bound us in privilege. gives you more than a lover's Faulk. Again, Julia, you raise ideas that feed and justify my doubts. I would not have been more free no I am proud of my restraint. Yet yet perhaps your high re- spect alone for this solemn compact has fettered your inclinations, which else had made worthier choice. How shall I be sure, had you remained unbound in thought and promise, that I should still have been the object of your persevering love? Jul. Then try me now. Let us be free as strangers as to what is past: my heart will not feel more liberty! Faulk. There now! so hasty, Julia! so anxious to be free! If your love for me were fixed and ardent, you would not loose your hold, even tho' I wished it! Jul. O, you torture me to the heart! I cannot bear it. Faulk. I do not mean to distress you. If I loved you less I should never give you an uneasy moment. But hear me. All my fretful doubts arise from this Women are not used to weigh, and separate the motives of their affections: the cold dictates of prudence, gratitude, or filial duty, may sometimes be mistaken for the pleadings of the heart. 1 would not boast yet let me say that I have neither age, person, or character to found dislike on; my fortune such as few ladies could be charged with indiscretion in the match. O Julia! when Love receives such countenance from I'ru- dence, nice minds will be suspicious of its birth. Jul. I know not whither your insinua- tions would tend: as they seem pressing to insult me I will spare you the regret of having done so. I have given you no cause for this! [Exit in tears. Faulk. In tears! Stay, Julia: stay but for a moment. The door is fastened! Julia! my soul but for one moment. I hear her sobbing! 'Sdeath! what a brute am I to use her thus! Yet stay) Aye she is com- ing now. How little resolution there is in woman ! How a few soft words can turn them! No, faith! she is not coming either! Why, Julia my love say but that you forgive me come but to tell me that. Now, this is being too resentful. Stay ! she is coming too I thought she would no steadiness in any thing! her going away must have been a mere trick then. She sha'n't see that I was hurt by it. I'll affect indifference. [Hums a tune: then listens] No Z ds! she's not coming! nor don't in- tend it, I suppose. This is not steadiness, but obstinacy! Yet I deserve it. What, after so long an absence to quarrel with her ten- derness! 'twas barbarous and unmanly! I should be ashamed to see her now. I'll wait till her ji it is abated and when I distress her so again, may I lose her for ever! and be linked instead to 377 ACT III, Sc. III. THE RIVALS some antique virago, whose gnawing pas- sions, and long-hoarded spleen shall make me curse my folly half the day, and all the night! {Exit. SCENE III MRS. MALAPROP'S Lodgings. MRS. MALAPROP, and CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Mrs. Mai. Your being Sir Anthony's son, Captain, would itself be a sufficient accom- modation; but from the ingenuity of your appearance, I am convinced you deserve the character here given of you. Abs. Permit me to say, madam, that as I never yet have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this affair at present is the honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop; of whose intel- lectual accomplishments, elegant manners, and unaffected learning, no tongue is silent. Mrs. Mai. Sir, you do me infinite hon- or! I beg, Captain, you'll be seated. [5f] Ah! few gentlemen now a days know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman! few think how a little knowledge becomes a gentlewoman! Men have no sense now but for the worthless flower, beauty ! Abs. It is but too true, indeed, ma'am. Yet I fear our ladies should share the blame they think our admiration of beauty so great, that knowledge in them would be superflu- ous. Thus, like garden-trees, they seldom show fruits till time has robbed them of the more specious blossom. Few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange-tree, are rich in both at once! Mrs. Mai. Sir you overpower me with good-breeding. He is the very pine-apple of politeness! You are not ignorant, Cap- tain, that this giddy girl has somehow con- trived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eaves-dropping Ensign, whom none of us have seen, and nobody knows any thing of. Abs. O, I have heard the silly affair be- fore. I'm not at all prejudiced against her on that account. Mrs. Mai. You are very good, and very considerate, Captain. I am sure I have done every thing in my power since I exploded the affair! Long ago I laid my positive conjunction on her never to think on the fellow again; I have since laid Sir An- thony's preposition before her; but, I'm sorry to say, she seems resolved to decline every particle that I enjoin her. Abs. It must be very distressing, in- deed, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. It gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree! I thought she had per- sisted from corresponding with him; but behold this very day I have interceded an- other letter from the fellow! I believe I have it in my pocket. Abs. O the devil! my last note. [Aside. Mrs. Mai. Aye, here it is. Abs. Aye, my note, indeed! O the little traitress Lucy. [Aside. Mrs. Mai. There, perhaps you may know the writing. [Gives him the letter. Abs. I think I have seen the hand be- fore. Yes, I certainly must have seen this hand before: Mrs. Mai. Nay, but read it, Captain. Abs. [Reads'] " My soul's idol, my adored Lydia!" Very tender, indeed! Mrs. Mai. Tender! aye, and profane, too, o' my conscience! Abs. " I am excessively alarmed at the in- telligence you send me, the more so as my new rival " Mrs. Mai. That's you, sir. Abs. " has universally the character of be- ing an accomplished gentleman, and a man of honor." Well, that's handsome enough. Mrs. Mai. O, the fellow had some design in writing so. Abs. That he had, I'll answer for him, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. But go on, sir you'll see pres- ently. Abs. " As for the old weather-beaten she- dragon who guards you " Who can he mean by that? Mrs. Mai. Me! Sir me! he means met There what do you think now? But go on a little further. Abs. Impudent scoundrel! " it shall go hard but I will elude her vigilance, as I am told that the same ridiculous vanity which makes her dress up her coarse features, and deck her dull chat with hard words which she don't understand " Mrs. Mai. There, sir! an attack upon my language! What do you think of that? an aspersion upon my parts of speech! Was ever such a brute! Sure if I reprehend any thing in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs ! Abs. He deserves to be hanged and quar- tered! Let me see " same ridiculous van- ity " Mrs. Mai. You need not read it again, sir. Abs. I beg pardon, ma'am " does also lay her open to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration " an im- pudent coxcomb ! " so that I have a. scheme to see you shortly with the old harridan's consent, and even to make her a go-between in our interviews." Was ever such as- surance ! Mrs. Mai. Did you ever hear any thing like it? He'll elude my vigilance, will he? 378 THE RIVALS ACT III, Sc. III. Yes, yes! ha! ha! He's very likely to enter these doors! We'll try who can plot best! Abs. Ha! ha! ha! A conceited puppy, ha! ha! ha! Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you were to wink at her corre- sponding with him for a little time let her even plot an elopement with him then do you connive at her escape while / . just in the nick, will have the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to carry her off in his stead. Mrs. Mai. I am delighted with the scheme; never was any thing better per- petrated ! Abs. But, pray, could not I see the lady for a few minutes now? I should like to try her temper a little. Mrs. Mai. Why, I don't know I doubt she is not prepared for a first visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these matters. Abs. O Lord! she won't mind me only tell her Beverley Mrs. Mai. Sir! Abs. [Aside] Gently, good tongue. Mrs. Mai. What did you say of Beverley? Abs. O, I was going to propose that you should tell her, by way of jest, that it was Beverley who was below she'd come down fast enough then ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Mai. 'Twould be a trick she well deserves. Besides, you know the fellow tells her he'll get my consent to see her ha! ha! Let him if he can, I say again. Lydia, come down here! [Calling] He'll make me a go-between in their interviews! ha! ha! ha! Come down, I say, Lydia! I don't wonder at your laughing, ha! ha! ha! his impudence is truly ridiculous. Abs. 'Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma'am, ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Mai. The little hussy won't hear. Well, I'll go and tell her at once who it is. She shall know that Capt. Absolute is come to wait on her. And I'll make her behave as becomes a young woman. Abs. As you please, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. For the present, Captain, your servant. Ah! you've not done laughing yet, I S ee elude my vigilance! yes, yes, ha! ha! ha! lExit. Abs. Ha! ha! ha! one would think now I might throw off all disguise at once, and seize my prize with security but such is Lydia's caprice that to undeceive were prob- ably to lose her. I'll see whether she knows me. [Walks aside, and seems engaged in look- ing at the pictures. Enter LYDIA. Lyd. What a scene am I now to go thro'! Surely nothing can be more dreadful than to be obliged to listen to the loathsome ad- dresses of a stranger to one's heart. I have heard of girls persecuted as I am, who have appealed in behalf of their favored lover to the generosity of his rival: suppose I were to try it there stands the hated rival an officer too! but O, how unlike my Beverley! I wonder he don't begin Truly he seems a very negligent wooer! Quite at his ease, upon my word! I'll speak first [Aloud} Mr. Absolute. Abs. Madam. [Turns round. Lyd. O Heavens! Beverley! Abs. Hush! hush, my lif e ! Softly ! Be not surprised. Lyd. I am so astonished! and so terrified! and so overjoyed! For Heaven's sake! how came you here? Abs. Briefly I have deceived your aunt. I was informed that my new rival was to visit here this evening, and contriving to have him kept away, have passed myself on her for Capt. Absolute. /-.',:'. O, charming! And she really takes you for young Absolute? Abs. O, she's convinced of it. Lyd. Ha! ha! ha! I can't forbear laugh- ing to think how her sagacity is over- reached ! ./'..-. But we trifle with our precious mo- ments such another opportunity may not occur then let me now conjure my kind, my condescending angel, to fix the time when I may rescue her from undeserved persecution, and with a licensed warmth plead for my reward. Lyd. Will you then, Beverley, consent to forfeit that portion of my paltry wealth? that burthen on the wings of love? Abs. O, come to me rich only thus in loveliness. Bring no portion to me but thy love 'twill be generous in you, Lydia for well you know, it is the only dower your poor Beverley can repay. Lyd. How persuasive are his words! how charming will poverty be with him! Abs. Ah ! my soul, what a life will we then live! Love shall be our idol and sup- port! We will worship him with a monastic strictness; abjuring all worldly toys, to cen- tre every thought and action there. Proud of calamity, we will enjoy the wreck of wealth; while the surrounding gloom of adversity shall make the flame of our pure love show doubly bright. By Heavens! I would fling all goods of fortune from me with a prodigal hand to enjoy the scene where I might clasp my Lydia to my bosom, and say, the world affords no smile to me but here. [Embracing her] If she holds out now the devil is in it! [Aside. Lyd. Now could I fly with him to the Antipodes! but my persecution is not yet come to a crisis. 379 ACT III, Sc. IV. THE RIVALS Enter MRS. MALAPROP, listening. Mrs. Mai. I'm impatient to know how the little hussy deports herself. [Aside. Abs. So pensive, Ly dial is then your warmth abated? Mrs. Mai. Warmth abated! So! she has been in a passion, I suppose. [Aside. Lyd. No nor never can while I have life. Mrs. Mai. An ill-tempered little devil! She'll be in a passion all her life will she? [Aside. Lyd. Think not the idle threats of my ridiculous aunt can ever have any weight with me. Mrs. Mai. Very dutiful, upon my word! [Aside. Lyd. Let her choice be Capt. Absolute, but Beverley is mine. Mrs. Mai. I am astonished at her assur- ance! to his face this to his face! [Aside. Abs. Thus then let me enforce my suit. [Kneeling. Mrs. Mai. [Aside] Aye poor young man! down on his knees entreating for pity! I can contain no longer. [Aloud] Why, hussy! hussy! I have overheard you. Abs. O, confound her vigilance! [Aside. Mrs. Mai. Capt. Absolute I know not how to apologize for her shocking rude- ness. Abs. So all's safe, I find. [Aside. I have hopes, madam, that time will bring the young lady Mrs. Mai. O there's nothing to be hoped for from her! She's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of Nile. Lyd. Nay, madam, what do you charge me with now ? Mrs. Mai. Why, thou unblushing rebel didn't you tell this gentleman to his face .that you loved another better? didn't you say you never would be his? Lyd. No, madam I did not. Mrs. Mai. Good Heavens ! what assur- ance ! Lydia, Lydia, you ought to know that lying don't become a young woman! Didn't you boast that Beverley that strol- ler Beverley, possessed your heart? Tell me that, I say. Lyd. Tis true, ma'am, and none but Bev- erley Mrs. Mai. Hold hold, Assurance ! you shall not be so rude. Abs. Nay, pray Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the young lady's speech: she's very welcome to talk thus it does not hurt me in the least, I assure you. Mrs. Mai. You are too good, Captain- too amiably patient but come with me, miss. Let us see you again soon, Captain. Remember what we have fixed. Abs. I shall, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. Come, take a graceful leave of the gentleman. Lyd. May every blessing wait on my Beverley, my loved Bev Mrs. Mai. Hussy! I'll choke the word in your throat! come along come along. [Exeunt severally, ABSOLUTE kissing his hand to LYDIA MRS. MALAPROP stop- ping her from speaking. SCENE IV ACRES'S Lodgings. ACRES and DAVID. ACRES as just dressed. Acres. Indeed, David do you think I be- come it so? Dav. You are quite another creature, be- lieve me, master, by the Mass! an' we've any luck we shall see the Devon monkey- rony in all the print-shops in Bath ! Acres. Dress does make a difference, David. Dav. Tis all in all, I think. Difference ! why, an' you were to go now to Clod-Hall, I am certain the old lady wouldn't know you, Master Butler wouldn't believe his own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle would cry, " Lard presarve me ! " our dairy-maid would come giggling to the door, and I warrant Dolly Tester, your Honor's favorite, would blush like my waistcoat. Oons! I'll hold a gallon, there a'n't a dog in the house but would bark, and I question whether Phillis would wag a hair of her tail! Acres. Aye, David, there's nothing like polishing. Dav. So I says of your Honor's boots; but the boy never heeds me! Acres. But, David, has Mr. De-la-Grace been here? I must rub up my balancing, and chasing, and boring. /';:. I'll call again, sir. Acres. Do and see if there are any let- ters for me at the post-office. Dav. I will. By the Mass, I can't help looking at your head! If I hadn't been by at the cooking, I wish I may die if I should have known the dish again myself! [Exit. ACRES comes forward practising a dancing step. Acres. Sink, slide coupee! Confound the first inventors of cotillons! say I they are as bad as algebra to us country gentlemen. I can walk a minuet easy enough when I'm forced! and I have been accounted a good stick in a country-dance. Odds jigs and tabors! I never valued your cross- over two couple figure in right and left 380 THE RIVALS ACT III, Sc. IV. and I'd foot it with e'er a captain in the county ! But these outlandish heathen Allemandes and Cotillons are quite beyond me! I shall never prosper at 'em, that's sure. Mine are true-born English legs they don't understand their curst French lingo! their pas this, and pas that, and pas t'other! D n me! my feet don't like to be called paws! No, 'tis certain I have most an tigallican toes ! Enter SERVANT. Serv. Here is Sir Lucius OTrigger tb wait on you, sir, Acres. Show him in. Enter SIR Lucius. Sir Luc. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you. Acres. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. Sir Luc. Pray, my friend, what has brought you so suddenly to Bath? Acres. Faith! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-Lantern, and find myself in a quag- mire at last. In short, I have been very ill-used, Sir Lucius. I don't choose to men- tion names, but look on me as on a very ill-used gentleman. Sir Luc. Pray, what is the case? I ask no names. Acres. Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be in love with a young lady her friends take my part I follow her to Bath send word of my arrival, and receive answer that the lady is to be otherwise dis- posed of. This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill- used. Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience. Pray, can you divine the cause of it? Acres. Why, there's the matter: she has another lover, one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. Odds slanders and lies! he must be at the bottom of it. Sir Luc. A rival in the case, is there? And you think he has supplanted you un- fairly? Acres. Unfairly! to be sure he has. He never could have done it fairly. Sir Luc. Then sure you know what is to be done! Acres. Not I, upon my soul! Sir Luc. We wear no swords here, but you understand me. Acres. What! fight him? Sir Luc. Aye, to be sure: what can I mean else ? Acres. But he has given me no provoca- tion. Sir Luc. Now, I think he has given you the greatest provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous offence against another than to fall in love with the same woman? O, by my soul, it is the most unpardonable breach of friend- ship! Acres. Breach of friendship! Aye, aye; but I have no acquaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life. Sir Luc. That's no argument at all. He has the less right then to take such a liberty. Acres. 'Gad, that's true. I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius! I fire apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may have a deal of valor in him and not know it! But couldn't I contrive to have a little right of my side? Sir Luc. What the d 1 signifies right when your honor is concerned? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander the Great ever inquired where the right lay? No, by my soul, they drew their broad- swords, and left the lazy sons of peace to settle the justice of it. Acres. Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart! I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valor rising, as it were a kind of courage, as I may say. Odds flints, pans, and trig- gers ! I'll challenge him directly. Sir Luc. Ah, my little friend! if we had Blunderbuss-Hall here I could show you a range of ancestry in the O'Trigger line that would furnish the new room, every one of whom had killed his man! For though the mansion-house and dirty acres have slipt through my fingers, I thank God our honor, and the family -pictures, are as fresh as ever. Acres. O Sir Lucius! I have had ances- tors too! every man of 'em colonel or cap- tain in the militia ! Odds balls and bar- rels! say no more I'm braced for it my nerves are become catgut! my sinews wire! and my heart pinchbeck! The thunder of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in my breast! Z ds! as the man in the play says, " I could do such deeds ! " Sir Luc. Come, come, there must be no passion at all in the case. These things should always be done civilly. Acres. I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius. I must be in a rage. Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love me. Come, here's pen and paper. ISits down to write. I would the ink were red! Indite, I say, indite! How shall I begin? Odds bullets and blades! I'll write a good bold hand, however. Sir Luc. Pray compose yourself. Acres. Come now, shall I begin with an oath? Do, Sir Lucius, let me begin with a damme. Sir Luc. Pho! pho! do the thing decently and like a Christian. Begin now," Sir "- Acres. That's too civil by half. 381 ACT IV, Sc. I. THE RIVALS Sir Luc. " To prevent the confusion that might arise " Acres. [Writing] Well Sir Luc. " From our both addressing the .same lady " Acres. Aye there's the reason [Writ- ing] " same lady " Well Sir Luc. " I shall expect the honor of your company " Acres. Z ds! I'm not asking him to dinner. Sir Luc. Pray be easy. Acres. Well then [Writing]" honor of your company " Sir Luc. " To settle our pretensions " Acres. [Writing] Well- Sir Luc. Let me see aye, King's Mead- fields will do " In King's Mead-fields." Acres. So that's done. Well, I'll fold it up presently; my own crest a hand and dagger shall be the seal. Sr Luc. You see now, this little explana- tion will put a stop at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that might arise be- tween you. Acres. Aye, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding. Sir Luc. Now, I'll leave you to fix your own time. Take my advice, and you'll de- cide it this evening if you can; then let the worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind to-morrow. Acres. Very true. Sir Luc. So I shall see nothing more of you, unless it be by letter, till the evening. I would do myself the honor to carry your message; but, to tell you a secret, I believe I shall have just such another affair on my own hands. There is a gay captain here, who put a jest on me lately at the expense of my country, and I only want to fall in with the gentleman to call him out. Acres. By my valor, I shall like to see you fight first! Odds life! I should like to see you kill him, if it was only to get a little lesson. Sir Luc. I shall be very proud of in- structing you. Well for the present but remember now, when you meet your an- tagonist, do every thing in a mild and agreeable manner. Let your courage be as keen, but at the same time as polished, as your sword. [Exeunt severally. ACT IV SCENE I ACRES'S Lodgings. ACRES and DAVID. David. Then, by the Mass, sir! I would do no such thing ne'er a Sir Lucius O'Trig- ger in the kingdom should make me fight, when I wa'n't so minded. Oons! what will the old lady say when she hears o't! Acres. Ah! David, if you had heard Sir Lucius! Odds sparks and flames! he would have roused your valor. David. Not he, indeed. I hates such bloodthirsty cormorants. Look'ee, master, if you'd wanted a bout at boxing, quarter- staff, or short-staff, I should never be the man to bid you cry off: but for your curst sharps and snaps, I never knew any good come of 'em. Acres. But my honor, David, my honor! I must be very careful of my honor. David. Aye, by the Mass! and I would be very careful of it; and I think in return my honor couldn't do less than to be very careful of me. Acres. Odds blades! David, no gentle- man will ever risk the loss of his honor! David. I say then, it would be but civil in honor never to risk the loss of the gentleman. Look'ee, master, this honor seems to me to be a marvellous false friend; aye, truly, a very courtier-like servant. Put the case, I was a gentleman (which, thank God, no one can say of me); well my honor makes me quarrel with another gentleman of my acquaintance. So we fight. (Pleasant enough that). Boh! I kill him (the more's my luck). Now, pray who gets the profit of it? Why, my honor. But put the case that he kills me! by the Mass! I go to the worms, and my honor whips over to my enemy! Acres. No, David in that case! Odds crowns and laurels! your honor follows you to the grave. David. Now, that's just the place where I could make a shift to do without it. Acres. 2. ds, David, you're a coward! It doesn't become my valor to listen to you. What, shall I disgrace my ancestors? Think of that, David think what it would be to disgrace my ancestors! David. Under favor, the surest way of not disgracing them is to keep as long as you can out of their company. Look'ee now, master, to go to them in such haste with an ounce of lead in your brains I should think might as well be let alone. Our an- cestors are very good kind of folks; but they are the last people I should choose to have a visiting acquaintance with. Acres. But David, now, you don't think there is such very, very, very great danger, hey? Odds life! people often fight without any mischief done ! David. By the Mass, I think 'tis ten to one against you! Oons! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant, with his d ned double-barrelled swords, and cut- and- thrust pistols! Lord bless us! it makes 382 THE RIVALS ACT IV, Sc. II. me tremble to think o't. Those be such desperate bloody-minded weapons! Well, I never could abide 'em! from a child I never could fancy 'em! I suppose there a'n't so merciless a beast in the world as your loaded pistol! Acres. Z ds! I won't be afraid! Odds fire and fury! you shan't make me afraid! Here is the challenge, and I have sent for my dear friend Jack Absolute to carry it for me. David. Aye, i' the name of mischief, let him be the messenger. For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to it for the best horse in your stable. By the Mass! it don't look like another letter! It is, as I may say, a designing and malicious-looking letter! and I warrant smells of gunpowder, like a soldier's pouch! Oons! I wouldn't swear it mayn't go off! Acres. Out, you poltroon! You ha'n't the valor of a grasshopper. David. Well, I say no more. Twill be sad news, to be sure, at Clod-Hall! but I ha' done. How Phillis will howl when she hears of it! Aye, poor bitch, she little thinks what shooting her master's going after! And I warrant old Crop, who has carried your honor, field and road, these ten years, will curse the hour he was born. [Whimpering. Acres. It won't do, David I am deter- mined to fight so get along, you coward, while I'm in the mind. Enter SERVANT. Serv. Captain Absolute, sir. Acres. O! show him up. [Exit SERVANT. David. Well, Heaven send we be all alive this time to-morrow. Acres. What's that! Don't provoke me, David ! David. Good bye, Master. [Whimpering. Acres. Get along, you cowardly, das- tardly, croaking raven. [Exit DAVID. Enter ABSOLUTE. Abs. What's the matter, Bob? Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead! If I hadn't the valor of St. George and the dragon to boot Abs. But what did you want with me, Bob? A cres. O ! There [Gives him the challenge. Abs. " To Ensign Beverley." So what's going on now? [Aside} Well, what's this? Acres. A challenge! Abs. Indeed! Why, you won't fight him, will you, Bob ? Acres. 'Egad, but I will, Jack. Sir Lucius has wrought me to it. He has left me full of rage and I'll fight this evening, that so much good passion mayn't be wasted. Abs. But what have I to do with this? Acres. Why, as I think you know some- thing of this fellow, I want you to find him out for me, and give him this mortal defiance. Abs. Well, give it to me, and trust me he gets it. Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack; but it is giving you a great deal of trouble. Abs. Not in the least I beg you won't mention it. No trouble in the world, I as- sure you. Acres. You are very kind. What it is to have a friend! You couldn't be my second could you, Jack ? Abs. Why no, Bob not in this affair it would not be quite so proper. Acres. Well then, I must fix on my friend Sir Lucius. I shall have your good wishes, however, Jack. Abs. Whenever he meets you, believe me. Enter SERVANT. Serv. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, in- quiring for the Captain. Abs. I'll come instantly. Well, my little hero, success attend you. [Going. Acres. Stay stay, Jack. If Beverley should ask you what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a devil of a fellow will you, Jack? Abs. To be sure I shall. I'll say you are a determined dog hey, Bob? Acres. Aye, do, do and if that frightens him, egad, perhaps he mayn't come. So tell him I generally kill a man a week will you, Jack? Abs. I will, I will; I'll say you are called in the country "Fighting Bob!" Acres. Right, right 'tis all to prevent mischief; for I don't want to take his life if I clear my honor. Abs. No! that's very kind of you. Acres. Why, you don't wish me to kill him do you, Jack? Abs. No, upon my soul, I do not. But a devil of a fellow, hey? [Going. Acres. True, true. But stay stay, Jack you may add that you never saw me in such a rage before a most devouring rage! Abs. I will, I will. Acres. Remember, Jack a determined dog! Abs. Aye, aye, "Fighting Bob!" [Exeunt severally. SCENE II MRS. MALAPROP'S Lodgings. MRS. MALAPROP and LYDIA. Mrs. Mai. Why, thou perverse one! tell me what you can object to him? Isn't he a 383 ACT IV, Sc. II. THE RIVALS handsome man? tell me that. A genteel man ? a pretty figure of a man ? Lyd. She little thinks whom she is praising! [Aside] So is Beverley, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. No caparisons, miss, if you please! Caparisons don't become a young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman! Lyd. Aye, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [Aside. Mrs. Mai. Then he's so well bred; so full of alacrity, and adulation ! and has so much to say for himself: in such good lan- guage, too! His physiognomy so grammat- ical! Then his presence is so noble! I pro- test, when I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play: "Hesperian curls! the front of Job himself! An eye, like March, to threaten at command! A station, like Harry Mercury, new " something about kissing on a hill however, the similitude struck me directly. Lyd. How enraged she'll be presently when she discovers her mistake! [Aside. Enter SERVANT. Serv. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am. Mrs. Mai. Show them up here. [Exit SERVANT. Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding at least, though you have forgot your duty. Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolu- tion; I shall not only give him no en- couragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him. [Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door. Enter SIR ANTHONY and ABSOLUTE. Sir Anth. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop, come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting beauty and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I don't know what's the matter; but if I hadn't held him by force, he'd have given me the slip. Mrs. Mai. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you! pay your respects! [Aside to her. Sir Anth. I hope, madam, that Miss Lan- guish has reflected on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her! [Aside to him. Abs. What the d 1 shall I do! [Aside] You see, sir, she won't even look at me whilst you are here. I knew she wouldn't! I told you so. Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together! [ABSOLUTE seems to expostulate with his Father. Lyd. [Aside] I wonder I ha'n't heard my aunt exclaim yet! Sure she can't have looked at him! Perhaps their regimentals are alike, and she is something blind. Sir Anth. I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet! Mrs. Mai. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you! [Aside to her. Sir Anth. May I not flatter myself that Miss Languish will assign what cause of dislike she can have to my son ! Why don't you begin, Jack? Speak, you puppy speak! [Aside to him. Mrs. Mai. It is impossible, Sir Anthony, she can have any. She will not say she has. Answer, hussy! why don't you answer? [Aside to her. Sir Anth. Then, madam, I trust that a childish and hasty predilection will be no bar to Jack's happiness. Z ds ! sirrah ! why don't you speak ? [Aside to him. Lyd. [Aside] I think my lover seems as little inclined to conversation as myself. How strangely blind my Aunt is! Abs. Hem! hem! madam hem! [ABSO- LUTE attempts to speak, then returns to SIR ANTHONY] Faith! sir, I am so confounded! and so so confused! I told you I should be so, sir, I knew it. The the tremor of my passion entirely takes away my pres- ence of mind. Si i' Anth. But it don't take away your voice, fool, does it? Go up, and speak to her directly ! [Ass. makes signs to MRS. MAL. to leave them together. Mrs. Mai. Sir Anthony, shall we leave them together? Ah! you stubborn little vixen ! [Aside to her. Sir Anth. Not yet, ma'am, not yet! What the d 1 are you at? Unlock your jaws, sirrah, or [Aside to him. ABSOLUTE draws near LYDIA. Abs. [Aside] Now Heaven send she may be too sullen to look round! I must dis- guise my voice. [Speaks in a low hoarse tone. Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not Sir Anth. What the d 1 ails the fellow? Why don't you speak out? not stand croaking like a frog in a quinsy! Abs. The the excess of my awe, and my my my modesty quite choke me! Sir Anth. Ah! your modesty again! I'll tell you what, Jack, if you don't speak gut 384 THE RIVALS ACT IV, Sc. II. directly, and glibly, too, I shall be in such a rage! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favor us with something more than a side-front ! [MRS. MALAPROP seems to chide LYDIA. Abs. [Aside} So! All will out I see! [Goes up to LYDIA, speaks softly. Be not surprised, my Lydia; suppress all surprise at present. Lyd. [Aside} Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice! Sure he can't have imposed on Sir Anthony, too ! [Looks round by degrees, then starts up. Is this possible ! my Beverley ! how can this be? my Beverley? Abs. Ah! 'tis all over. [Aside. Sir Anth. Beverley ! the devil ! Bever- ley ! What can the girl mean ? This is my son, Jack Absolute ! Mrs. Mai. For shame, hussy! for shame! your head runs so on that fellow that you have him always in your eyes! Beg Captain Absolute's pardon directly. Lyd. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley ! Sir Anth. Z ds! the girl's mad! her brain's turned by reading! Mrs. Mai. O' my conscience, I believe so! What do you mean by Beverley, hussy? You saw Captain Absolute before to- day; there he is your husband that shall be. Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am. When I refuse my Beverley Sir Anth. O! she's as mad as Bedlam! Or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's trick! Come here, sirrah! who the d 1 are you? Abs. Faith, sir, I am not quite clear my- self; but I'll endeavor to recollect. Sir Anth. Are you my son, or not? an- swer for your mother, you dog, if you won't for me. Mrs. Mai. Aye, sir, who are you? O mercy! I begin to suspect! Abs. Ye Powers of Impudence befriend me! [Aside"] Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son; and that I sincerely believe myself to be yours also, I hope my duty has always shown. Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I need not tell my Lydia, that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular gen- erosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy in a more elevated character. Lyd. [Sullenly] So! there will be no elopement after all ! Sir Anth. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more con- summate assurance! Abs. O you flatter me, sir you compli- ment 'tis my modesty you know, sir my modesty that has stood in my way. -S'lV Anth. Well, I am glad you are not the dull, insensible varlet you pretended to be, however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog I am. So this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! I thought it was d ned sudden! You never heard their names before, not you! What, Languishes of Worcestershire, hey? if you could please me in the affair, 'twas all you desired! Ah! you dissembling villain! What! [Pointing to LYDIA] she squints, don't she? a little red-haired girl! hey ? Why, you hypoc 'tical young rascal ! I wonder you a'n't ashamed to hold up your head ! Abs. 'Tis with difficulty, sir. I am con- fusedvery much confused, as you must perceive. Mrs. Mai. O Lud! Sir Anthony! a new liffht breaks in upon me! Hey! how! what! Captain, did you write the letters then? What! I am to thank you for the elegant compilation of " an old weather-beaten she- dragon " hey? O mercy! was it you that reflected on my parts of speech? Abs. Dear sir! my modesty will be over- powered at last, if you don't assist me. I shall certainly not be able to stand it! Sir Anth. Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we must forget and forgive. Odds life! matters have taken so clever a turn all of a sudden, that I could find in my heart to be so good-humored! and so gallant ! hey ! Mrs. Malaprop ! Mrs. Mai. Well, Sir Anthony, since you desire it, we will not anticipate the past; so mind, young people our retrospection will now be all to the future. Sir Anth. Come, we must leave them to- gether; Mrs. Malaprop, they long to fly into each other's arms, I warrant ! [Aside"] Jack isn't the cheek as I said, hey? and the eye, you dog ! and the lip hey ? Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb their ten- derness theirs is the time of life for happi- ness! "Youth's the season made for joy" [Sings'] hey! Odds life! I'm in such spirits', I don't know what I couldn't do! Permit me, ma'am [GtTCs his hand to MRS. MAL. Sings'] Tol-de-rol ! 'gad, I should like a little fooling myself Tol-de-rol! de-rol! [Exit singing, and handing MRS. MAL. LYDIA sits sullenly in her chair. Abs. So much thought bodes me no good [Aside], So grave, Lydia! Lyd. Sir! Abs. So! egad! I thought as much! That d ned monosyllable has froze me ! [Aside] What, Lydia, now that we are a happy in our friends' consent, as in our mutual vows 385 ACT IV, Sc. II. THE RIVALS Lyd. Friends' consent, indeed! {Peevishly. Abs. Come, come, we must lay aside some of our romance a little wealth and comfort may be endured after all. And for your fortune, the lawyers shall make such settle- ments as Lyd. Lawyers! I hate lawyers! Abs. Nay then, we will not wait for their lingering forms, but instantly procure the licence, and Lyd. The licence! I hate licence! Abs. Oh my love! be not so unkind! Thus let me intreat [Kneeling. Lyd. Pshaw! what signifies kneeling when you know I 11111x1 have you? Abs. [Rising'] Nay, madam, there shall be no constraint upon your inclinations, I promise you. If I have lost your heart, I resign the rest. 'Gad, I must try what a little spirit will do. [Aside. Lyd. [Rising] Then, sir, let me tell you, the interest you had there was acquired by a mean, unmanly imposition, and deserves the punishment of fraud. What, you have been treating me like a child! humoring my romance ! and laughing, I suppose, at your success ! Abs. You wrong me, Lydia, you wrong me. Only hear Lyd. So, while 7 fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered my- self that I should outwit and incense them all behold ! my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt's consent and approbation! and / am myself the only dupe at last! [Walking about in heat. Abs. Nay, but hear me Lyd. No, sir, you could not think that such paltry artifices could please me, when the mask was thrown off! But I suppose since your tricks have made you secure of my fortune, you are little solicitous about my affections. But here, sir, here is the picture Beverley's picture! [Taking a min- iature from her bosom] which I have worn, night and day, in spite of threats and en- treaties ! There, sir [Flings it to him] and be assured I throw the original from my heart as easily! Abs. Nay, nay, ma'am, we will not differ as to that. Here [Taking out a picture], here is Miss Lydia Languish. What a difference! Aye, there is the heavenly assenting smile that first gave soul and spirit to my hopes! those are the lips which sealed a vow, as yet scarce dry in Cupid's calendar ! and there, the half resentful blush that would have checked the ardor of my thanks. Well, all that's past! all over indeed! There, madam in beauty, that copy is not equal to you, but in my mind its merit over the original, in being still the same, is such that I cannot find in my heart to part with it. [Puts it up again. Lyd. [Softening] 'Tis your own doing, sir. I I I suppose you are perfectly sat- isfied. Abs. O, most certainly. Sure now this is much better than being in love! ha! ha! ha! There's some spirit in this! What signifies breaking some scores of solemn promises, half an hundred vows, under one's hand, with the marks of a dozen or two angels to witness! all that's of no con- sequence, you know. To be sure people will say, that miss didn't know her own mind- but never mind that: or perhaps they may be ill-natured enough to hint that the gen- tleman grew tired of the lady and forsook her but don't let that fret you. Lyd. There's no bearing his insolence. [Bursts into tears. Enter MRS. MALAPROP and SIR ANTHONY. Mrs. Mai. [Entering] Come, we must in- terrupt your billing and cooing a while. Lyd. This is worse than your treachery and deceit, you base ingrate! [Sobbing. Sir Anth. What the devil's the matter now! Z ds! Mrs. Malaprop, this is the oddest billing and cooing I ever heard I- But what the deuce is the meaning of it? I'm quite astonished! Abs. Ask the lady, sir. Mrs. Mai. O mercy! I'm quite analysed, for my part! Why, Lydia, what is the rea- son of this? Lyd. Ask the gentleman, ma'am. Sir Anth. Z ds! I shall be in a frenzy! Why, Jack, you scoundrel, you are not come out to be any one else, are you? Mrs. Mai. Aye, sir, there's no more trick, is there? You are not like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once, are you? Abs. You'll not let me speak. I say the lady can account for this much better than I can. Lyd. Ma'am, you once commanded me never to think of Beverley again there is the man I now obey .you: for, from this moment, I renounce him for ever. [Exit LYDIA. Mrs. Mai. O mercy! and miracles! what a turn here is! Why sure, Captain, you haven't behaved disrespectfully to my niece? Sir Anth. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! now I see it ha! ha! ha! now I see it you have been too lively, Jack. Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word Sir Anth. Come, no lying, Jack I'm sure 'twas so. Mrs. Mai. O Lud! Sir Anthony! O fie, Captain ! Abs. Upon my soul, ma'am Sir Anth. Come, no excuses, Jack; why, your father, you rogue, was so before you: the blood of the Absolutes was always im- patient. Ha! ha! ha! poor little Lydia! 386 THE RIVALS ACT IV, Sc. III. Why, you've frightened her, you dog, you have. Abs. By all that's good, sir Sir Anth. Z ds ! say no more, I tell you. Mrs. Malaprop shall make your peace. You must make his peace, Mrs. Malaprop; you must tell her 'tis Jack's way tell her 'tis all our ways it runs in the blood of our family ! Come, get on, Jack ha ! ha ! ha! Mrs. Malaprop a young villain! [Pushing him out. Mrs. Mai. O! Sir Anthony! O fie, Cap- tain! [Exeunt severally. SCENE III The North Parade. Enter SIR Lucius O'TRIGGER. Sir Luc. I wonder where this Capt. Ab- colute hides himself. Upon my conscience ! these officers are always in one's way in love-affairs. I remember I might have mar- ried Lady Dorothy Carmine, if it had not been for a little rogue of a major, who ran away with her before she could get a sight of me ! And I wonder too what it is the ladies can see in them to be so fond of them unless it be a touch of the old ser- pent in 'em, that makes the little creatures be caught, like vipers, with a bit of red cloth. Hah ! isn't this the Captain com- ing? faith it is! There is a probability of succeeding about that fellow that is mighty provoking ! Who the devil is he talking to ? [Steps aside. Enter CAPT. ABSOLUTE. Abs. To what fine purpose I have been plotting! A noble reward for all my schemes, upon my soul! A little gyps"y! I did not think her romance could have made her so d ned absurd either. 'Sdeath, I never was in a worse humor in my life ! I could cut my own throat, or any other person's, with the greatest pleasure in the world ! Sir Lite. O, faith! I'm in the luck of it I never could have found him in a sweeter temper for my purpose to be sure I'm just come in the nick! Now to enter into con- versation with him, and so quarrel gen- teelly. [SrR Lucius goes up to ABSOLUTE] With regard to that matter, Captain, I must beg leave to differ in opinion with you. Abs. Upon my word then, you must be a very subtle disputant: because, sir, I hap- pened just then to be giving no opinion at all. Sir Luc. That's no reason. For give me leave to tell you, a man may think an un- truth as well as speak one. Abs. Very true, sir, but if a man never utters his thoughts I should think they might stand a chance of escaping contro- versy. Sir Luc. Then, sir, you differ in opinion with me, which amounts to the same thing. Abs. Hark'ee, Sir Lucius, if I had not before known you to be a gentleman, upon my soul, I should not have discovered it at this interview: for what you can drive at, unless you mean to quarrel with me, I cannot conceive ! Sir Luc. I humbly thank you, sir, for the quickness of your apprehension. [Bowing] You have named the very thing I would be at. Abs. Very well, sir I shall certainly not baulk your inclinations but I should be glad you would please to explain your motives. Sir Luc. Pray, sir, be easy the quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands we should only spoil it by trying to explain it. However, your memory is very short 01 you could not have forgot an affront you passed on me within this week. So no more, but name your time and place. Abs. Well, sir, since you are so bent on it, the sooner the better; let it be this even- ing here, by the Spring-Gardens. We shall scarcely be interrupted. Sir Luc. Faith! that same interruption in affairs of this nature shows very great ill-breeding. I don't know what's the rea- son, but in England, if a thing of this kind gets wind, people make such a pother that a gentleman can never fight in peace and quietness. However, if it's the same to you, Captain, I should take it as a par- ticular kindness if you'd let us meet in King's Mead-Fields, as a little business will call me there about six o'clock, and I may dispatch both matters at once. Abs. 'Tis the sam little after six, then, ; to me exactly. A we will discuss this matter more seriously. Sir Luc. If you please, sir, there will be very pretty small-sword light, tho' it won't do for a long shot. So that matter's settled! and my mind's at ease! [Exit SIR Lucius. Enter FAULKLAND, meeting ABSOLUTE. Abs. you.- Well met. I was going to look for Faulkland ! all the daemons of spite and disappointment have conspired against me! I'm so vexed that if I had not the prospect of a resource in being knocked on the head by and by, I should scarce have spirits to tell you the cause. I-' null;. What can you mean? Has Lydia changed her mind? I should have thought her duty and inclination would now have pointed to the same object. 387 ACT V, Sc. I. THE RIVALS Abs. Aye, just as the eyes do of a per- son who squints: when her lore-eye was fixed on me t'other her eye of duty, was Anely obliqued: but when duty bid her point that the same way off t'other turned on a swivel, and secured its retreat with a frown ! Faulk. But what's the resource you Abs. O, to wind up the whole, a good- natured Irishman here has [Mimicking SIR Lucius] begged leave to have the pleasure of cutting my throat and I mean to in- dulge him that's all. Faulk. Prithee, be serious. Abs. 'Tis fact, upon my soul. Sir Lucius OTrigger you know him by sight for some affront, which I am sure I never intended, has obliged me to meet him this evening at six o'clock. 'Tis on that account I wished to see you you must go with me. Faulk. Nay, there must be some mistake, sure. Sir Lucius shall explain himself and I dare say matters may be accommo- dated. But this evening, did you say? I wish it had been any other time. Abs. Why? there will be light enough: there will (as Sir Lucius says) " be very pretty small-sword light, tho' it won't do for a long shot." Confound his long shots ! Faulk. But I am myself a good deal ruf- fled by a difference I have had with Julia my vile tormenting temper Las made me treat her so cruelly that I shall not be my- self till we are reconciled. Abs. By Heavens, Faulkland, you don't deserve her. Enter SERVANT, gives FAULKLAND a letter. Faulk. O Jack! this is from Julia. I dread to open it. I fear it may be to take a last leave perhaps to bid me return her letters and restore O! how I suffer for my folly ! Abs. Here let me see. [Takes the letter and opens it] Aye, a final sentence indeed! 'tis all over with you, faith ! Faulk. Nay, Jack don't keep me in sus- pense. Abs. Hear then. " As I ant convinced that my dear FAULKLAND'S own reflections hare already upbraided him for his last un- kindness to me, I will not add a word on the subject. I wish to speak with you as soon as possible. Yours ever and truly, JULIA." There's stubbornness and resent- ment for you! [Gives him the letter] Why, man, you don't seem one whit happier at this. Faulk. O, yes, I am but but Abs. Confound your buts. You never hear any thing that would make another man bless himself, but you immediately d n it with a but. Faulk. Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestly don't you think there is something forward something indelicate in this haste to forgive? Women should never sue for reconciliation: that should always come from us. They should retain their coldness till wooed to kindness and their pardon, like their love, should " not un- sought be won." Abs. I have not patience to listen to you: thou'rt incorrigible! so say no more on the subject. I must go to settle a few matters. Let me see you before six re- member at my lodgings. A poor indus- trious devil like me, who have toiled, and drudged, and plotted to gain my ends, and am at last disappointed by other people's folly may in pity be allowed to swear and grumble a little; but a captious sceptic in love, a slave to fretfulness and whim who has no difficulties but of Iris own creating is a subject more fit for ridicule than com- passion! [Exit ABSOLUTE. Faulk. I feel his reproaches ! yet I would not change this too exquisite nicety for the gross content with which he tramples on the thorns of love. His engaging me in this duel has started an idea in my head, which I will instantly pursue. I'll use it as the touchstone of Julia's sincerity and disin- terestedness. If her love prove pure and sterling ore my name will rest on it with honor! and once I've stamped it there, I lay aside my doubts for ever: but if the dross of selfishness, the allay of pride pre- dominate 'twill be best to leave her as a toy for some less cautious fool to sigh for. [Exit FAULKLAND. ACT V SCENE I JULIA'S Dressing-Room. JULIA, sola. Jul. How this message has alarmed me! What dreadful accident can he mean ! why such charge to be alone? O Faulkland! how many unhappy moments ! how many tears have you cost me! Enter FAULKLAND, muffled up in a riding-coat. Jul. What means this? why this cau- tion, Faulkland? Faulk. Alas! Julia, I am come to take a long farewell. Jul. Heavens! what do you mean? Faulk. You see before you a wretch, whose life is forfeited. Nay, start not! the infirmity of my temper has drawn all this misery on me. I left you fretful and pas- 388 THE RIVALS ACT V, Sc. I. sionate an untoward accident drew me into a quarrel the event is, that I must fly this kingdom instantly. O Julia, had I been so fortunate as to have called you mine entirely before this mischance had fallen on me, I should not so deeply dread my banishment! But no more of that your heart and promise were given to one happy in friends, character and station! they are not bound to wait upon a solitary, guilty exile. Jul. My soul is oppressed with sorrow at the nature of your misfortune: had these adverse circumstances arisen from a less fatal cause, I should have felt strong com- fort in the thought that I could now chase from your bosom every doubt of the warm sincerity of my love. My heart has long known no other guardian. I now entrust my person to your honor we will fly to- gether. When safe from pursuit, my fa- ther's will may be fulfilled and I receive a legal claim to be the partner of your sor- rows, and tenderest comforter. Then on the bosom of your wedded Julia, you may lull your keen regret to slumbering; while vir- tuous love, with a cherub's hand, shall smooth the brow of upbraiding thought, and pluck the thorn from compunction. Faulk. O Julia! I am bankrupt in grati- tude! But the time is so pressing, it calls on you for so hasty a resolution would you not wish some hours to weigh the advan- tages you forego, and what little compensa- tion poor Faulkiand can make you beside his solitary love ? Jul. I ask not a moment. No, Faulkiand, I have loved you for yourself: and if I now, more than ever, prize the solemn engage- ment which so long has pledged us to each other, it is because it leaves no room for hard aspersions on my fame, and puts the seal of duty to an act of love. But let us not linger. Perhaps this delay Faulk. 'Twill be better I should not ven- ture out again till dark. Yet am I grieved to think what numberless distresses will press heavy on your gentle disposition! Jul. Perhaps your fortune may be for- feited by this unhappy act. I know not whether 'tis so but sure that alone can never make us unhappy. The little I have will be sufficient to support never should be splendid. Faulk. Aye, but in such an abject state of life my wounded pride perhaps may in- crease the natural fretfulness of my tem- per, till I become a rude, morose companion, beyond your patience to endure. Perhaps the recollection of a deed my conscience cannot justify, may haunt me in such gloomy and unsocial fits, that I shall hate the tenderness that would relieve me, break from your arms, and quarrel with ycur fond- ness! Jul. If your thoughts should assume so unhappy a bent, you will the more want some mild and affectionate spirit to watch over and console you: one who, by bearing your infirmities with gentleness and resig- nation, may teach you so to bear the evils of your fortune. Faulk. O Julia, I have proved you to the quick! and with this useless device I throw away all my doubts. How shall I plead to be forgiven this last unworthy effect of my restless, unsatisfied disposition? Jul. Has no such disaster happened as you related ? Faulk. I am ashamed to own that it was all pretended; yet in pity, Julia, do not kill me with resenting a fault which never can be repeated: but sealing, this once, my par- don, let me to-morrow, the face of Heaven, receive my future guide and moni- tress, and expiate my past folly by years of tender adoration. Jul. Hold, Faulkiand ! That you are free from a crime which I before feared to name, Heaven knows how sincerely I rejoice ! These are tears of thankfulness for that! But that your cruel doubts should have urged you to an imposition that has wrung my heart, gives me now a pang more keen than I can express! Faulk. By Heavens! Julia Jul. Yet hear me. My father loved you, Faulkiand! and you preserved the life that tender parent gave me; in his presence I pledged my hand joyfully pledged it where before I had given my heart. When, soon after, I lost that parent, it seemed to me that Providence had, in Faulkiand, shown me whither to transfer without a pause my grateful duty, as well as my affection: hence I have been content to bear from you what pride and delicacy would have for- bid me from another. I ' will not upbraid you by repeating how you have trifled with my sincerity. Faulk. I confess it all! yet hear Jul. After such a year of trial I might have flattered myself that I should not have been insulted with a new probation of my sincerity, as cruel as unnecessary ! A ? little I have trick of such a nature as to show me plainly us; and exile that when I thought you loved me best, you even then regarded me as a mean dissem- bler; an artful, prudent hypocrite. Faulk. Never! never! Jul. I now see it is not in your nature to be content or confident in love. With this conviction I never will be yours. While I had hopes that my persevering at- tention and unreproaching kindness might in time reform your temper, I should have been happy to have gained a dearer influ- ence over you; but I will not furnish you with a licensed power to keep alive an incor- 389 ACT V, Sc. I. THE RIVALS rigible fault, at the expense of one who never would contend with you. Faulk. Nay, but Julia, by my soul and honor, if after this Jul. But one word more. As my faith has once been given to you, I never will barter it with another. I shall pray for your happiness with the truest sincerity; and the dearest blessing I can ask of Heaven to send you will be to charm you from that unhappy temper which alone has prevented the performance of our solemn engagement. All I request of you is that you will yourself reflect upon this infir- mity, and when you number up the many true delights it has deprived you of let it not be your least regret that it lost you the love of one who would have followed you in beggary through the world! [Ex-it. Faulk. She's gone! for ever! There was an awful resolution in her manner, that riveted me to my place. O fool ! dolt ! barbarian! Curst as I am with more im- perfections than my fellow-wretches, kind Fortune sent a heaven-gifted cherub to my aid, and, like a ruffian, I have driven her from my side! I must now haste to my appointment. Well, my mind is tuned for such a scene. I shall wish only to become a principal in it, and reverse the tale my cursed folly put me upon forging here. O love ! tormentor ! fiend ! whose influence, like the moon's, acting on men of dull souls, makes idiots of them, but meeting subtler spirits, betrays their course, and urges sensibility to madness! [Exit. Enter MAID and LYDIA. Maid. My mistress, ma'am, I know, was here just now perhaps she is only in the next room. [Exit MAID. Lyd. Heigh-ho ! Though he has used me so, this fellow runs strangely in my head. I belie le from my grave cousin will make me recall him. Enter JULIA. /.'-/. O Julia, I am come to you with such an appetite for consolation. Lud! child, what's the matter with you? You have been crying! I'll be hanged if that Faulkland has not been tormenting you! Jul. You mistake the cause of my un- easiness. Something /.,'.- flurried me a little. Nothing that you can guess at. [Aside] 1 would not accuse Faulkland to a sister! Lyd. Ah ! whatever vexations you may have, I can assure you mine surpass them. You know who Beverley proves to be? Jul. I will now own to you, Lydia, that Mr. Faulkland had before informed me of the whole affair. Had young Absolute been the person you took him for, I should not have accepted your confidence on the subject without a serious endeavor to counteract your caprice. Lyd. So, then, I see I have been de- ceived by every one! But I don't care I'll never have him. Jul. Nay, Lydia Lyd. Why, is it not provoking; when I thought we were coming to the prettiest distress imaginable, to find myself made a mere Smi thficld bargain of at last ! There had I projected one of the most sentimental elopements ! so becoming a disguise ! so amiable a ladder of ropes ! Conscious moon four horses Scotch parson with such sur- prise to Mrs. Malaprop and such para- graphs in the news-papers ! O, I shall die with disappointment! Jul. I don't wonder at it! Lyd. Now sad reverse! what have I to expect, but, after a deal of flimsy prepara- tion, with a bishop's licence, and my aunt's blessing, to go simpering up to the altar; or perhaps be cried three times in a country- church, and have an unmannerly fat clerk ask the consent of every butcher in the parish to join John Absolute and Lydia Languish, spinster! O, that I should live to hear myself called spinster! Jul. Melancholy, indeed! Lyd. How mortifying to remember the dear delicious shifts I used to be put to to gain half a minute's conversation with this fellow ! How often have I stole forth in the coldest night in January, and found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping statue! There would he kneel to me in the snow, -and sneeze and cough so pathetically ! he shivering with cold, and I with appre- hension ! And while the freezing- blast numbed our joints, how warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and glow with mutual ardor! Ah, Julia, that was some- thing like being in love! Jul. If I were in spirits, Lydia, I should chide you only by laughing heartily at you: but it suits more the situation of my mind, at present, earnestly to entreat you not to let a man, who loves you with sincerity, suffer that unhappiness from your caprice, which I know too well caprice can inflict. Lyd. here! O Lud ! what has brought my aunt Enter MRS. MALAPROP, FAG, and DAVID. Mrs. Mai. So ! so ! here's fine work ! here's fine suicide, paracide, and salivation going on in the fields! and Sir Anthony not to be found to prevent the an tis trophe ! Jul. For Heaven's sake, madam, what's the meaning of this? 390 THE RIVALS ACT V, Sc. II. Mrs. Mai. That gentleman can tell you 'twas be enveloped the affair to me. LyJ. Do, sir, will you, inform us. [To FAG. Fag. Ma'am, I should hold myself very deficient in every requisite that forms the man of breeding if I delayed a moment to give all the information in my power to a lady so deeply interested in the affair as you are. Lyd. But quick! quick, sir! Fag. True, ma'am, as you say, one should be quick in divulging matters of this nature; for should we be tedious, perhaps while we are flourishing on the subject two or three lives may be lost! Lyd. O patience! Do, ma'am, for Heaven's sake! tell us what is the matter! Mrs. Mai. Why, murder's the matter! slaughter's the matter! killing's the matter! But he can tell you the perpendiculars. Lyd. Then, prythee, sir be brief. Fag. Why then, ma'am as to murder I cannot take upon me to say and as to slaughter, or man-slaughter, that will be as the jury finds it. Lyd. But who, sir who are engaged in this? Fag. Faith, ma'am, one is a young gen- tleman whom I should be very sorry any- thing was to happen to a very pretty be- haved gentleman! We have lived much to- gether, and always on terms. Lyd. But who is this? who! who! who! Fag. My master, ma'am my master I peak of my master. Lyd. Heavens! What, Captain Absolute! Mrs. Mai. O, to be sure, you are fright- ened now ! Jul. But who are with him, sir? Fag. As to the rest, ma'am, his gentle- man can inform you better than I. Jul. Do speak, friend. [To DAVID. David. Look'ee, my lady by the Mass! there's mischief going on. Folks don't use to meet for amusement with fire-arms, fire- locks, fire-engines, fire-screens, fire-office, and the devil knows what other crackers be- sides! This, my lady, I say, has an angry favor. Jul. But who is there beside Captain Absolute, friend ? David. My poor master under favor, for mentioning him first. You know me, my lady I am David and my master, of course, is, or was, Squire Acres. Then comes Squire Faulkland. Jul. Do, ma'am, let us instantly en- deavor to prevent mischief. Mrs. Mai. O fie it would be very inele- gant in us: we should only participate things. David. Ah! do, Mrs. Aunt, save a few lives. They are desperately given, believe me. Above all, there is that blood-thirsty Philistine, Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius O'Trigger! O mercy! have they drawn poor little dear Sir Lucius into the scrape? Why, how you stand, girl! you have no more feeling than one of the Derbyshire putrefactions! Lyd. What are we to do, madam? Mrs. Mai. Why, fly with the utmost felicity, to be sure, to prevent mischief. Here, friend you can show us the place? Fag. If you please, ma'am, I will con- duct you. David, do you look for Sir Anthony. [Exit DAVID. Mrs. Mai. Come, girls! this gentleman will exhort us. Come, sir, you're our envoy lead the way, and we'll precede. Fag. Not a step before the ladies for the world ! Mrs. Mai. You're sure you know the spot? Fag. I think I can find it, ma'am; and one good thing is we shall hear the report of the pistols as we draw near, so we can't well miss them: never fear, ma'am, never fear. [Exeunt, he talking. SCENE II South Parade. Enter ABSOLUTE, putting his sword under his great-coat. Abs. A sword seen in the streets of Bath would raise as great an alarm as a mad- dog. How provoking this is in Faulkland! never punctual ! I shall be obliged to go without him at last. O, the devil! here's Sir Anthony! How shall I escape him? [Muffles up his face, and takes a circle to go off. Enter SIR ANTHONY. Sir Anth. How one may be deceived at a little distance! Only that I see he don't know me, I could have sworn that was Jack ! Hey ! 'Gad's life! it is. Why, Jack, you dog! what are you afraid of? hey! sure I'm right. Why, Jack! Jack Abso- lute! [Goes up to him. Abs. Really, sir, you have the advantage of me: I don't remember ever to have had the honor my name is Saunderson, at your service. Sir Anth. Sir, I beg your pardon I took you hey ! why, z ds! it is stay [Looks up to his face] So, so your humble servant, Mr. Saunderson ! Why, you scoun- drel, what tricks are you after now? Abs. O, a joke, sir, a joke! I came here on purpose to look for you, sir. 391 ACT V, Sc. III. THE RIVALS Sir A nth. You did! Well, I am glad you were so lucky. But what are you muffled up so for? what's this for? hey? Abs. Tis cool, sir; isn't it? rather chilly, somehow? But I shall be late I have a par- ticular engagement. Sir Anth. Stay. Why, I thought you were looking for me? Pray, Jack, where is't you are going? Abs. Going, sir! Sir Anth. Aye where are you going? Abs. Where am I going? Sir Anth. You unmannerly puppy! Abs. I was going, sir, to to to to Lydia sir, to Lydia to make matters up if I could; and I was looking for you, sir, to to Sir Anth. To go with you, I suppose. Well, come along. Abs. O! z ds! no, sir, not for the world! I wished to meet with you, sir, to to to You find it cool, I'm sure, sir you'd better not stay out. Sir Anth. Cool! not at all. Well, Jack and what will you say to Lydia? Abs. O, sir, beg her pardon, humor her-- promise and vow: but I detain you, sir consider the cold air on your gout. Sir Anth. O, not at all! not at all! I'm in no hurry. Ah! Jack, you youngsters, when once you are wounded here [Putting his hand to ABSOLUTE'S breast} Hey! what the deuce have you got here? Abs. Nothing, sir nothing. Sir Anth. What's this? Here's something d d hard! Abs. O, trinkets, sir! trinkets a bauble for Lydia! Sir Anth. Nay, let me see your taste. [Pulls his coat open, the swords falls] Trin- kets! a bauble for Lydia! z ds! sirrah, you are not going to cut her throat, are you? Abs. Ha! ha! ha! I thought it would divert you, sir; tho' I didn't mean to tell you till afterwards. Sir Anth. You didn't? Yes, this is a very diverting trinket, truly ! Abs. Sir, I'll explain to you. You know, sir, Lydia is romantic devilish romantic, and very absurd of course. Now, sir, I intend, if she refuses to forgive me to unsheathe this sword and swear I'll fall upon its point, and expire at her feet! Sir Anth. Fall upon fiddle-stick's end! why, I suppose it is the very thing that would please her. Get along, you fool. Abs. Well, sir, you shall hear of my success you shall hear. " O Lydia ! forgive me, or this pointed steel " says I. Sir Anth. " O, booby ! stab away and welcome " says she. Get along ! and d n your trinkets! [Exit ABSOLUTE. Enter DAVID running. Dai'. Stop him ! Stop him ! Murder ! Thief! Fire! Stop fire! Stop fire! O! Sir Anthony Call ! Call! Bid 'em stop! Murder! Fire! Sir Anth. Fire! Murder! Where? Dav. Oons! he's out of sight! and I'm out of breath for my part! O, Sir Anthony, why didn't you stop him? why didn't you stop him ? Sir Anth. Z ds! the fellow's mad! Stop whom? Stop Jack? /',;,". Aye, the Captain, Sir! There's mur- der and slaughter Sir Anth. Murder! Dav. Aye, please you, Sir Anthony, there's all kinds of murder, all sorts of slaughter to be seen in the fields: there's fighting going on, sir bloody sword-and- gun fighting ! Sir Anth. Who are going to fight, dunce? Dav. Every body that I know of, Sir Anthony: every body is going to fight; my poor master, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, your son, the Captain Sir Anth. O, the dog! I see his tricks. Do you know the place? Dav. King's Mead-Fields. Sir Anth. You know the way? Dav. Not an inch; but I'll call the mayor aldermen constables church- wardens and beadles. We can't be too many to part them. Sir Anth. Come along. Give me your shoulder! We'll get assistance as we go. The lying villain! Well, I shall be in such a frenzy ! So this was the history of his d d trinkets! I'll bauble him! [Exeunt. SCENE III King's Mead-Fields. SIR Lucius and ACRES, with pistols. Acres. By my valor! then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good distance. Odds levels and aims! I say it is a good distance. Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field- pieces? Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me. Stay now I'll show you. [Measures paces along the stage] There now, that is a very pretty distance a pretty gentleman's distance. Acres. Z ds! we might as well fight in a sentry-box ! I'll tell you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim. Sir Luc. Faith! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all if he was out of sight! Acres. 'No, Sir Lucius but I should think forty, or eight and thirty yards Sir Luc. Pho! pho! nonsense! Three or 392 THE RIVALS ACT V, Sc. III. four feet between the mouths of your pis- tols is as good as a mile. Acres. Odds bullets, no! By my valor! there is no merit in killing him so near. Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring- him down at a long shot: a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me! Sir Luc. Well the gentleman's friend and I must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any little will or commission I could execute for you ? Acres. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius but I don't understand Sir Luc. Why, you may think there's no being shot at without a little risk and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it I say it will be no time then to be bothering you about family matters. Acres. A quietus! Sir Luc. For instance, now if that should be the case would you choose to be pickled and sent home? or would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey? I'm told there is very snug lying in the Abbey. Acres. Pickled ! Snug lying in the Ab- bey! Odds tremors! Sir Lucius, don't talk o! Sir Luc. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an affair of this kind be- fore? Acres. No, Sir Lucius, never before. Sir Luc. Ah! that's a pity ! there's noth- ing like being used to a thing. Pray now, how would shot? Acres. Odds files! I've practised that. There. Sir Lucius there [Puts himself in an attitude] a side-front, hey? Odd! I'll make myself small enough: I'll stand edge- ways. Sir Luc. Now you're quite out for if you stand so when I take my aim [Levelling at him. Acres. Z ds! Sir Lucius are you sure it is not cocked 7 Sir Luc. Never fear. Acres. But but you don't know it may go off of its own head! Sir Luc. Pho! be easy. Well, now if I hit you in the body, my bullet has a double chance for if it misses a vital part of your right side 'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on the left! Acres. A vital part! O, my poor vitals! Sir Luc. But, there fix yourself so. [Placing him] Let him see the broad side of your full front. There. Now a ball or two may pass clean thro' your body, and never do any harm at all. Acres. Clean thro' me! a ball or two clean thro' me ! Sir Luc. Aye may they and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain. you receive the gentleman's Acres. Look'ee! Sir Lucius I'd just as lieve be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one so, by my valor! I will stand edge-ways. Sir Luc. [Looking at his watch] Sure they don't mean to disappoint us hah? No, faith I think I see them coming. A ores. Hey ! What ! Coming ! Sir Luc. Aye. Who are those yonder getting over the stile? Acres. There are two of them indeed! Well let them come hey, Sir Lucius? we we we we won't run. Sir Luc. Run ! Acres. No I say we won't run, by my valor ! Sir Luc. What the devil's the matter with you ? Acres. Nothing nothing my dear friend my dear Sir Lucius but I I I don't feel quite so bold, somehow as I did. Sir Luc. O fie! consider your honor. Acres. Aye true my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a word or two every now and then about my honor. Sir Luc. Well, here they're coming. [Looking. Acres. Sir Lucius if I wa'n't with you, I should almost think I was afraid. If my valor should leave me! Valor will come and go. Sir Luc. Then, pray, keep it fast while you have it. Acres. Sir Lucius I doubt it is going. Yes my valor is certainly going! It is sneaking off! I feel it oozing out as it were at the palms of my hands! Sir Luc. Your honor your honor. Here they are. Acres. O mercy ! now that I were safe at Clod-Hall! or could be shot before I was aware ! Enter FAULKLAND and ABSOLUTE. Sir Luc. Gentlemen, your most obedient hah! what Captain Absolute ! So, I sup- pose, sir, you are come here, just like my- selfto do a kind office, first for your friend then to proceed to business on your own account. Acres. What, Jack! my dear Jack! my dear friend ! Abs. Hark'ee, Bob, Beverley's at hand. Sir Luc. Well, Mr. Acres I don't blame your saluting the gentleman civilly. So Mr. Beverley [to FAULKLAND], if you'll choose your weapons, the Captain and I will measure the ground. Faulk. Acres. My weapons, sir! Odds life! Sir Lucius, I'm not going to fight Mr. Faulkland. These are my particular friends. Sir Luc. What, sir, here to fight Mr. Acres? 393 did not you come ACT V, Sc. III. THE RIVALS Faulk. Not I, upon my word, sir. Sir Luc. Well, now, that's mighty pro- voking! But I hope, Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of us come on purpose for the game you won't be so cantankerous as to spoil the party by sitting out. Abs. O pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige Sir Lucius. Faulk. Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the matter Acres. No, no, Mr. Faulkland I'll bear my disappointment like a Christian. Look'ee, Sir Lucius, there's no occasion at all for me to fight; and if it is the same to you, I'd as lieve let it alone. Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres I must not be trifled with. You have certainly challenged somebody and you came here to fight him. Now, if that gentleman is willing to represent him I can't see, for my soul, why it isn't just the same thing. Acres. Z ds, Sir Lucius I tell you, 'tis one Beverley I've challenged a fellow, you see, that dare not show his face! If he were here, I'd make him give up his pretensions directly ! Ab'sf Hold, Bob let me set you right. There is no such man as Beverley in the case. The person who assumed that name is before you; and as his pretensions are the same in both characters, he is ready to support them in whatever way you please. Sir Luc. Well, this is lucky! Now you have an opportunity Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend Jack Absolute? Not if he were fifty Bev- erleys! Z ds! Sir Lucius, you would not have me be so unnatural. Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valor has oozed away with a venge- ance! Acres. Not in the least! Odds backs and abettors! I'll be your second with all my heart and if you should get a quietus, you may command me entirely. I'll get you a snug lying in the Abbey here; or pickle you, and send you over to Blunderbuss-hall, or any thing of the kind, with the greatest pleasure. Sir Luc. Pho! pho! you are little better than a coward. Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; coward was the word, by my valor! Sir Luc. Well, sir? Acres. Look'ee, Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word coward. Coward may be said in joke. But if you had called me a poltroon, odds daggers and balls! Sin Luc. Well, sir? Acres. 1 should have thought you a very ill-bred man. Sir Luc. Pho! you are beneath my notice. Abs. Nay, Sir Lucius, you can't have a better second than my friend Acres. He is a most determined dog called in the country, Fighting Bob. He generally kills a man a week; don't you, Bob? Acres. Aye at home! Sir Luc. Well then, Captain, 'tis we must begin. So come out, my little counsellor [Draws his sword], and ask the gentleman, whether he will resign the lady without forc- ing you to proceed against him. Abs. Come on then, sir; [Draws] since you won't let it be an amicable suit, here's my reply. Enter SIR ANTHONY, DAVID, and the Women. David. Knock 'em all down, sweet Sir par- Anthony; knock down my master ticular and bind his hands over to their good behavior ! Sir Anth. Put up, Jack, put up, or I shall be in a frenzy. How came you in a duel, sir? Abs. Faith, sir, that gentleman can tell you better than I; 'twas he called on me, and you know, sir, I serve his Majesty. .SVr Anth. Here's a pretty fellow! I catch him going to cut a man's throat, and he tells me he serves his Majesty ! Z ds ! sirrah, then how durst you draw the king's sword against one of his subjects? Abs. Sir, I tell you! That gentleman called me out, without explaining his rea- Gad! sir, how came you to call sons. Sir Anth. my son out without explaining your rea- sons? Sir Luc. Your son, sir, insulted me in a manner which my honor could not brook. Sir Anth. Z ds! Jack, how durst you insult the gentleman in a manner which his honor could not brook? Mrs. Mai. Come, come, let's have no honor before ladies. Captain Absolute, come here. How could you intimidate us so? Here's Lydia has been terrified to death for you. , Abs. For fear I should be killed, or es- cape, ma'am ? Mrs. Mai. Nay, no delusions to the past. Lydia is convinced. Speak, child. Sir Luc. With your leave, ma'am, I must put in a word here. I believe I could inter- pret the young lady's silence. Now mark Lyd. What is it you mean, sir? Sir Luc. Come, come, Delia, we must be serious now this is no time for trifling. Lyd. Tis true, sir; and your reproof bids me offer this gentleman my hand, and solicit the return of his affections. Abs. O! my little angel, say you so? Sir Lucius I perceive there must be some mistake here. With regard to the affront, which you affirm I have given you I can only say that it could not have been in- 394 THE RIVALS ACT V, So. III. tentional. And as you must be convinced that I should not fear to support a real in- jury you shall now see that I am not ashamed to atone for an inadvertency. I ask your pardon. But for this lady, while hon- ored with her approbation, I will support my claim against any man whatever. Sir A nth. Well said, Jack! and I'll stand by you, my boy. Acres. Mind, I give up all my claim I make no pretensions to anything in the world and if I can't get a wife without fighting for her, by my valor! I'll live a bachelor. Sir Luc. Captain, give me your hand. An affront handsomely acknowledged be- comes an obligation. And as for the lady if she chooses to deny her own hand-writing here [.Taking out letters. Mrs. Mai. O, he will dissolve my mys- tery ! Sir Lucius, perhaps there's some mis- take perhaps, I can illuminate Sir Luc. Pray, old gentlewoman, don't have you no my business. Delia, or interfere where you Miss Languish, are not? Lyd. Indeed, Sir Lucius, I am not. I.LYDIA and ABSOLUTE walk aside. Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius O'Trigger ungrate- ful as you are I own the soft impeachment. Pardon my blushes, I am Delia. Sir Lite. You Delia! pho! pho! be easy. Mrs. Mai. Why, thou barbarous Vandyke! those letters are mine. When you are more sensible of my benignity perhaps I may be brought to encourage your addresses. Sir Luc. Mrs. Malaprop, I am extremely sensible of your condescension; and whether you or Lucy have put this trick upon me, I am equally beholden to you. And to show you I'm not ungrateful Captain Absolute! since you have taken that lady from me, I'll give you my Delia into the bargain. Abs. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius; but here's our friend, Fighting Bob, unprovided for. Sir Luc. Hah! little Valor here, will you make your fortune ? Acres. Odds wrinkles! No. But give us your hand, Sir Lucius; forget and forgive. But if ever I give you a chance of pickling me again, say Bob Acres is a dunce, that's all. Sir A nth. Come, Mrs. Malaprop, don't be cast down you are in your bloom yet. Mrs. Mai. O Sir Anthony! men are all barbarians [All retire but JULIA and FAULKLAND. Jal. [Aside] He seems dejected and un- happy not sullen. There was some founda- tion, however, for the tale he told me. O woman ! how true should be your judgment, when your resolution is so weak ! Faulk. Julia! how can I sue for what I so little deserve? I dare not presume yet Hope is the child of Penitence. Jit I. Oh! Faulkland, you have not been more faulty in your unkind treatment of me than I am now in wanting inclination to resent it. As my heart honestly bids me place my weakness to the account of love, I should be ungenerous not to admit the same plea for yours. Faulk. Now I shall be blest indeed! [SiR ANTHONY comes forward. Sir Anth. What's going on here? So you have been quarrelling too, I warrant. Come, Julia, I never interfered before; but let me have a hand in the matter at last. All the faults I have ever seen in my friend Faulk- land seemed to proceed from what he calls the delicacy and warmth of his affection for you. There, marry him directly, Julia. You'll find he'll mend surprisingly! [The rest come forward. Sir Luc. Come now, I hope there is no dissatisfied person but what is content; for as I have been disappointed myself, it will be very hard if I have not the satisfaction of seeing other people succeed better Acres. You are right, Sir Lucius. So, Jack, I wish you joy. Mr. Faulkland the same. Ladies, come now, to show you I'm neither vexed nor angry, odds tabors and pipes! I'll order the fiddles in half an hour to the New Rooms and I insist on you all meeting me there. Sir Anth. Gad! sir, I like your spirit; and at night we single lads will drink a health to the young couples, and a husband to Mrs. Malaprop. Faulk. Our partners are stolen from us, Jack I hope to be congratulated by each other yours for having checked in time the errors of an ill-directed imagination, which might have betrayed an innocent heart; and mine, for having, by her gentle- ness and candor, reformed the unhappy temper of one who by it made wretched whom he loved most, and tortured the heart he ought to have adored. Abs. Well, Faulkland, we have both tasted the bitters, as well as the sweets, of love with this difference only, that you always prepared the bitter cup for yourself, while 7 Lyd. Was always obliged to me for it, hey, Mr. Modesty? But come, no more of that our happiness is now as unalloyed as general. I iiL Then let us study to preserve it so; and while Hope pictures to us a flattering scene of future Bliss, let us deny its pencil those colors which are too bright to be last- ing. When Hearts deserving Happiness would unite their fortunes, Virtue would crown them with an unfading garland of modest, hurtless flowers; but ill- judging 395 EPILOGUE THE RIVALS Passion will force the gaudier Rose into the wreath, whose thorn offends them, when its leaves are dropt! [Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE BY THE AUTHOR. Spoken by MRS. BULKLEY. Ladies, for you I heard our poet say He'd try to coax some moral from his play: One moral's plain cried I without more fuss; Man's social happiness all rests on us Thro' all the drama whether d ned or not Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot. From every rank obedience is our due D'ye doubt? The world's great stage shall prove it true. The cit well skilled to shun domestic strife- Will sup abroad; but first he'll ask his wife : John Trot, his friend for once, will do the same, But then he'll just step home to tell my dame. The surly 'Squire at noon resolves to rule, And half the day zounds ! madam is a fool ! Convinced at night the vanquished victor says, Ah! Kate! you women have such coaxing ways! The jolly toper chides each tardy blade, Till reeling Bacchus calls on love for aid: Then with each toast, he sees fair bumpers swim, And kisses Chloe on the sparkling brim! Nay, I have heard that statesmen great and wise Will sometimes counsel with a lady's eyes; The servile suitors watch her various \ face, She smiles preferment or she frowns V disgrace, i Curtsies a pension here there nods a J place. Nor with less awe, in scenes of humbler life, Is viewed the mistress, or is heard the wife. The poorest peasant of the poorest soil, The child of poverty, and heir to toil Early from radiant love's impartial light, Steals one small spark, to cheer his world of night: Dear spark ! that oft thro' winter's chilling woes, Is all the warmth his little cottage knows! The wand'ring tar who not for years has pressed The widowed partner of his day of rest- On the cold deck far from her arms re- moved Still hums the ditty which his Susan loved: And while around the cadence rude is blown, The boatswain whistles in a softer tone. The soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil, Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's smile; But ere the battle should he list' her cries, The lover trembles and the hero dies! That heart, by war and honor steeled to fear, Droops on a sigh, and sickens at a tear! But ye more cautious ye nice judging few, Who give to beauty only beauty's due, Tho' friends to love ye view with deep regret Our conquests marred our triumphs in- complete, 'Till polished Wit more lasting charms dis- close, And Judgment fix the darts which Beauty throws ! In female breasts did Sense and Merit rule, The lover's mind would ask no other school; Shamed into sense the scholars of our eyes, Our Beaux from gallantry would soon be wise; Would gladly light, their homage to improve, The Lamp of Knowledge at the Torch of Love! 396 PROLOGUE WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK A SCHOOL for Scandal ! tell me, I beseech you, Needs there a school this modish art to teach you? No need of lessons now, the knowing think; We might as well be taught to eat and drink. Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapors Distress our fair ones let them read the papers; Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit; Crave what you will there's quantum sufficit. "Lord! " cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle, And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle), Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing Strong tea and scandal " Bless me, how refreshing ! Give me the papers, Lisp how bold and free ! [Sips. Last night Lord L. [Sips] was caught with Lady D. For aching heads what charming sal volatile ! [Sips. If Mrs. B. -will still continue flirting, We hope she'll DRAW, or we'll UNDRAW the curtain. Fine satire, poz in public all abuse it, But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it. Now, Lisp, read you there, at that dash and star :" "Yes, ma'am A certain lord had best beware, Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor Square; For, should he Lady W. find willing, Wormwood is bitter " " Oh, that's me ! the villain ! Throw it behind the fire, and never more Let that vile paper come within my door." Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart; To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. Is our young bard so young, to think that he Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny? Knows he the world so little, and its- trade? Alas ! the devil's sooner raised than laid. So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging: 397 ACT I, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging. Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestowed, Again our young Don Quixote takes the" road; To show his gratitude he draws his pen, And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den. For your applause all perils he would through He'll fight that's write a cavalliero true, Till every drop of blood that's ink is spilt for you. DRAMATIS PERSONS * SIR PETER TEAZLE. SIR OLIVER SURFACE. YOUNG SURFACE. CHARLES, his Brother. CRABTREE. SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE. ROWLEY. SPUNGE. MOSES. SNAKE. CARELESS and other companions to CHARLES. LADY TEAZLE. MARIA. LADY SNEERWELL. MRS. CANDOUR. Miss VERJUICE. ACT I SCENE I LADY SNEERWELL'S House. LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET; Miss VERJUICE drinking chocolate. Lady Sneer. The paragraphs you say were all inserted? Verj. They were, madam and as I copied them myself in a feigned hand there can be no suspicion whence they came. Lady Sneer. Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's intrigue with Captain Boastall? Verj. Madam, by this time Lady Brittle is the talk of half the town and I doubt not in a week the men will toast her as a demirep. Lady Sneer. What have you done as to the insinuation as to a certain baronet's lady and a certain cook ? Verj. That is in as fine a train as your Ladyship could wish. I told the story yes- terday to my own maid with directions to communicate it directly to my hairdresser. He, I am informed, has a brother who courts a milliner's prentice in Pallmall, whose mis- tress has a first cousin whose sister is femme de chambre to Mrs. Clackit so that in the common course of things it must reach Mrs. Clackit's ears within four-and- 1 From Sheridan's manuscript. twenty hours, and then you know the busi- ness is as good as done. Lady Sneer. Why, truly, Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty talent a great deal of industry yet yes been tolerably successful in her way. To my knowledge she has been the cause of breaking off six matches, of three sons being disinherited and four daughters being turned out of doors, of three several elopements, as many close confinements, nine separate maintenances, and two di- vorces. Nay, I have more than once traced her causing a Tete-a-Tete in the Town and Country Magazine, when the parties per- haps had never seen each other's faces be- fore in the course of their lives. Verj. She certainly has talents. Lady Sneer. But her manner is gross. Verj. 'Tis very true. She generally de- signs well, has a free tongue, and a bold in- vention; but her coloring is too dark and her outline often extravagant. She wants that delicacy of tint and mellowness of sneer which distinguish your Ladyship's scandal. Lady Sneer. Ah, you are partial, Verjuice. Verj. Not in the least; everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or a look than many can with the most labored detail even when they happen to have a little truth on their side to support it. Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Verjuice. I am no hypocrite to deny the satisfaction I reap from the success of my efforts. 398 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT I, Sc. I. Wounded myself in the early part of my life by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation. Verj. Nothing can be more natural. But, my dear Lady Sneerwell, there is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein, I confess, I am at a loss to guess your motives. Lady Sneer. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbor, Sir Peter Teazle, and his family Lappet. And has my con- duct in this matter really appeared to you so mysterious ? Verj. Entirely so. [Exit MAID. An old bachelor as Sir Peter was, having taken a young wife from out of the country as Lady Teazle is are certainly fair subjects for a little mischievous raillery; but here are two young men to whom Sir Peter has acted as a kind of guardian since their father's death, the eldest possessing the most amiable character and universally well spoken of, the youngest the most dissipated and extravagant young fel- low in the kingdom, without friends or char- acter the former one an avowed admirer of yours and apparently your favorite, the lat- ter attached to Maria, Sir Peter's ward and confessedly beloved by her. Now on the face of these circumstances it is utterly unac- countable to me why you, a young widow with no great jointure, should not close with the passion of a man of such character and expectations as Mr. Surface, and more so why you should be so uncommonly ear- nest to destroy the mutual attachment sub- sisting between his brother Charles and Maria. Lady Sneer. Then at once to unravel this mystery, I must inform you that love has no share whatever in the intercourse between Mr. Surface and me. Verj. No! Lady Sneer. His real attachment is to Maria or her fortune, but finding in his brother a favored rival, he has been obliged to mask his pretensions and profit by my assistance. Verj. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest yourself in his success. Lady Sneer. Heavens ! how dull you are ! cannot you surmise the weakness which I hitherto thro' shame have concealed even from you must I confess that Charles that libertine, that extravagant, that bankrupt in fortune and reputation that he it is for whom I am thus anwious and malicious and to gain whom I would sacrifice every- thing ? Verj. Now indeed, your conduct appears consistent and I no longer wonder at your enmity to Maria; but how came you and Surface so confidential? Lady Sneer. For our mutual interest; but I have found out him a long time since, altho' he has contrived to deceive every- body beside. I know him to be artful, selfish, and malicious while with Sir Peter, and in- deed with all his acquaintance, he passes for a youthful miracle of prudence, good sense, and benevolence. Verj. Yes, yes I know Sir Peter vows he has not his equal in England; and, above all, he praises him as a man of sentiment. Lady Sneer. True, and with the assistance of his sentiments and hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests with respect to Maria, and is now, I be- lieve, attempting to flatter Lady Teazle into the same good opinion towards him while poor Charles has no friend in the house though I fear he has a powerful one in Maria's heart, against whom we must direct our schemes. Sen'. Mr. Surface. Lady Sneer. Show him up. He generally calls about this time. I don't wonder at people's giving him to me for a lover. Enter SURFACE. Surf. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day your most obedient. Lady Sneer. Miss Verjuice has just been arraigning me on our mutual attachment now; but I have informed her of our real views and the purposes for which our geniuses at present co-operate. You know how useful she has been to us and believe me, the confidence is not ill-placed. Surf. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect that a lady of Miss Verjuice's sensi- bility and discernment Lady Sneer. Well, well, no compliments now; but tell me when you saw your mis- tress or, what is more material to me, your brother? Surf. I have not seen either since I saw you, but I can inform you that they are at present at variance; some of your stories have taken good effect on Maria. Lady Sneer. Ah! my dear Verjuice, the merit of this belongs to you. But do your brother's distresses increase? Surf. Every hour. I am told he had another execution in his house yesterday; in short his dissipation and extravagance exceed anything I have ever heard of. Lady Sneer. Poor Charles! Surf. True, madam, notwithstanding his vices one can't help feeling for him; ah, poor Charles! I'm sure I wish it was in my power to be of any essential service to him, for the man who does not share in the distresses of a brother even though merited by his own misconduct deserves Lady Sneer. O Lud, you are going to be 399 ACT I, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL moral, and forget that you are among friends. Surf. Egad, that's true I'll keep that sentiment till I see Sir Peter. However, it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria from such a libertine who, if he is to be re- claimed, can be so only by a person of your ladyship's superior accomplishments and understanding. I'crj. 'Twould be a hazardous experiment. Surf. But, madam, let me caution you to place no more confidence in our friend Snake the libeller; I have lately detected him in frequent conference with old Rowley, who was formerly my father's steward and has never been a friend of mine. Lady Sneer. I'm not disappointed in Snake; I never suspected the fellow to have virtue enough to be faithful even to his own villany. Enter MARIA. Maria, my dear, how do you do? What's the matter? Maria. O, here is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just called at my guardian's with his odious Uncle Crabtree; so I slipt out and ran hither to avoid them. Lady Sneer. Is that all? Verj. Lady Sneerwell, I'll go and write the letter I mentioned to you. [Exit VERJ. Surf. If my brother Charles had been of the party, madam, perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed. Lady Sneer. Nay, now, you are severe, for I dare swear the truth of the matter is Maria heard you were here; but, my dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so? Mar. Oh, he has done nothing; but his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance. Surf. Aye, and the worst of it is there is no advantage in not knowing them, for he'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best friend and Crabtree is as bad. Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make allowance Sir Benjamin is a wit and a poet. Mar. For my part I own, madam wit loses its respect with me, when I see it in company with malice. What do you think, Mr. Surface? Surf. Certainly, madam, to smile at the jest which plants a thorn on another's breast is to become a principal in the mischief. Lady Sneer. Pshaw, there's no possibility of being witty without a little ill-nature the malice of a good thing is the barb that makes it stick. What's your opinion, Mr. Surface ? Surf. Certainly, madam that conversa- tion where the spirit of raillery is suppressed will ever appear tedious and insipid. Mar. Well, I'll not debate how far scandal may be allowable but in a man I am sure it is always contemptible. We have pride, envy, rivalship, and a thousand motives to depreciate each other, but the male-slan- derer must have the cowardice of a woman before he can traduce one. Lady Sneer. I wish my cousin Verjuice hadn't left us she should embrace you. Surf. Ah! she's an old maid and is privi- leged of course. Enter SERVANT. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below and if your Ladyship's at leisure will leave her carriage. Lady Sneer. Beg her to walk in [Exit SERVANT]. Now, Maria, however here is a character to your taste, for tho' Mrs. Can- dour is a little talkative, everybody allows her to be the best-natured and best sort of woman. Mar. Yes, with a very gross affectation of good nature and benevolence, she does more mischief than the direct malice of old Crab- tree. Surf. Efaith, 'tis very true, Lady Sneer- well. Whenever I hear the current running again the characters of my friends, I never think them in such danger as when Candour undertakes their defence. Lady Sneer. Hush, here she is Enter MRS. CANDOUR. Mrs. Can. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century? I have never seen you tho' I have heard of you very often. Mr. Surface, the world says scandalous things of you but indeed it is no matter what the world says, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal. Surf. Just so, indeed, ma'am. Mrs. Can. Ah, Maria, child what! is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume the town talks of nothing else Mar. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so little to do. Mrs. Can. True, true, child; but there's no stopping people's tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it as I indeed was to learn from the same quarter that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle have not agreed lately so well as could be wished. Mar. 'Tis strangely impertinent for peo- ple to busy themselves so. Mrs. Can. Very true, child; but what's to be done? People will talk there's no pre- venting it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, Lord! there is no minding what one hears; tho' to be sure I had this from very good authority. Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous. Mrs. Can. So they are, child shameful ! 400 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT I, Sc. I. shameful! but the world is so censorious no character escapes. Lord, now! who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion; yet such is the ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopped her last week just as she was stepping into a postchaise with her dancing-master. Mar. I'll answer for't there are no grounds for the report. Mrs. Can. Oh, no foundation in the world I dare swear; no more probably than for the story circulated last month, of Mrs. Fes- tino's affair with Colonel Cassino though to be sure that matter was never rightly cleared up. Surf. The licence of invention some peo- ple take is monstrous indeed. Mar. 'Tis so; but in my opinion those who report such things are equally culpable. Mrs. Can. To be sure they are; tale bearers are as bad as the tale makers 'tis an old observation and a very true one but what's to be done, as I said before? How will you prevent people from talking? To- day Mrs. Clackitt assured 'me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife like the rest of their acquaintance; she likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of her dropsy and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner; at the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed that Lord Boffalo had dis- covered his Lady at a house of no extraordi- nary fame, and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar provocation. But, Lord! do you think I would report these things? No, no! tale bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as the tale makers. Surf. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and good nature Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people traduced behind their backs; and when ugly circunjstances come out against our acquaintances, I own I al- ways love to think the best. By the bye, I hope 'tis not true that your brother is abso- lutely ruined Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, ma'am. Mrs. Can. Ah! I heard so; but you must tell him to keep up his spirits; everybody almost is in the same way Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit all up, I hear, within this week; so if Charles is undone, he'll find half his ac- quaintance ruined too, and that, you know, is a consolation Surf. Doubtless, ma'am, a very great one. Enter SERVANT. Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. Lady Sneer. Soh! Maria, you see your you. Positively you shan't lover pursues escape. Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE. Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I don't believe you are ac- quainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite. Egad, ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet too, isn't he, Lady Sneerwell ? Sir Ben. O fie, uncle! Crab. Nay, egad, it's true. I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your Ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching fire? do, Benjamin, repeat it or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's con- versazione? Come now, your first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander and Sir Ben. Dear uncle now prithee Crab. Efaith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at all these things. Lady Sneer. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything. Sir Ben. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print, and as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties; however, I have some love-elegies, which, when favored with this lady's smile, I mean to give to the public. [.Pointing to MARIA. Crab. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they'll im- mortalize you you'll be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa. Sir Ben. Yes, madam, I think you will like them when you shall see in a beautiful quarto page how a neat rivulet of text shall meander thro' a meadow of margin 'fore Gad, they will be the most elegant things of their kind Crab. But, ladies, have you heard the What, sir, do you mean the news? Mrs. Can. report of Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it. Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own footman. Mrs. Can. Impossible! Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin. Sir Ben. 'Tis very true, ma'am; every- thing is fixed and the wedding livery be- spoke. Crab. Yes, and they say there were press- ing reasons for't. Mrs. Can. It cannot be and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Niss Nicely. Sir Ben. O Lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at once. She has al- ways been so cautious and so reserved that 401 ACT I, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom. Lady Sneer. Yes, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the reputation of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions, but there is a sort of puny sickly reputation, that is al- ways ailing yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes. Sir Ben. True, madam, there are valetudi- narians in reputation as well as constitution, who being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection. Mrs. Can. Well, but this may be all mis- take. You know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious tales. Crab. That they do I'll be sworn, ma'am. Did you ever hear how Miss Shepherd came to lose her lover and her character last summer at Tunbridge? Sir Benjamin, you remember it. Sir Ben. O to be sure the most whimsical circumstance Lady Sneer. How was it, pray? Crab. Why, one evening at Mrs. Ponto's assembly, the conversation happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia sheep in this country says a young lady in company, " I have known instances of it for Miss Letitia Shepherd, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova-Scotia sheep that pro- duced her twins," " What ! " cries the old Dowager Lady Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a post), " has Miss Letitia Shepherd had twins ? " This mistake as you may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of laughing. However, 'twas the next morn- ing everywhere reported and in a few days believed by the whole town that Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and girl, and in less than a week there were people who could name the father, and the farm house where the babies were put out to nurse. Lady Sneer. Strange indeed! Crab. Matter of fact, I assure you. O Lud! Mr. Surface, pray, is it true that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming home? Surf. Not that I know of indeed, sir. Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time you can scarcely remember him I believe sad comfort on bis arrival to hear how your brother has gone on ! Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may reform. Sir Ben. To be sure he may; for my part I never believed him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and tho* he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews. (';.;/'. That's true, egad, nephew; if the Old Jewry was a ward I believe Charles would be an alderman no man more popular there; 'fore Gad, I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish Tontine, and that whenever he's sick they have prayers for the recovery of his health in the synagogue. Sir Ben. Yet no man lives in greater splendor: they tell me when he entertains his friends, he can sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities, have a score of tradesmen waiting in the ante-chamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair. Surf. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen, but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother. Mar. Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morn- ing I'm not very well. [Exit MAR. Mrs. Can. O dear, she changed color very much! Lady Sneer. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her she may want assistance. Mrs. Can. That I will with all my soul, ma'am. Poor, dear girl who knows what her situation may be! [Exit MRS. CAN. Lady Sneer. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on notwithstanding their difference. Sir Ben. The young lady's penchant is obvious. Crab. But, Benjamin, you mustn't give up the pursuit for that follow her and put her into good humor repeat her some of your verses come, I'll assist you Sir Ben. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you, but depend on't your brother is utterly undone. [Going. Crab. O Lud! aye undone as ever man was can't raise a guinea. Sir Ben. And everything sold, I'm told, that was movable. [Going. Crab. I was at his house not a thing left but some empty bottles that were over- looked and the family pictures, which I be- lieve are framed in the wainscot. [Going. Sir Ben. And I'm very sorry to hear also some bad stories against him. [Going. Crab. O he has done many mean things, that's certain! Sir Ben. But however, as he is your brother [Going. Crab. We'll tell you all another oppor- tunity. [Exeunt. Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave a subject they have not quite run down. Surf. And I believe the abuse was no more acceptable to your ladyship than Maria. Lady Sneer. I doubt her affections are farther engaged than we imagined; but the family are to be here this evening, so you may as well dine where you are and we shall have an opportunity of observing farther. 402 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT I, Sc. II. In the meantime, I'll go and plot mischief and you shall study sentiments. [Exeunt. SCENE II SIR PETER'S House. Enter SIR PETER. Sir Pet. When an old bachelor takes a young wife, what is he to expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men and I have been the most miserable dog ever since that ever com- mitted wedlock. We tift a little going to church and came to a quarrel before the bells had done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall during the honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution a girl bred wholly in the country who never knew luxury be- yond one silk gown nor dissipation above the annual gala of a race-ball. Yet she now plays her part in all the extravagant fop- peries of the fashion and the town, with as ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush nor a grass plot out of Grosvenor- Square! I am sneered at by my old ac- quaintance paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my humors. Yet the worst of it is I doubt I love her or I should never bear all this. However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. Enter ROWLEY. Row. Sir Peter, your servant: how is't with you, sir? Sir Pet. Very bad Master Rowley very bad. I meet with nothing but crosses and vexations. Row. What can have happened to trouble you since yesterday? Sir Pet. A good question to a married man Row. Nay, I'm sure your lady, Sir Peter, can't be the cause of your uneasiness. Sir Pet. Why, has anybody told you she was dead? Row. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding your tempers do not ex- actly agree; Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley; I am myself the sweetest tempered man alive, and hate a teasing temper; and so I tell her a hundred times a day. Row. Indeed! Sir Pet. Aye, and what is very extraordi- nary in all our disputes, she is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell and the set she meets at her house encourage the perverse- ness of her disposition. Then to complete my vexations, Maria, my ward, whom I ought to have the power of a father over, is deter- mined to turn rebel too and absolutely re- fuses the man whom I have long resolved on for her husband meaning, I suppose, to be- stow herself on his profligate brother. Row. You know, Sir Peter, I have al- ways taken the liberty to differ with you on the subject of these two young gentlemen; I only wish you may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder. For Charles, my life on't! He will retrieve his errors yet; their worthy father, once my honored mas- ter, was at his years nearly as wild a spark. Sir Pet. You are wrong, Master Rowley. On their father's death you know I acted as a kind of guardian to them both, till their uncle Sir Oliver's Eastern bounty gave them an early independence. Of course no person could have more opportunities of judging of their hearts and I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is indeed a model for the young men of the age. He is a man of sentiment and acts up to the sentiments he professes; but for the other, take my word for't, if he had any gain of virtue by descent, he has dissipated it with the rest of his in- heritance. Ah ! my old friend, Sir Oliver, will be deeply mortified when he finds how part of his bounty has been misapplied. Row. 1 am sorry to find you so violent against the young man because this may be the most critical period of his fortune. I came hither with news that will surprise you. Sir Pet. What! let me hear. Row. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this moment in town. Sir Pet. How ! you astonish me I thought you did not expect him this month! Row. I did not, but his passage has been remarkably quick. Sir Pet. Egad, I shall rejoice to see my old friend. 'Tis sixteen years since we met. We have had many a day together. But does he still enjoin us not to inform his nephews of his arrival? Row. Most strictly. He means, before he makes it known, to make some trial of their dispositions, and we have already planned something for the purpose. Sir Pet. Ah, there needs no art to discover their merits; however, he shall have his way. But .pray does he know I am married? Row. Yes, and will soon wish you joy. Sir Pet. You may tell him 'tis too late. Ah, Oliver will laugh at me we used to rail at matrimony together but he has been steady to his text. Well, he must be at my house Iho' I'll instantly give orders for his reception. But, Master Rowley, don't drop a word that Lady Teazle and I ever disagree. Row. By no means. Sir Pet. For I should never be able to 403 ACT II, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL stand Noll's jokes; so I'd have him think that we are a very happy couple. Row. I understand you; but then you must be very careful not to differ while he's in the house with you. Sir Pet. Egad and so we must that's im- possible. Ah! Master Rowley, when an old bachelor marries a young wife, he deserves no, the crime carries the punishment along with it. [Exeunt. ACT II SCENE I [At SIR PETER'S.] SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE. Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it. Lady Teas. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may scold or smile, according to your humor, but I ought to have my own way in everything, and what's more I will too. What! tho' I was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are accountable to nob dy after they are married. Sir Pet. Very well! ma'am, very well! so a husband is to have no influence, no authority ? Lady Teas. Authority! no, to be sure if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me and not married me: I am sure you were old enough. Sir Pet. Old enough aye, there it is well well Lady Teazle, tho' my life may be made unhappy by your temper I'll not be ruined by your extravagance. Lady Teas. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be. Sir Pet. . No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmean- ing luxury. 'Slife to spend as much to fur- nish your dressing room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a Fete Champetre at Christmas. Lady Teas. Lord! Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year round and that roses grew under one's feet! Sir Pet. Oons! madam, if you had been born to those fopperies, I shouldn't wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what your situation was when I married you. Lady Teas. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one or I should never have married you. Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler style the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour in a pretty figured linen gown with a bunch of keys at your side, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your own working. Lady Teas. O horrible ! horrible ! don't put me in mind of it! Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, and your daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb your aunt Deborah's lap dog. Lady Teas. Abominable ! Sir Pet. Yes, madam, and what were your evening amusements? To draw patterns for ruffles, which you hadn't the materials to make, play Pope Joan with the curate, to read a sermon to your aunt, or be stuck down to an old spinet to strum your father to sleep after a fox chase. Lady Teas. Scandalous Sir Peter, not a word of it true. Sir Pet. Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; and now no one more extravagantly in the fashion every foppery adopted a head-dress to o'er- top Lady Pagoda with feathers pendant, horizontal, and perpendicular. You forget, Lady Teazle, when a little wired gauze with a few beads made you a fly cap not much bigger than a blew-bottle, and your hair was combed smooth over a roll. Lady Teas. Shocking! horrible roll!! Sir Pet. But now you must have your coach Vis-a-vis, and three powdered footmen before your chair and in the summer a pair of white cobs to draw you to Kensington Gardens no recollection when you were con- tent to ride double, behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse! Lady Teaz. Horrid! I swear I never did. Sir Pet. This, madam, was your situation and what have I not done for you? I have made you woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank in short I have made you my wife. Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but one thing more you can make me to add to the obligation. Sir Pet. What's that, pray? Lady Teaz. Your widow. Sir Pet. Thank you, madam but don't flatter yourself, for though your ill-conduct may disturb my peace, it shall never break my heart, I promise you. However I am equally obliged to you for the hint. Lady Teas. Then, why will you endeavor to make yourself so disagreeable to me and thwart me in every little elegant expense? Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I pray, had you any of these elegant expenses when you mar- ried me? Lady Teaz. Lud, Sir Peter, would you have me be out of the fashion? Sir Pet. The fashion indeed! what had 404 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT II, So. II. you to do with the fashion before you mar- ried me? Lady Teas. For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. Sir Pet. Aye, there again taste! Zounds, madam, you had no taste when you married me. Lady Teas. That's very true indeed, Sir Peter ! after having married you I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. Sir Pet. So, so, then, madam, if these are your sentiments, pray how came I to be honored with your hand? Lady Teas. Shall I tell you the truth? Sir Pet. If it's not too great a favor. Lady Teas. Why, the fact is, I was tired of all those agreeable recreations which you have so good-naturedly described, and having a spirit to spend and enjoy a fortune, I de- termined to marry the first rich man that would have me. Sir Pet. A very honest confession truly but pray, madam, was there no one else you might have tried to ensnare but me? Lady Teas. O lud I drew my net at sev- eral but you were the only one I could catch. Sir Pet. This is plain dealing indeed. Lady Teas. But now, Sir Peter, if we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's? Sir Pet. Aye there's another precious cir- cumstance a charming set of acquaintance you have made there! Lady Teas. Nay, Sir Peter, they are peo- ple of rank and fortune and remarkably tenacious of reputation. Sir Pet. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance, for they don't choose anybody should have a character but themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on hurdles who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation. Lady Teas. What! would you restrain the freedom of speech? Sir Pet. Aye, they have made you just as bad as any one of the society. Lady Teas. Why I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace. But I vow I bear no malice against the people I abuse; when I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good humor and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. Sir Pet. Well, well, I'll call in, just to look after my own character. Lady Teas. Then, indeed, you must make haste after me, or you'll be too late; so good bye to ye. Sir Pet. So I have gained much by my intended expostulation. Yet with what a charming air she contradicts every thing I say and how pleasingly she shows her con- tempt of my authority. Well, tho' I can't make her love me, there is certainly a great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing everything in her power to plague me. [Exit. it. SCENE II At LADY SNEERWELL'S. LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE, and SURFACE. Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all means. Sir Ben. O plague on't, uncle, 'tis mere nonsense. Crab. No, no; 'fore gad, very clever for an extempore ! Sir Ben. But, ladies, you should be ac- quainted with the circumstances. You must know that one day last week as Lady Betty Curricle was taking the dust in High Park, in a sort of duodecimo phaeton, she desired me to write some verses on her ponies; upon which I took out my pocketbook, and in one moment produced the following: 'Sure never were seen two such beautiful ponies; Other horses are clowns and these maca- ronies, Nay to give 'em this title, I'm sure isn't wrong, Their legs are so slim and their tails are so long. Crab. There, ladies done in the smack of a whip and on horseback too. Surf. A very Phoebus, mounted indeed, Sir Benjamin. Sir Ben. Oh, dear sir trifles trifles. Enter LADY TEAZLE and MARIA. Mrs. Can. 1 must have a copy. Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter? Lady Teas. I believe he'll wait on your Ladyship presently. Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you shall sit down to piquet with Mr. Surface. Mar. I take very little pleasure in cards; however, I'll do as you please. Lady Teas. 1 am surprised Mr. Surface should sit down with her; I thought he would have embraced this opportunity of speaking to me before Sir Peter came. [Aside. Mrs. Can. Now, I'll die but you are so scandalous I'll forswear your society. Lady Tecs. What's the matter, Mrs. Can- dour? 405 ACT II, Sc. II. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome. Lady Sneer. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman. . . . Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am. Mrs. Can. She has a charming fresh color. Crab. Yes, when it is fresh put on. Lady Teas. O fie! I'll swear her color is natural I have seen it come and go. Crab. I dare swear you have, ma'am: it goes of a night, and comes again in the morning. Sir Ben. True, uncle, it not only comes and goes but what's more, egad, her maid can fetch and carry it. Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so! But surely, now, her sister is or was very handsome. Crab. Who? Mrs. Stucco? O lud! she's six-and-fifty if she's an hour! Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her; fifty-two, or fifty-three is the utmost and I don't think she looks more. Sir Ben. Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one was to see her face. Lady Sneer. Well well if she does take some pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with great in- genuity and surely that's better than the careless manner in which the widow Ocre chalks her wrinkles. Sir Ben. Nay, now, you are severe upon the widow; come, come, it isn't that she paints so ill but when she has finished her face she joins it on so badly to her neck, that she looks like a mended statue, in which the connoisseur sees at once that the head's modern though the trunk's an- tique. Crab. Ha! ha! ha! well said, nephew! Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh but I vow I hate you for it. What do you think of Miss Simper? Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth. Lady Teaz. Yes, and on that account, when she is neither speaking nor laughing (which very seldom happens), she never ab- solutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it al- ways on a-jar, as it were. Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured? Lady Teaz. Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in front she draws her mouth till it resembles the aperture of a poor's-box, and all her words appear to slide out edge- wise. Lady Sneer. Very well, Lady Teazle, I see you can be a little severe. Lady Teaz. In defence of a friend it is but justice, but here comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry. Enter SIR PETER. Sir Pet. Ladies, your obedient mercy on me, here is the whole set! a character's dead at every word, I suppose. Mrs. Can. 1 am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter; they have been so censorious and Lady Teazle as bad as any one. Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to you, Mrs. Candour, I dare swear. Mrs. Can. O, they will allow good qualities to nobody not even good nature to our friend, Mrs. Pursy. Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last night? Lady Sneer. Nay, her bulk is her mis- fortune and when she takes such pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her. Mrs. Can. Tis very true, indeed. Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey laces herself by pulleys and often in the hottest noon of summer you may see her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a drummer's, and puffing round the Ring on a full trot. Mrs. Can. I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her. Sir Pet. Yes, a good defence, truly! Mrs. Can. But for Sir Benjamin, he is as censorious as Miss Sallow. Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be censorious an awkward gawky, without any one good point under Heaven! Lady Sneer. Positively, you shall not be so very severe. Miss Sallow is a relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her person great allowance is to be made; for, let me tell you, a woman labors under many dis- advantages who tries to pass for a girl at six-and-thirty. Mrs. Can. Though, surely she is hand- some still and for the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by candle-light, it is not to be wondered at. Lady Sneer. True, and then as to her manner upon my word, I think it is par- ticularly graceful considering she never had the least education: for you know her mother was a Welch milliner, and her father a sugar- baker at Bristow. Sir Ben. Ah! You are both of you too good-natured ! Sir Pet. Yes, damned good-natured! Her own relation ! mercy on me ! [Aside. Mrs. Can. For my part I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill-spoken of. Sir Pet. No, to be sure! Sir Ben. Ah, you are of a moral turn, Mrs. Candour, and can sit for an hour to hear Lady Stucco talk santiments. Lady Sneer. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the dessert after dinner, for 406 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT II, Sc. II. she's just like the Spanish fruit one cracks for mottoes, made up of paint and proverb. Mrs. Can. Well, I never will join in ridi- culing a friend and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle and you all know what pre- tensions she has to be critical in beauty. Lady Teas. O, to be sure, she has her- self the oddest countenance that ever was seen 'tis a collection of features from all the different countries of the globe. Sir Ben. So she has indeed an Irish front Crab. Caledonian locks Sir Ben. Dutch nose Crab. Austrian lips Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard Crab. And teeth a la Chinoise Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a table d'hote at Spa where no two guests are of a nation Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war, wherein all the members even to her eyes appear to have a different in- terest, and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue. Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! Sir Pet. Mercy on my life! a person they dine with twice a week ! [Aside. Lady Sneer. Go go you are a couple of provoking toads. Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so for give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle Sir Pet. Madam, madam I beg your par- don there's no stopping these good gentle- men's tongues but when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll not take her part. Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter; but you are a cruel creature too phlegmatic yourself for a jest and too peevish to allow wit in others. Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature than your lady- ship is aware of. Lady Sneer. True, Sir Peter I believe they are so near akin that they can never be united. Sir Ben. O rather, madam, suppose them man and wife because one seldom sees them together. Lady Teas. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal I believe he would have it put down by Parliament. Sir Pet. 'Fore heaven! madam, if they were to consider the sporting with reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an act for the preserva- tion of fame, there are many would thank them for the bill. Lady Sneer. O Lud! Sir Peter, would you deprive us of our privileges Sir Pet. Aye, madam, and then no per- son should be permitted to kill characters or run down reputations but qualified old maids and disappointed widows. Lady Sneer. Go, you monster Mrs. Can. But sure you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear? Sir Pet. Yes, madam, I would have Law Merchant for that too and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured party should have a right to come on any of the indorsers. Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous tale without some foundation. Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next room? Enter SERVANT, whispers SIR PETER. Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly. [Exit SERVANT.] I'll get away unperceived. Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not leav- ing us? Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me I'm called away by particular business but I leave my character behind me. [Exit. Sir Ben. Well, certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a strange being; I could tell you some stories of him would make you laugh heartily if he weren't your husband. Lady Teas. O, pray don't mind that come, do let's hear 'em. [join the rest of the com- pany going into the next room.} j Surf. Maria, I see you have no satis- faction in this society. Mar. How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the province of wit or humor, Heaven grant me a double portion of dullness. Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are they have no malice at heart. Mar. Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for in my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues but a natural and ungovernable bitterness of mind. Surf. Undoubtedly, madam and it has al- ways been a sentiment of mine that to propagate a malicious truth wantonly is more despicable than to falsify from revenge; but can you, Maria, feel thus for others and be unkind to me alone nay, is hope to be denied the tenderest passion? Mar. Why will you distress me by re- newing this subject? Surf. Ah! Maria! you would not treat me thus and oppose your guardian's, Sir Peter's, wishes but that I see that my profligate brother is still a favored rival. Mar. Ungenerously urged; but whatever my sentiments of that unfortunate young 407 ACT II, Sc. III. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL man are, be assured I shall not feel more bound to give him up because his distresses have sunk him so low as to deprive him of the regard even of a brother. Surf. Nay but, Maria, do not leave me with a frown by all that's honest, I swear Gad's life, here's Lady Teazle you must not no, you shall for though I have the greatest regard for Lady Teazle Mar. Lady Teazle ! Surf. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect Enter LADY TEAZLE, and comes forward. Lady Teas. What's this, pray do you take her for me! Child, you are wanted in the next room. What's all this, pray Surf. O, the most unlucky circumstance in nature. Maria has somehow suspected the tender concern I have for your happiness, and threatened to acquaint Sir Peter with her suspicions and I was just endeavoring to reason with her when you came. Lady Teas. Indeed but you seemed to adopt a very tender mode of reasoning. Do you usually argue on your knees? Surf. O, she's a child and I thought a little bombast but, Lady Teazle, when are you to give me your judgment on my library as you promised? Lady Teas. No no, I begin to think it would be imprudent and you know I admit you as a lover no farther than fashion re- quires. Surf. True a mere Platonic Cicisbeo, what every London wife is entitled to. Lady Teas. Certainly one must not be out of the fashion however, I have so much of my country prejudices left that though Sir Peter's ill humor may vex me ever so, it never shall provoke me to Surf. The only revenge in your power well, I applaud your moderation. Lady Teas. Go you are an insinuating hypocrite but we shall be missed let us join the company. Surf. True, but we had best not return together. Lady Teas. Well, don't stay for Maria shan't come to hear any more of your rea- soning, I promise you. [Exit. Surf. A curious dilemma, truly, my politics have run me into. I wanted at first only to ingratiate myself with Lady Teazle that she might not be my enemy with Maria and I have, I don't know how, become her serious lover, so that I stand a chance of committing a crime I never meditated and probably of losing Maria by the pursuit! Sincerely I begin to wish I had never made such a point of gaining so very good a char- acter, for it has led me into so many curst rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at last. {.Exit. SCENE III At SIR PETER'S. ROWLEY and SIR OLIVER. Sir Oliv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! and so my old friend is married, hey? a young wife out of the country! ha! ha! that he should have stood bluff to old bachelor so long and sink into a husband at last! Row. But you must not rally him on the subject, Sir Oliver 'tis a tender point, I assure you, though he has been married only seven months. Sir Oliv. Ah, then he has been just half a year on the stool of repentance poor Peter ! But you say he has entirely given up Charles never sees him, hey? Row. His prejudice against him is as- tonishing, and I am sure, greatly increased by a jealousy of him with Lady Teazle which he has been industriously led into by a scandalous society in the neighborhood who have contributed not a little to Charles's ill name. Whereas the truth is, I believe, if the lady is partial to either of them his brother is the favorite. Sir Oliv. Aye I know there are a set of malicious, prating, prudent gossips both male and female, who murder characters to kill time, and will rob a young fellow of his good name before he has years to know the value of it ... but I am not to be prejudiced against my nephew by such, I promise you! No! no, if Charles has done nothing false or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance. Row. Then, my life on't, you will reclaim him. Ah, sir, it gives me new vigor to find that your heart is not turned against him and that the son of my good old master has one friend, however, left. Sir Oliv. What! shall I forget, Master Rowley when I was at his house myself egad, my brother and I were neither of us very prudent youths and yet I believe you have not seen many better men than your old master was. Row. 'Tis this reflection gives me assur- ance that Charles may yet be a credit to his family but here comes Sir Peter Sir Olii 1 . Egad, so he does mercy on me he's greatly altered and seems to have a settled married look one may read husband in his face at this distance. Enter SIR PETER. Sir Pet. Ha! Sir Oliver my old friend- welcome to England a thousand times! Sir Oliv. Thank you thank you Sir Peter and efaith I am as glad to find you well, believe me 408 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT III, Sc. I. Sir Pet. Ah! 'tis a long time since we met sixteen year, I doubt, Sir Oliver and many a cross accident in the time Sir Oliv. Aye, I have had my share but, what! I find you are married hey, my old boy well well it can't be helped and so I wish you joy with all my heart. Sir Pet. Thank you thanks, Sir Oliver. Yes, I have entered into the happy state, but we'll not talk of that now. Sir Oliv. True, true, Sir Peter, old friends shouldn't begin on grievances at first meet- ing. No, no Row. Take care, pray, sir Sir Olh'. Well so one of my nephews, I find, is a wild rogue hey? Sir Pet. Wild ! oh ! my old friend I grieve for your disappointment there. He's a lost young man indeed; however his brother will make you amends; Joseph is indeed what a youth should be everybody in the world speaks well of him. Sir Oliv. I am sorry to hear it he has too good a character to be an honest fellow. Everybody speaks well of him! Psha! then he has bowed as low to knaves and fools as to the honest dignity of virtue. Sir Pet. What! Sir Oliver, do you blame him for not making enemies? Sir Oliv. Yes if he has merit enough to deserve them. Sir Pet. Well well you'll be convinced when you know him 'tis edification to hear him converse he professes the noblest senti- ments. Sir Oliv. Ah, plague on his sentiments- it he salutes me with a scrap sentence of morality in his mouth, I shall be sick di- rectly but, however, don't mistake me, Sir Peter, I don't mean to defend Charles's errors; but before I form my judgment of either of them, I intend to make a trial of their hearts and my friend Rowley and I have planned something for the pur- pose. Row. And Sir Peter shall own he has been for once mistaken. Sir Pet. My life on Joseph's honor Sir Oliv. Well, come, give us a bottle of good wine, and we'll drink the lads' healths and tell you our scheme. Sir Pet. Allans, then Sir Oliv. But don't, Sir Peter, be so severe against your old friend's son. Sir Pet. 'Tis his vices and follies have made me his enemy. Row. Come come Sir Peter, consider how early he was left to his own guidance. Sir Oliv. Odds, my life I am not sorry that he has run out of the course a little; for my part, I hate to see dry prudence clinging to the green juices of youth 'tis like ivy round a sapling and spoils the growth of the tree. ACT III SCENE I At SIR PETER'S. SIR PETER, SIR OLIVER, and ROWLEY. Sir Pet. Well, then, we will see the fellows first and have our wine afterwards. But how is this, Master Rowley? I don't see the jet of your scheme. Row. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley whom I was speaking of is nearly related to them by their mother. He was once a merchant in Dublin, but has been ruined by a series of undeserved misfortunes, and now lately coming over to solicit the assistance of his friends here, has been flung into prison by some of his creditors, where he is now with two helpless boys. Sir Oliv. Aye, and a worthy fellow, too, I remember him. But what is this to lead to? Row. You shall hear. He has applied by letter both to Mr. Surface and Charles; from the former he has received nothing but evasive promises of future service, while Charles has done all that his extravagance has left him power to do, and he is at this time endeavoring to raise a sum of money, part of which, in the midst of his own dis- tresses, I know he intends for the service of poor Stanley. Sir Oliv. Ah! he is my brother's son. Sir Pet. Well, but how is Sir Oliver per- sonally to Row. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and his brother that Stanley has obtained per- mission to apply in person to his friends, and as they have neither of them ever seen him, let Sir Oliver assume his character, and he will have a fair opportunity of judging at least of the benevolence of their dis- positions. Sir Pet. Pshaw! this will prove nothing. I make no doubt Charles is coxcomb and thoughtless enough to give money to poor relations if he had it. Sir Oliv. Then he shall never want it. I have brought a few rupees home with me, Sir Peter, and I only want to be sure of bestowing them rightly. Row. Then, sir, believe me you will find in the youngest brother one who in the midst of folly and dissipation has still, as our im- mortal bard expresses it, " a tear for pity and a hand open as the day for melting charity." Sir Pet. Pish! What signifies his having an open hand or purse either when he has nothing left to give! But if you talk of humane sentiments, Joseph is the man. Well, well, make the trial, if you please. But 400 ACT III, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL where is the fellow whom you brought for Sir Oliver to examine, relative to Charles's affairs ? Row. Below, waiting his commands, and no one can give him better intelligence. This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who to do him justice, has done everything in his power to bring your nephew to a proper sense of his extravagance. Sir Pet. Pray, let us have him in. Row. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs. [Calls to SERVANT. Sir Pet. But, pray, why should you sup- pose he will speak the truth? Row. Oh, I have convinced him that he has no chance of recovering certain sums ad- vanced to Charles but through the bounty of Sir Oliver, who he knows is arrived; so that you may depend on his fidelity to his interest. I have also another evidence in my power, one Snake, whom I shall shortly produce to remove some of your prejudices, Sir Peter, relative to Charles and Lady Teazle. Sir Pet. I have heard too much on that subject. Row. Here comes the honest Israelite. Enter MOSES. This is Sir Oliver. Sir Oliv. Sir I understand you have lately had great dealings with my nephew Charles. Mas. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I could for him, but he was ruined before he came to me for assistance. Sir Oliv. That was unlucky truly for you have had no opportunity of showing your talents. Mas. None at all I hadn't the pleasure of knowing his distresses till he was some thousands worse than nothing, till it was im- possible to add to them. Sir Oliv. Unfortunate indeed! but I sup- pose you have done all in your power for him, honest Moses ? Mas. Yes, he knows that. This very evening I was to have brought him a gen- tleman from the city who does not know him and will I believe advance some money. Sir Pet. What! one Charles has never had money from before? Mas. Yes Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars. Sir Pet. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought strikes me! Charles you say doesn't know Mr. Premium ? Mas. Not at all. Sir Pet. Now then, Sir Oliver, you may have a better opportunity of satisfying your- self than by an old romancing tale of a poor relation go with my friend Moses and represent Mr. Premium, and then I'll answer for't you'll see your nephew in all his glory. Sir Oliv. Egad, I like this idea better than the other, and I may visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley. Sir Pet. True, so you may. Row. Well, this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage, to be sure however, Moses you understand Sir Peter and will be faithful Mos. You may depend upon me and this is near the time I was to have gone. Sir ()/:;. I'll accompany you as soon as you please, Moses but hold f have forgot one thing how the plague shall I be able to pass for a Jew? Mos. There's no need; the principal is Christian. Sir Oliv. Is he? I'm very sorry to hear it but then again, an't I rather too smartly dressed to look like a money-lender? Sir I'd. Not at all; 'twould not be out of character, if you went in your own carriage, would it, Moses ! Mos. Not in the least. Sir Oliv. Well but how must I talk? there's certainly 'some cant of usury and mode of treating that I ought to know. Sir Pet. Oh, there's not much to learn the great point as I take it is to be exorbi- tant enough in your demands, hey, Moses? Mos. Yes that's very great point. Sir Oliv. I'll answer for't I'll not be want- ing in that I'll ask him eight or ten per cent, on the loan at least. Mos. You'll be found out directly; if you ask him no more than that, you'll be dis- covered immediately. Sir Oliv. Hey! what the plague! how much then? Mos. stances That depends upon the circum- -if he appears not very anxious for the supply, you should require only forty or fifty per cent. but if you find him in great distress, and want the monies very bad, you may ask double. Sir Pet. A good, honest trade you're learn- ing, Sir Oliver Sir Oliv. Truly, I think so and not un- profitable Mos. Then, you know, you haven't the monies yourself, but are forced to borrow them for him of a friend. Sir Oliver. O, I borrow it of a friend, do I ? Mos. And your friend is an unconscioned dog but you can't help it. Sir Oliv. My friend's an unconscionable dog, is he? Mos. Yes and he himself hasn't the monies by him but is forced to sell stock at a great loss Sir Oliv. He is forced to sell stock, is he at a great loss, is he ? Well, that's very kind of him. Sir Pet. Efaith, Sir Oliver Mr. Premium I mean you'll soon be master of the trade 410 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT III, Sc. I. but, Moses would have him inquire if the borrower is a minor Mas. O yes Sir Pet. And in that case his conscience will direct him Mas. To have the bond in another name to be sure. Sir Oliv. Well well, I shall be perfect- Sir Pet. But, hearkee, wouldn't you have him also run out a little against the annuity bill? That would be in character I should think Mas. Very much. Row. And lament that a young man now must be at years of discretion before he is suffered to ruin himself ! Mas. Aye, great pity! Sir Pet. And abuse the public for allow- ing merit to an act whose only object is to snatch misfortune and imprudence from the rapacious relief of usury ! and give the minor a chance of inheriting his estate without being undone by coming into possession. Sir Oliv. So so Moses shall give me further instructions as we go together. Sir Pet. You will not have much time, for your nephew lives hard by Sir Oliv. Oh, never fear: my tutor ap- pears so able that tho' Charles lived in the next street, it must be my own fault if I am not a complete rogue before I turn the corner [Exeunt SIR OLIVER and MOSES. Sir Pet. So, now I think Sir Oliver will be convinced you shan't follow them, Row- ley. You are partial and would have pre- pared Charles for t'other plot. Row. No, upon my word, Sir Peter Sir Pet. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I'll hear what he has to say presently. I see Maria, and want to speak with her. [Exit ROWLEY.] I should be glad to be con- vinced my suspicions of Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust; I have never yet opened my mind on this subject to my friend Joseph. ... I am determined. I will do it he will give me his opinion sincerely. Enter MARIA. So, child, has Mr. Surface returned with you? Mar. No, sir, he was engaged. Sir Pet. Well, Maria, do you not reflect, the more you converse with that amiable young man, what return his partiality for you deserves ? Mar. Indeed, Sir Peter, your frequent im- portunity on this subject distresses me ex- tremely; you compel me to declare that I knew no man who has ever paid me a par- ticular attention whom I would not prefer to Mr. Surface. Sir Pet. Soh! Here's perverseness; no. no, Maria, 'tis Charles only whom you would prefer 'tis evident his vices and follies have won your heart. Mar. This is unkind, sir. You know I have obeyed you in neither seeing nor cor- responding with him I have heard enough to convince me that he is unworthy my re- gard. Yet I cannot think it culpable, if while my understanding severely condemns his vices, my heart suggests some pity for his distresses. Sir Pet. Well, well, pity him as much as you please, but give your heart and hand to a worthier object. Mar. Never to his brother! Sir Pet. Go perverse and obstinate! but take care, madam, you have never yet known what the authority of a guardian is don't compel me to inform you of it. Mar. I can only say, you shall not have just reason. 'Tis true, by my father'* will I am for a short period bound to regard you as his substitute, but I must cease to think you so when you would compel me to be miserable. [Exit. Sir Pet. Was ever man so crossed as I am, everything conspiring to fret me? I had not been involved in matrimony a fort- night, before her father, a hale and hearty man, died on purpose, I believe, for the pleasure of plaguing me with the care of his daughter . . . but here comes my helpmate! She appears in great good humor; how happy I should be if I could teaze her into loving me tho' but a little. Enter LADY TEAZLE. Lady Teas. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarrelling with Maria? it isn't using me well to be ill-humored when I am not by ! Sir Pet. Ah! Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make me good-humored at all times. Lady Teas. I am sure I wish I had for I want you to be in a charming sweet tem- per at this moment do be good-humored now and let me have two hundred pounds, will you? Sir Pet. I to be i Two hundred pounds! what, an't good humor without paying for it? But speak to me thus and efaith there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it but seal me a bond for the repayment. Lady Teas. O no there my note of hand will do as well. Sir Pet. And you shall no longer re- proach me with not giving you an independ- ent settlement I shall shortly surprise you and you'll not call me ungenerous. But shall we always live thus hey ? Lady Teas. If you please I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave off quarrelling provided you'll own you were tired first. Sir Pet. Well then let our future con- test be who shall be most obliging. 411 ACT III, Sc. II. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Lady Teas. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes you you look now as you did before we were married when you used to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant you were in your youth and chuck me under the chin, you would and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow who would deny me noth- ing didn't you ? -yes and you were as kind Sir Pet. Yea and attentive Lady Teas. Aye, so I was and would al- ways take your part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you and turn you into ridi- cule- Sir Pet. Indeed! Lady Teas. Aye and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish, old bachelor and laughed at me for thinking of marrying one who might be my father I have always defended you and said I didn't think you so ugly by any means, and that you'd make a very good sort of a husband Sir Pet. And you prophesied right and we shall certainly now be the happiest couple Lady Teas. And never differ again. Sir Pet. No, never tho' at the same time indeed my dear Lady Teazle you must watch your temper very narrowly for in all our little quarrels my dear if you recol- lect, my love, you always began first Lady Teas. I beg your pardon my dear Sir Peter indeed you always gave the prov- ocation. Sir Pet. Now see, my love, take care contradicting isn't the way to keep friends. Lady Teas. Then don't you begin it, my love! Sir Pet. There now you are going on you don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing the very thing, my love, which you know always makes me angry. Lady Teas. Nay you know if you will be angry without any reason my dear Sir Pet. There now you want to quarrel again. Lady Teas. No I am sure I don't but if you will be so peevish Sir Pet. There now who begins first? Lady Teas. Why, you, to be sure I said nothing but there's no bearing your temper. Sir Pet. No no my dear the fault's in your own temper. Lady Teas. Aye, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy is a forward impertinent gipsey Lady Teas. Go, you great bear how dare you abuse my relations? Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of mar- riage be doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any more Lady Teas. So much the better. Sir Pet. No no, madam, 'tis evident you never cared a pin for me I was a madman to marry you Lady Teas. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty only because he never could meet with any one who would have him. Sir Pet. Aye aye madam but you were pleased enough to listen to me you never had such an offer before Lady Teas. No didn't I refuse Sir Jeremy Terrier who everybody said would have been a better match for his estate is just as good as yours and he has broke his neck since we have been married! Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam ! You are an unfeeling ungrateful but there's an end of everything I believe you capable of anything that's bad; yes, madam I now believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam yes madam you and Charles are not without grounds Lady Teas. Take care, Sir Peter you had better not insinuate any such thing! I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise you Sir Pet. Very well madam very well! a separate maintenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce I'll make an ex- ample of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. Let us separate, madam. Lady Teas. Agreed agreed and now my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind again, we may be the happiest couple and never differ 1 again, you know ha! ha! Well, you are going to be in a passion I see and I shall only interrupt you so, bye! bye! hey young jockey tried and countered. [Exit. Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures! She pre- tends to keep her temper; can't I make her angry neither! O! I am the miserable fel- low! But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her temper No, she may break my heart- but she shan't keep her temper. [Exit. SCENE II At CHARLES'S House. Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER. Trip. Here, Master Moses if you'll stay a moment I'll try whether Mr. what's the gentleman's name? Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses what is my name Mas. Mr. Premium Trip. Premium very well. [Exit TRIP taking snuff. Sir Oliv. To judge by the servants one wouldn't believe the master was ruined but what sure this was my brother's house Mas. Yes, sir, Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph with the furniture, pictures, &c. just as the old gentleman left it Sir Peter 412 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT III, Sc. III. thought it a great piece of extravagance in him. Sir Oliv. In my mind the other's economy in selling it to him was more reprehensible by half. Enter TRIP. Trip. My master, Gentlemen, says you must wait, he has company, and can't speak with you yet. Sir Oliz'. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps he wouldn't have sent such a message. Trip. Yes yes sir he knows you are here I didn't forget little Premium no no Sir Oliv. Very well and pray, sir, what may be your name? Trip. Trip, sir my name is Trip, at your service. Sir Oliv. Well, then, Mr. Trip I presume your master is seldom without company Trip. Very seldom, sir the world says ill-natured things of him but 'tis all malice no man was ever better beloved; sir, he sel- dom sits down to dinner without a dozen particular friends Sir Oliv. He's very happy indeed you have a pleasant sort of place here, I guess ? Trip. Why, yes here are three or four of us pass our time agreeably enough but then our wages are sometimes a little in arrear and not very great either but fifty pounds a year and find our own bags and bouquets Sir Oliv. Bags and bouquets! Halters and bastinadoes ! [Aside. Trip. But a propos, Moses have you been able to get me that little bill discounted? Sir Oliv. Wants to raise money too! mercy on me! has his distresses, I warrant, like a lord and affects creditors and duns! [Aside. Mas. Twas not to be done, indeed Trip. Good lack you surprise me my friend Brush has indorsed it and I thought when he put his name at the back of a bill, 'twas as good as cash. Mas. No, 'twouldn't do. Trip. A small sum but twenty pound harkee, Moses, do you think you could get it me by way of annuity ? Sir Oliv. An annuity! ha! ha! a footman raise money by annuity! Well done, Luxury, egad! [Aside. Mas. Who would you get to join with you? Trip. You know my Lord Applice you have seen him however Mas. Yes Trip. You must have observed what an appearance he makes nobody dresses better, nobody throws off faster very well, gentleman will stand my security. this Mas. place. Trip. my place, and my life too, if you please. Well but you must insure your O with all my heart I'll insure Oliv. It's more than I would your But is there nothing you could de- Sir neck Mos. posit ? Trip. Why nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has dropped lately but I could give you a mortgage on some of his winter clothes with equity of redemption before November or you shall have the reversion of the French velvet, or a post obit on the blue and silver these I should think, Moses, with a few pair of point ruffles as a collateral security hey, my little fellow? Mos. Well, well we'll talk presently we detain the gentlemen Sir Oliv. O, pray, don't let me interrupt Mr. Trip's negotiation. Trip. Harkee I heard the bell I believe, gentlemen, I can now introduce you don't forget the annuity, little Moses. Sir Oliv. If the man be a shadow of his master, this is the Temple of Dissipation indeed ! [Exeunt'. SCENE III . CHARLES, CARELESS, ETC., ETC. At Table with Wine. Chas. 'Fore Heaven, 'tis true! there is the great degeneracy of the age many of our acquaintance have taste, spirit, and polite- ness- but plague on't, they won't drink. Care. It is so indeed, Charles; they give into all the substantial luxuries of the table and abstain from nothing but wine and wit. Oh, certainly society suffers by it intoler- ably, for now instead of the social spirit of raillery that used to mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy their conversation is be- come just like the Spa water they drink which has all the pertness and flatulence of champagne without its spirit or flavor. ist Gent. But what are they to do who love play better than wine? Care. True there's Harry diets himself, for gaming and is now under a hazard regi- men. Chas. Then he'll have the worst of it. What, you wouldn't train a horse for the course by keeping him from corn. For my part, egad, I am never so successful as when I'm a little merry let me throw on a bottle of champagne and I never lose at least I never feel my losses, which is exactly the same thing. 2d Gent. Aye, that may be but it is as impossible to follow wine and play as to unite love and politics. Chas. Pshaw! you may do both; Caesar made love and laws in a breath and was 413 ACT III, Sc. III. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL liked by the Senate as well as the ladies. But no man can pretend to be a believer in love, who is an abjurer of wine 'tis the test by which a lover knows his oprn heart. Fill a dozen bumpers to a dozen beauties, and she that floats atop is the maid that has be- witched you. Care. Now then, Charles be honest and give us yours Clias. Why, I have withheld her only in compassion to you if I toast her you should give a round of her peers, which is impos- sible! on earth! Care. O, then we'll find some canonized vestals or heathen goddesses that will do, I warrant Chas. Here, then bumpers you rogues- bumpers ! Maria Maria ist Gent. Maria who? (''.-..;. Oh, damn the surname; 'tis too formal to be registered in Love's calendar- but now, Careless, beware beware we must have Beauty's superlative. ist Gent. Nay, never study, Careless we'll stand to the toast tho' your mistress should want an eye and you know you have a song will excuse you. Care. Egad, so I have and I'll give him the song instead of the lady. SONG. AND CHORUS Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here's to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass. Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize; Now to the maid who has none, sir; Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow: Now to her that's as brown as a berry: Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast them together. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. [Enter TRIP, whispers CHARLES. zd Gent. Bravo, Careless There's toast and sentiment too. ist Gent. E'faith, there's infinite charity in that song. 414 Chas. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little. Careless, take the chair, will you? Care. Nay, prithee, Charles what now this is one of your peerless beauties, I sup- pose, has dropped in by chance? Chas. No, faith, to tell you the truth, 'tis a Jew and a broker who are come by ap- pointment. Care. O damn it, let's have the Jew in. ist Gent. Aye and the broker, too, by all means 2d Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker. Chas. Egad, with all my heart. Trip, bid the gentlemen walk in tho' there's one of them a stranger I can tell you Trip. What, sir, would you choose Mr. Premium to come up with ist Gent. Yes, yes, Mr. Premium, certainly. Care. To be sure, Mr. Premium, by all means, Charles; let us give them some gen- erous Burgundy, and perhaps they'll grow conscientious Chas. O, hang 'em, no; wine does but draw forth a man's natural qualities; and to make them drink would only be to whet their knavery. Enter TRIP, SIR OLIVER, and MOSES. Chas. So honest Moses, walk in, walk in, pray, Mr. Premium that's the gentleman's name, isn't it, Moses? Mas. Yes, sir. Chas. Set chairs, Trim. Sit down, Mr. Premium. Glasses, Trim. Sit down, Moses. Come, Mr. Premium, I'll give you a senti- ment. Here's success to usury! Moses fill the gentleman a bumper. Mas. Success to usury! Care. Right, Moses, usury is prudence and industry and deserves to succeed. Sir Oliv. Then, here is all the success it deserves ! [Drinks. Chas. Mr. Premium, you and I are but strangers yet but I hope we shall be better acquainted by and bye Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, hope we shall more intimately perhaps than you'll wish. [Aside. Care. No, no, that won't do ! Mr. Pre- mium, you have demurred at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper. ist Gent. A pint bumper, at least. Mas. Oh, pray, sir, consider Mr. Pre- mium's a gentleman. Care. And therefore loves good wine. sd Gent. Give Moses a quart glass this is mutiny, and a high contempt for the chair. Care. Here, now for't! I'll see justice done, to the last drop of my bottle. Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen, I did not expect this usage. Chas. No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Pre- mium's a stranger. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT III, Sc. III. Sir Oliv. Odd! I wish I was well out of their company. [Aside. Care. Plague on 'em then! if they won't drink, we'll not sit down with them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next room. Charles, you'll join us when you have finished your business with the gentlemen? Chas. I will! I will! [Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER and GENTLEMEN; CARELESS following.} Careless. Care. [Returning.} Well! Chas. Perhaps I may want you. Care. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or bond, 'tis all the same to me. [Exit. Mas. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentle- man of the strictest honor and secrecy; and always performs what he undertakes. Mr. Premium, this is Chas. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a very honest fellow, but a little slow at expression: he'll be an hour giving us our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is this: I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to borrow money; you I take to be a prudent old fellow, who have got money to lend. I am blockhead enough to give fifty per cent, sooner than not have it! and you, I presume, are rogue enough to take a hundred if you can get it. Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and may proceed to business without further cere- mony. Sir Oliv. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you are not a man of many com- pliments. Chas. Oh, no, sir ! plain dealing in business I always think best. Sir Oliv. Sir, I like you the better for it. However, you are mistaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believe I could procure some of a friend; but then he's an unconscionable dog. Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock to accommodate you. Mustn't he, Moses! Mas. Yes, indeed! You know I always speak the truth, and scorn to tell a lie! Chas. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But these are trifles, Mr. Pre- mium. What! I know money isn't to be bought without paying for't! Sir Oliv. Well, but what security could you give? You have no land, I suppose? Chas. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's in the bough-pots out of the win- dow! Sir Oliv. Nor any stock, I presume? Chas. Nothing but live stock and that's only a few pointers and ponies. But pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted at all with any of my connections ? Sir Olii'. Why, to say the truth, I am. , Chas. Then you must know that I have a devilish rich uncle in the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have the great- est expectations? Sir Oliv. That you have a wealthy uncle, I have heard; but how your expectations will turn out is more, I believe, than you can tell. Chas. Oh, no! there can be no doubt. They tell me I'm a prodigious favorite, and that he talks of leaving me everything. Sir Oliver. Indeed! this is the first I've heard of it. Chas. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 'tis true; don't you, Moses? Mos. Oh, yes! I'll swear to't. Sir Oliv. Egad, they'll persuade me pres- ently I'm at Bengal. [Aside. Chas. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life: though at the same time the old fellow has been so liberal to me, that I give you my word, I should be very sorry to hear that anything had happened to him. Sir Oliv. Not more than I should, I as- sure you. But the bond you mention hap- pens to be just the worst security you could offer me for I might live to a hundred and never see the principal. Chas. Oh, yes, you would! the moment Sir Oliver dies, you know, you would come on me for the money. Sir Oliv. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome dun you ever had in your life. Chas. What! I suppose you're afraid that Sir Oliver is too good a life? Sir Oliv. No, indeed I am not; though I have heard he is as hale and healthy as any man of his years in Christendom. Chas. There again, now, you are misin- formed. No, no, the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver. Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I'm told and is so much altered lately that his nearest relations would not know him. Sir Oliv. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much al- tered lately that his nearest relations would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! egad ha! ha! ha! Chas. Ha! ha! you're glad to hear that, little Premium? Sir Oliv. No, no, I'm not. Chas. Yes, yes, you are ha! ha! ha! you know that mends your chance. Sir Oliv. But I'm told Sir Oliver is coin- ing over; nay, some say he is actually ar- rived. Chas. Psha! sure I must know better than you whether he's come or not. No, no, rely on't he's at this moment at Calcutta. Isn't he, Mosei? Mos. Oh, yes, certainly. Sir Oliv. Very true, as you say, you must know better than I, though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven't I, Moses ? 415 ACT IV, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Mas. Yes, most undoubted! 5V OH-'. But, sir, as I understand you want a few hundreds immediately, is there nothing you could dispose of? Chas. How do you mean? Sir Oliv. For instance, now, I have heard that your father left behind him a great quantity of massy old plate. Chas. O Lud! that's gone long ago. Moses can tell you how better than I can. Sir (>//.-. [Aside.] Good lack! all the family race-cups and corporation-bowls! [Aloud.'] Then it was also supposed that his library was one of the most valuable and compact. Chas. Yes, yes, so it was vastly too much so for a private gentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative dis- position, so I thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to myself. Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Mercy upon me! learn- ing that had run in the family like an heir- loom! [Aloud.'] Pray, what has become of the books? Chas. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master Premium, for I don't believe even Moses can direct you. Mas. I know nothing of books. Sir Olir. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I suppose? Clnis. Not much, indeed; unless you have a mind to the family pictures. I have got a room full of ancestors above: and if you have a taste for old paintings, egad, you shall have 'em a bargain! Sir Oliv. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn't sell your forefathers, would you? Chas. Every man of them, to the best bidder. Sir Oliv. What! your great-uncles and aunts? Chas. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too. Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I give him up! [Aloud.] What the plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred? Odd's life! do you take me for Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of me on your own flesh and blood? Chas. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry: what need you care, if you have your money's worth? Sir Oliv. Well, I'll be the purchaser: I think I can dispose of the family canvas. [Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive him this! never! Re-enter CARELESS. Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you? Chas. I can't come yet. I'faith, we are going to have a sale above stairs; here's little Premium will buy all my ancestors! Care. Oh, burn your ancestors! Chas. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneer so come along with us. Care. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. I can handle a hammer as well as a dice box ! Going ! going ! Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates! [Aside. Chas. Come, Moses, you shall be ap- praiser, if we want one. Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem to like the busi- ness? Sir Oliv. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I think it a rare joke to sell one's family by auction ha! ha! [Aside.] Oh, the prodigal ! Chas. To be sure! when a man wants money, where the plague should he get assistance, if he can't make free with his own relations ? [Exeunt. Sir Oliv. I'll never forgive him; never! never ! ACT IV SCENE I A Picture Room in CHARLES SURFACE'S House. Enter CHARLES, SIR OLIVER, MOSES, and CARELESS. Chas. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; here they are, the family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest. Sir Oliv. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection. Chas. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of portrait-painting; no volontitre grace or expression. Not like the works of your modern Raphaels, who give you the stron- gest resemblance, yet contrive to make your portrait independent of you; so that you may sink the original and not hurt the picture. No, no; the merit of these is the inveterate likeness all stiff and awkward as the origi- nals, and like nothing in human nature be- sides. Sir Oliv. Ah! we shall never see such figures of men again. Chas. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what a domestic character I am; here I sit of an evening surrounded by my family. But come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old gouty chair of my grandfather's will answer the purpose. Care. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven't a hammer; and what's an auc- tioneer without his hammer? Chan. Egad, that's true. .What parch- ment have we here? Oh, our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.] Here, Careless, you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here's the family tree for you, you rogue! This shall be your hammer, and now you may 416 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT IV, Sc. I. knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree. Sir Oliv. What an unnatural rogue! an ex post facto parricide! [Aside. Care. Yes, yes, here's a list of your gen- eration indeed; faith, Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could have found for the business, for 'twill not only serve as a hammer, but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin A-going, a-going, a-going! Chas. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my great uncle, Sir Richard Ravelin, a marvel- lous good general in his day, I assure you. He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and got that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you, Mr. Premium? look at him there's a hero! not cut out of his feathers, as your modern clipped captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a general should be. What do you bid? Sir Oliv. [Aside to MOSES.] Bid him speak. Mas. Mr. Premium would have you speak. Chas. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds, and I'm sure that's not dear for a staff-officer. Sir Oliv. [Aside.'] Heaven deliver me! his famous uncle Richard for ten pounds ! [Aloud.} Very well, sir, I take him at that. Chas. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard. Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by Kneller, in his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable likeness. There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding her flock. You shall have her for five pounds ten the sheep are worth the money. Sir Oliv. [Aside.'] Ah! poor Deborah! a woman who set such a value on herself! [Aloud.] Five pounds ten she's mine. Chas. Knock down my aunt Deborah ! Here, now, are two that were a sort of cousins of theirs. You see, Moses, these pictures were done some time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their own hair. Sir Oliv. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a little lower in those days. Chas. Well, take that couple for the same. Mas. "Tis a good bargain. Chas. Careless! This, now, is a grand- father of my mother's, a learned judge, well known on the western circuit. What do you rate him at, Moses? Mas. Four guineas. Chas. Four guineas! Gad's life, you don't bid me the price of his wig. Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the woolsack; do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen. Sir Oliv. By all means. Care. Gone ! Chas. And there are two brothers of his, William and Walter Blunt, Esquires, both members of Parliament, and noted speakers; and, what's very extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they were ever bought or sold. Sir Oliv. That is very extraordinary, in- deed! I'll take them at your own price, for the honor of Parliament. Care. Well said, little Premium! I'll knock them down at forty. Chas. Here's a jolly fellow I don't know what relation, but he was mayor of Nor- wich: take him at eight pounds. Sir Oliv. No, no; six will do for the mayor. Chas. Come, make it guineas, and I'll throw you the two aldermen here into the bargain. Sir Oliv. They're mine. Chas. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. But, plague on't! we shall be all day retailing in this manner; do let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Pre- mium? Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump. Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way. Sir Oliv. Well, well, anything to accom- modate you; they are mine. But there is one portrait which you have always passed over. Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee? Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don't think him so ill-looking a little fel- low, by any means. Chas. What, that? Oh; that's my uncle Oliver. 'Twas done before he went to India. Care. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you'll never be friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as ever I saw; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disin- heriting countenance! an inveterate knave, depend on't. Don't you think so, little Pre- mium? Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not; I think it is as honest a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But I suppose uncle Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber? Chas. No, hang it ! I'll not part with poor Noll. The old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I'll keep his picture while I've a room to put it in. Sir Oliv. [Aside.'] The rogue's my nephew after a\\\ [Aloud.] But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture. Chas. I'm sorry for't, for you certainly will not have it. Oons, haven't you got enough of them? Sir Oliv. [Aside.] I forgive him every- thing! [Aloud.] But, sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value money. I'll give you as much for that as for all the rest. Chas. Don't tease me, master broker; I 417 ACT IV, Sc. II. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL tell you I'll not part with it, and there's an end of it. Sir Oik: [Aside.] How like his father the dog is. [Aloud.] Well, well, I have done. [Aside.] I did not perceive it before, but I think I never saw such a striking resem- blance. [Aloud.] Here is a draught for your sum. Chas. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds! Sir Oliv. You will not let Sir Oliver go? Chas. Zounds! no! I tell you, once more. Sir Oliv. Then never mind the difference, we'll balance that another time. But give me your hand on the bargain; you are an honest fellow, Charles I beg pardon, sir, for being so free. Come, Moses. Chas. Egad, this is a whimsical old fel- low! But hark'ee, Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen. Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in a day or two. Chas. But, hold; do now send a genteel conveyance for them, for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in their own carriages. Sir Oliv. I will, I will for all but Oliver. Chas. Ay, all but the little nabob. Sir Oliv. You're fixed on that? Chas. Peremptorily. Sir Oliv. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue! [Aloud.] Good day! Come, Moses. [Aside.] Let me hear now who dares call him profligate! [Exit with MOSES. Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met with! Clms. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I think. I wonder how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow. Ha! here's Rowley. Do, Careless, say I'll join the company in a few moments. Care. I will but don't let that old block- head persuade you to squander any of that money on old musty debts, or any such non- sense; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows. Chas. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging them. Care. Nothing else. Chas. Ay, ay, never fear. [Exit CARE- LESS.] So! this was an odd old fellow, in- deed. Let me see, two-thirds of these five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right. Fore Heaven! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relations than I took them for! Ladies and gentlemen, your most obe- dient and very grateful servant. [Bows ceremoniously to the pictures. Enter ROWLEY. Ha ! old Rowley ! egad, you are just come in time to take leave of your old acquaintance. Row. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you can have such spirits under so many distresses. Chas. Why, there's the point! my dis- tresses are so many, that I can't afford to part with my spirits; but I shall be rich and splenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose you are surprised that I am not more sorrowful at parting with so many near re- lations; to be sure, 'tis very affecting; but you see they never move a muscle, so why should I? Row. There's no making you serious a moment. Chas. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley, here, get me this changed di- rectly, and take a hundred pounds of it im- mediately to old Stanley. Row. A hundred pounds! Consider only Chas. Gad's life, don't talk about it! poor Stanley's wants are pressing, and, if you don't make haste, we shall have some one call that has a better right to the money. Row. Ah ! there's the point ! I never will cease dunning you with the old proverb Chas. Be just before you're generous. Why, so I would if I could; but Justice is an old hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to keep pace with Generosity, for the soul of me. Row. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflection Chas. Ay, ay, it's very true; but, hark'ee, Rowley, while I have, by Heaven I'll give; so, damn your economy! and now for hazard. [Exeunt. SCENE II lite Parlor. Enter SIR OLIVER and MOSES. Mas. Well sir, I think, as Sir Peter said, you have seen Mr. Charles in high glory 'tis great pity he's so extravagant. Sir Oliv. True but he would not sell my picture Mas. And loves wine and women so much Sir Oliv. But he wouldn't sell my picture. Mas. And game so deep Sir Oliv. But he wouldn't sell my picture. O, here's Rowley! Enter ROWLEY. Row. So, Sir Oliver. I find you have made a purchase Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has parted with his ancestors like old tapestry scld judges and generals by the foot, and maiden aunts as cheap as broken china. Row. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you part of the purchase-money 418 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT IV, Sc. III. I mean, though, in your necessitous char- acter of old Stanley .I/.'.?. Ah! there is the pity of all! He is so damned charitable. Row. And I left a hosier and two tailors in the hall, who, I'm sure, won't be paid, and this hundred would satisfy 'em. Sir Oliv. Well well I'll pay his debts and his benevolences too I'll take care of old Stanley myself. But now I am no more a broker, and you shall introduce me to the elder brother as Stanley Row. Not yet a while; Sir Peter, I know, means to call there about this time. Enter TRIP. Trip. O, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not showing you out this way; Moses, a word. [Exit TRIP with MOSES. Sir Oliv. There's a fellow for you! Would you believe it that puppy intercepted the Jew, on our coming, and wanted to raise money before he got to his master! Row. Indeed ! Sir Oliv. Yes; they are now planning an annuity business. Ah, Master Rowley, in my day servants were content with the fol- lies of their masters when they were worn a little threadbare, but now they have their vices like their birthday clothes with the gloss on. [Exeunt. SCENE III A Library. SURFACE and SERVANT. Surf. No letter from Lady Teazle? Serv. No, sir. Surf. I am surprised she hasn't sent if she is prevented from coming! Sir Peter cer- tainly does not suspect me, yet I wish I may not lose the heiress, through the scrape I have drawn myself in with the wife. How- ever, Charles's imprudence and bad char- acter are great points in my favor. Serv. Sir, I believe that must be Lady Teazle Surf. Hold! see whether it is or not be- fore you go to the door; I have a particular message for you if it should be my brother. Serv. 'Tis her ladyship, sir. She always leaves her chair at the milliner's in the next street. Surf. Stay, stay, draw that screen be- fore the window that will do; my opposite neighbor is a maiden lady of so curious a temper! [SERVANT draws the screen and exit.] I have a difficult hand to play in this affair; Lady Teazle has lately suspected my views on Maria, but she must by no means be let into that secret, at least till I have her more in my power. Enter LADY TEAZLE. Lady 1'eaz. What! sentiment in soliloquy; have you been very impatient now? O Lud! don't pretend to look grave I vow I couldn't come before. Surf. O madam, punctuality is a species of constancy, a very unfashionable quality in a lady. Lady Teas. Upon my word you ought to pity me; do you know Sir Peter is grown so ill-tempered to me of late; and so jeal- ous! of Charles, too; that's the best of the story, isn't it? Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends keep that up. [Aside. Lady Teas. I am sure I wish he would let Maria marry him, and then perhaps he would be convinced, don't you, Mr. Sur- face? Surf. Indeed I do not. [Aside.] O cer- tainly I do, for then my dear Lady Teazle would also be convinced how wrong her suspicions were of my having any design on the silly girl. Lady Teas. Well, well, I'm inclined to believe you; besides I really never could perceive why she should have so many admirers. Surf. O for her fortune nothing else. Lady Teas. I believe so, for tho' she is certainly very pretty, yet she has no con- versation in the world, and is so grave and reserved that I declare I think she'd have made an excellent wife for Sir Peter. Surf. So she would. Lady Teas. Then one never hears her speak ill of anybody which you know is mighty dull. Surf. Yet she doesn't want understanding. Lady Teas. No more she does yet one is always disappointed when one hears her speak. For though her eyes have no kind of meaning in them, she very seldom talks nonsense. Surf. Nay, nay, surely she has very fine eyes. Lady Teas. Why, so she has tho' some- times one fancies there's a little sort of a squint. Surf. A squint O fie Lady Teazle. Lady Teas. Yes, yes, I vow now come, there is a left-handed Cupid in one eye that's the truth on't. Surf. Well, his aim is very direct how- ever, but Lady Sneerwell has quite cor- rupted you. Lady Teas. No, indeed, I have not opin- ion enough of her to be taught by her, and I know that she has lately raised many scan- dalous hints of me ways hears from other. -which you know one al- one common friend 419 ACT IV, Sc. III. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Surf. Why, to say truth, I believe you are not more obliged to her than others of her acquaintance. Lady Teas. But isn't it provoking to hear the most ill-natured things said to one, and there's my friend Lady Sneerwell has cir- culated I don't know how many scandalous tales of me, and all without any foundation, too; that's what vexes me. Surf. Aye, madam, to be sure that is the provoking circumstance without foundation yes, yes there's the mortification indeed for when a slanderous story is believed against one, there certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it. Lady Teas. No, to be sure; then I'd for- give their malice but to attack me, who am really so innocent and who never say an ill-natured thing of anybody that is, of any friend ! and then Sir Peter too to have him so peevish and so suspicious when I know the integrity of my own heart indeed 'tis monstrous. Surf. But, my dear Lady Teazle, 'tis your own fault if you suffer it when a husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his wife and withdraws his confidence from her the original compact is broke and she owes it to the honor of her sex to endeavor to outwit him. Lady Teas. Indeed! So that if he sus- pects me without cause, it follows that the best way of curing his jealousy is to give him reason for't. Surf. Undoubtedly for your husband should never be deceived in you and in that case it becomes you to be frail in compliment to his discernment. Lady Teaz. To be sure what you say is very reasonable and when the conscious- ness of my own innocence Surf. Ah, my dear madam, there is the great mistake 'tis this very conscious innocence that is of the greatest prejudice to you. What is it makes you negligent of forms and careless of the world's opinion? why, the consciousness of your innocence what makes you thoughtless in your con- duct and apt to run into a thousand little imprudences? why, the consciousness of your innocence what makes you impatient of Sir Peter's temper, and outrageous at his suspicions ? why, the consciousness of your Lady Teaz. Tis very true. Surf. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, if you but once make a trifling faux pas, you can't conceive how cautious you would grow, and how ready to humor and agree with your husband. Lady Teas. Do you think so? Surf. O, I'm sure on't; and then you'd find all scandal would cease at once, for in short your character at present is like a person in a plethora, absolutely dying of too much health. Lady Teas. So so then I perceive your prescription is that I must sin in my own defence, and part with my virtue to preserve my reputation. Surf. Exactly so upon my credit, ma'am. Lady Teas. Well, certainly this is the odd- est doctrine and the newest receipt for avoiding calumny. Surf. An infallible one, believe me pru- dence like experience must be paid for. Lady Teas. Why, if my understanding were once convinced Surf. Oh, certainly madam, your under- standing should be convinced yes yes Heaven forbid I should persuade you to do anything you thought wrong no no I have too much honor to desire it. Lady Teas. Don't you think we may as well leave honor out of the argument? [Rises. Surf. Ah the ill effects of your country education I see still remain with you. Lady Teas. I doubt they do indeed and I will fairly own to you, that if I could be persuaded to do wrong it would be by Sir Peter's ill-usage sooner than your honor- able logic, after all. Surf. Then by this hand, which he is unworthy of Enter SERVANT. Sdeath, you blockhead, what do you want? Serv. I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought you wouldn't choose Sir Peter to come up without announcing him? Surf. Sir Peter Oons the devil! Lady Teas. Sir Peter! O Lud! I'm ruined! I'm ruined! Serv. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in. Lady Teaz. O, I'm undone ! what will be- come of me now, Mr. Logic? Oh! mercy, he's on the stairs I'll get behind here and if ever I'm so imprudent again [Goes behind the screen Surf. Give me that book! [Sits down SERVANT pretends to adjust his hair Enter SIR PETER. Sir Pet. Aye ever improving himself! Mr. Surface Surf. Oh! my dear Sir Peter I beg your pardon [Gaping and throws away the book.'] I have been dozing over a stupid book ! well I am much obliged to you for this call. You haven't been here, I believe, since I fitted up this room. Books you know are the only things I am a coxcomb in. Sir Pet. 'Tis very neat indeed; well, well, that's proper and you make even your 420 ACT IV, Sc. III. screen a source of knowledge hung I per- ceive with maps Surf. O yes I find great use in that screen. Sir Pet. I dare say you must; certainly, when you want to find out anything in a hurry. Surf. Aye or to hide anything in a hurry either. Sir Pet. Well, I have a little private business if we were alone Surf. You needn't stay. Serv. No, sir.' [Exit SERVANT. Surf. Here's a chair, Sir Peter, I beg Sif Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is a subject, my dear friend, on which I wish to unburthen my mind to you a point of the greatest moment to my peace in short, my good friend Lady Teazle's con- duct of late has made me very unhappy. Surf. Indeed, I'm very sorry to hear it. Sir Pet. Yes, 'tis but too plain she has not the least regard for me but what's worse, I have pretty good authority to sus- pect that she must have formed an attach- ment to another. Surf. Indeed! you astonish me. Sir Pet. Yes and between ourselves I think I have discovered the person. Surf. How you alarm me exceedingly! Sir Pet. Ah! my dear friend, I knew you would sympathize with me. Surf. Yes believe me, Sir Peter such a discovery would hurt me just as much as it would you Si > Pet. I am convinced of it; ah, it is a happiness to have a friend whom one can trust even with one's family secrets. But have you no guess who I mean? Surf. I haven't the most distant idea; it can't be Sir Benjamin Backbite. Sir Pet. O, no. What say you to Charles ? Surf. My brother impossible! O no, Sir Peter, you mustn't credit the scandalous in- sinuations you hear no, no; Charles to be sure has been charged with many things, but I can never think he would meditate so gross an injury. Sir Pet. Ah! my dear friend, the good- ness of your own heart misleads you you judge of others by yourself. Surf. Certainly, Sir Peter, the heart that is conscious of its own integrity is ever slowest to credit another's treachery. Sir Pet. True but your brother has no sentiment you never hear him talk so. Surf. Well, there certainly is no know- ing what men are capable of no there is no knowing yet I can't but think Lady Teazle herself has too much principle. .Sir Pet. Aye, but what's principle against the flattery of a handsome, lively young fellow? Surf. That's very true. Sir Pet. And then you know the differ- ence of our ages makes it very improbable that she should have any great affection for me and if she were to be frail and I were to make it public why, the town would only laugh at the foolish old bachelor, who had married a girl. Surf. That's true; to be sure people would laugh. Sir' Pet. Laugh aye, and make ballads and paragraphs and the devil knows what of me. Surf. No, you must never make it public. Sir Pet. But then again that the nephew of my old friend, Sir Oliver, should be the person to attempt such an injury hurts me more nearly. Surf. Undoubtedly; when Ingratitude barbs the dart of Injury, the wound has double danger in it. Sir Pet. Aye, I that was in a manner left his guardian in [whose] house he had been so often entertained who never in my life denied him my advice Surf. O, 'tis not to be credited. There may be a man capable of such baseness, to be sure but for my part till you can give me positive proofs you must excuse me withholding my belief. However, if this should be proved on him, he is no longer a brother of mine, I disclaim kindred with him for the man who can break thro* the laws of hospitality and attempt the wife of his friend deserves to be branded as the pest of society. Sir Pet. What a difference there is be- tween you ! what noble sentiments ! Surf. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honor. Sir Pet. I'm sure I wish to think well of her and to remove all ground of quarrel be- tween us. She has lately reproached me more than once with having made no settlement on her, and, in our last quarrel, she almost hinted that she should not break her heart if I was dead. Now as we seem to differ in our ideas of expense, I have resolved she shall be her own mistress in that respect for the future; and if I were to die, she shall find that I have not been inattentive to her interests while living. Here, my friend, are the draughts of two deeds which I wish to have your opinion on: by one she will enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live, and by the other the bulk of my for- tune after my death. .Surf. This conduct, Sir Peter, is indeed truly generous! I wish it may not corrupt my pupil. [Aside. Sir Pet. Yes, I am determined she shall have no cause to complain, tho' I would not 421 ACT IV, Sc. III. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL have her acquainted with the latter instance of my affection yet awhile. Surf. Nor I if I could help it. Sir Pet. And now, my dear friend, if you please, we will talk over the situation of your hopes with Maria. Surf. No, no, Sir Peter, another time if you please [softly.] Sir Pet. I am sensibly chagrined at the little progress you seem to make in her affection. Surf. I beg you will not mention it. What are my disappointments when your happiness is in debate [softly], 'Sdeath, I shall be ruined every way. Sir Pet. And tho' you are so averse to my acquainting Lady Teazle with your pas- sion, I am sure she's not your enemy in the affair. Surf. Pray, Sir Peter, now oblige me. I am really too much affected by the subject we have been speaking of to bestow a thought on my own concerns. The man who is entrusted with his friend's distresses can never Enter SERVANT. Well, sir? Serv. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a gentleman in the street, and says he knows you're within. Surf. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I'm not within, I'm out 'for the day. Sir Pet. Stay hold a thought has struck me; you shall be at home. Surf. Well well let him up. [Exit SERV.] He'll interrupt Sir Peter, however. [Aside. Sir Pet. Now, my good friend, oblige me I intreat you before Charles comes let me conceal myself somewhere then do you tax him on the point we have been talking on, and his answers may satisfy me at once. Surf. O, fie, Sir Peter, would you have me join in so mean a trick? to trepan my brother too? Sir Pet. Nay, you tell me you are sure he is innocent; if so, you do him the great- est service in giving him an opportunity to clear himself, and you will set my heart at rest. Come, you shall not refuse me here behind this screen will be hey ! what the devil there seems to be one listener here already; I'll swear I saw a petti- coat. Surf. Ha! ha! ha! Well, this is ridiculous enough I'll tell you, Sir Peter though I hold a man of intrigue to be a most des- picable character, yet you know it doesn't follow that a man is to be an absolute Joseph either; harkee, 'tis a little French milliner a silly rogue that plagues me and having some character, on your coming she ran behind the screen. Sir Pet. Ah, a rogue but 'egad she has overheard all I have been saying of my wife. Surf. O 'twill never go any farther, you may depend on't. Sir Pet. No! then, efaith, let her hear it out. Here's a closet will do as well. Surf. Well, go in there. Sir Pet. Sly rogue sly rogue. Surf. Gad's my life, what an escape! and a curious situation I'm in! to part man and wife in this manner. Lady Teas, [peeps out.] Couldn't I steal off? Surf. Keep close, my angel! Sir Pet. [Peeping out.] Joseph, tax him home. Surf. Back my dear friend. Lady Teas. [Peeping out.] Couldn't you lock Sir Peter in? Surf. Be still my life! Sir Pet. [Peeping.] You're sure the little milliner won't blab? Surf. In! in! my good Sir Peter 'For* Gad, I wish I had a key to the door. Enter CHARLES. Chas. Hollo! brother what has been the matter? your fellow wouldn't let me up at first What! have you had a Jew or a wench with you ? Surf. Neither, brother, I assure you. Chas. But what has made Sir Peter steal off? I thought he had been with you Surf. He was, brother, but hearing you were coming he didn't choose to stay. Chas. What! was the old gentleman afraid I wanted to borrow money of him? Surf. No, sir, but I am sorry to find, Charles, you have lately given that worthy man grounds for great uneasiness. Chas. Yes, they tell me I do that to a great many worthy men; but how so, pray? Surf. To be plain with you, brother, he thinks you are endeavoring to gain Lady Teazle's affections from him. Chas. Who, I? O Lud! not I upon my word. Ha! ha! ha! so the old fellow has found out that he has got a young wife, has he? or what's worse she has discovered that she has an old husband? Surf. This is no subject to jest on, brother. He who can laugh Chas. True, true, as you were going to say then seriously I never had the least idea of what you charge me with, upon my honor. Surf. Well, it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear this. Chas. [Aloud.] To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed to have taken a fancy but upon my soul I never gave her the least 422 ACT IV, Sc. III. encouragement. Besides you know my at- tachment to Maria Surf. But sure, brother, even if Lady Teazle had betrayed the fondest partiality for you Chas. Why look'ee, Joseph I hope I shall never deliberately do a dishonorable action but if a pretty woman was purposely to throw herself in my way and that pretty woman married to a man old enough to be her father Surf. Well ? Chas. Why I believe I should be obliged to borrow a little of your morality, that's all. But, brother, do yon know now that you surprise me exceedingly by naming me with Lady Teazle for faith I always under- stood you were her favorite Surf. O for shame! Charles. This retort is foolish. Chas. Nay, I swear I have seen you ex- change such significant glances Surf. Nay nay sir this is no jest Chas. Egad, I'm serious. Don't you re- member one day, when I called here? Surf. Nay prithee Charles Chas. And found you together Surf. Zounds, sir, I insist Chas. And another time when your serv- ant Surf. Brother, brother, a word with you Gad, I must stop him [Aside. Chas. Informed me that Surf. Hush! I beg your pardon, but Sir Peter has overheard all we have been say- ing; I knew you would clear yourself, or I shouldn't have consented Chas. How? Sir Peter? Where is he? Surf. Softly, there! [Points to the closet. Chas. In the closet! O 'fore Heaven, I'll have him out! Sir Peter, come forth! Surf. No no Chas. I say, Sir Peter come into court. [Pulls in SIR PETER.] What my old guard- ian what! turn inquisitor and take evi- dence incog. Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles; I believe I have suspected you wrongfully; but you mustn't be angry with Joseph 'twas my plan Chas. Indeed! Sir Pet. But I acquit you; I promise you I don't think near so ill of you as I did. What I have heard has given me great satisfaction. Chas. Egad, then 'twas lucky you didn't hear any more, wasn't it, Joseph? Sir Pet. Ah! you would have retorted on him. Chas. Aye aye that was a joke. Sir Pet. Yes, yes, I know his honor too well. Chas. Yet you might as well have sus- pected him as me in this matter, for all that, mightn't he, Joseph? Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you. Surf. Would they were both out of the room! Enter SERVANT, whispers SURFACE. Sir Pet. And in future perhaps we may not be such strangers. Surf. Gentlemen I beg pardon I must wait on you downstairs, here is a person come on particular business Chas. Well, you can see him in another room; Sir Peter and I haven't met a long time and I have something to say to him. Surf. They must not be left together. I'll send this man away and return directly [SURFACE goes out. Sir Pet. Ah, Charles, if you associated more with your brother, one might indeed hope for your reformation. He is a man of sentiment. Well! there is nothing in the world so noble as a man of sentiment! Chas. Pshaw! he is too moral by half, and so apprehensive of his good name, ::s he calls it, that I suppose he would as soon let a priest in his house as a girl. Sir Pet. No, no, come, come, you wrong him. No, no, Joseph is no rake but he is no such saint in that respect either. I have a great mind to tell him we should have such a laugh! Chas. Oh, hang him! He's a very an- chorite a young hermit. Sir Pet. Harkee, you must not abuse him, he may chance to hear of it again, I promise you. Chas. Why, you won't tell him? Sir Pet. No but this way. Egad, I'll tell him. Harkee, have you a mind to have a good laugh against Joseph? Chas. I should like it of all things. Sir Pet. Then, E'faith, we will I'll be quit with him for discovering me. He had a girl with him when I called. [Whispers. Chas. What! Joseph! you jest. Sir Pet. Hush! a little French milliner and the best of the jest is she's in the room now. Chas. The devil she is! Sir Pet. Hush! I tell you. [Points. Chas. Behind the screen! Odds life, let's unveil her ! Sir Pet. No no! he's coming you shan't indeed! Chas. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the little milliner ! Sir Pet. Not for the world Joseph will never forgive me. Chas. I.'ll stand by you Sir Pet. Odds life! Here he's coming [SURFACE enters just as CHARLES throws down the screen. 423 ACT V, Sc. I. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE. Clias. Lady Teazle! by all that's wonder- ful! Sir Pet. Lady Teazle! by all that's hor- rible! Chas. Sir Peter, this is one of the smart- est French milliners I ever saw! Egad, yon seem all to have been diverting yourselves here at hide and seek and I don't see who is out of the secret! Shall I beg your lady- ship to inform me? Not a word '.Brother ! will you please to explain this matter ? What ! is Honesty dumb too? Sir Peter, though I found you in the dark perhaps you are not so now all mute? Well tho' I can make nothing of the affair, I make no doubt but you perfectly understand one another, so I'll leave you to yourselves. [Going.'} Brother, I'm sorry to find you have given that worthy man grounds for so much un- easiness! Sir Peter there's nothing in the world so noble as a man of sentiment! [Stand for some time looking at one an- other. Exit CHARLES. Surf. Sir Peter notwithstanding I con- fess that appearances are against me, if you will afford me your patience, I make no doubt but I shall explain everything to your satisfaction. Sir Pet. If you please sir Surf. The fact is, sir that Lady Teazle knowing my pretensions to your ward Maria I say, sir, Lady Teazle being apprehen- sive of the jealousy of your temper and knowing my friendship to the family, she, sir I say called here in order that I might explain those pretensions but on your com- ing being apprehensive as I said, of your jealousy she withdrew and this, you may depend on't, is the whole truth of the mat- ter. Sir Pet. A very clear account upon my word and I dare swear the lady will vouch for every article of it. Lady Teaz. For not one word of it, Sir Peter- Sir Pet. How! don't you think it worth while to agree in the lie? Lady Teaz. There is not one syllable of truth in what that gentleman has told you. Sir Pet. I believe you upon my soul, ma'am Surf. 'Sdeath, madam, will you betray me ! [Aside. Lady Teaz. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by your leave I will speak for myself. Sir Pet. Aye, let her alone, sir you'll find she'll make out a better story than you without prompting. Lady Teaz. Hear me, Sir Peter. I came hither on no matter relating to your ward and even ignorant of this gentleman's pre- tensions to her but I came seduced by his insidious arguments and pretended pas- sion at least to listen to his dishonorable love if not to sacrifice your honor to his baseness. Sir Pet. Now, I believe, the truth is com- ing indeed. Surf. The woman's mad Lady Teaz. No, sir, she has recovered her senses. Your own arts have furnished her with the means. Sir Peter I do not expect you to credit me but the tenderness you expressed for me, when I am sure you could not think I was a witness to it, has pene- trated so to my heart that had I left the place without the shame of this discovery, my future life should have spoken the sin- cerity of my gratitude; as for that smooth- tongued hypocrite, who would have seduced the wife of his too credulous friend while he pretended honorable addresses to his ward, I behold him now in a light so truly despi- cable that I shall never again respect myself for- having listened to him. [Exit. Surf. Notwithstanding all this, Sir Peter Heaven knows Sir Pet. That you are a villain! and so I leave you to your conscience. Surf. You are too rash, Sir Peter you sliall hear me. The man who shuts out con- viction by refusing to [Exeunt, SURFACE following and speaking. ACT V SCENE I The Library. Enter SURFACE and SERVANT. Surf. Mr. Stanley! and why should you think I would see him? you must know he came to ask something! Serv. Sir, I shouldn't have let him in but that Mr. Rowley came to the door with him. Surf. Pshaw ! Blockhead to suppose that I should now be in a temper to receive visits from poor relations ! well, why don't you show the fellow up? Serv. I will, sir! why, sir, it was not my fault that Sir Peter discovered my lady Surf. Go, fool! [Exit SERV.] Sure For- tune never played a man of my policy such a trick before my character with Sir Peter! my hopes with Maria! destroyed in a mo- ment! I'm in a rare humor to listen to other people's distresses! I shan't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment on Stanley. So ! here he comes and Rowley with him I must try to recover myself, and put a little charity into my face however. [Exit. 424 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT V, Sc. I. Enter SIR OLIVER and ROWLEY. Sir Oliv. What! does he avoid us? that was he, was it not? Row. It was, sir, but I doubt you are come a little too abruptly his nerves are so weak that the sight of a poor relation may be too much for him I should have gone first to break you to him. Sir Oliv. A plague of his nerves! yet this is he whom Sir Peter extols as a man of the most benevolent way of thinking! Row. As to his way of thinking I can't pretend to decide, for, to do him justice, he appears to have as much speculative benevo- lence as any private gentleman in the king- dom though he is seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise of it. Sir Oliv. Yet he has a string of charitable sentiments, I suppose, at his fingers' ends! Row. Or rather at his tongue's end, Sir Oliver; for I believe there is no sentiment he has more faith in than that ' charity be- gins at home.' Sir Oliv. And his I presume is of that domestic sort which never stirs abroad at all. Row. I doubt you'll find it so but he's coming I mustn't seem to interrupt you and you know immediately, as you leave him, I come in to announce your arrival in your real character. Sir Oliv. True, and afterwards you'll meet me at Sir Peter's Row. Without losing a moment. [Exit. Sir Oliv. So I see he has premeditated a denial by the complaisance of his features. Enter SURFACE. Surf. Sir, I beg you ten thousand par- dons for keeping you a moment waiting Mr. Stanley I presume Sir Oliv. At your service. Surf. Sir, I beg you will do me the honor to sit down I entreat you, sir. Sir Oliv. Dear sir, there's no occasion- too civil by half! Surf. I have not the pleasure of know- ing you, Mr. Stanley, but I am extremely happy to see you look so well; you were nearly related to my mother, I think, Mr. Stanley. Sir Oliv. I was, sir, so nearly that my present poverty, I fear, may do discredit to her wealthy children, else I should not have presumed to trouble you. Surf. Dear sir, there needs no apology; he that is in distress, tho* a stranger, has a right to claim kindred with the wealthy. I am sure I wish I was of that class, and had it in my power to offer you even a small relief. Sir Oliv. If your uncle, Sir Oliver, were here, I should have a friend Surf. I wish he was, sir, with all my heart you should not want an advocate with him, believe me, sir. Sir Oliv. I should not need one my dis- tresses would recommend me. But I imagined his bounty had enabled you to be- come the agent of his charity. Surf. My dear sir, you are strangely misinformed. Sir Oliver is a worthy man, a worthy man a very worthy sort of man; but avarice, Mr. Stanley, is the vice of age I will tell you, my good sir, in confidence: what he has done for me has been a mere nothing; tho' people, I know, have thought otherwise, and for my part I never chose to contradict the report. Sir Oliv. What! has he never trans- mitted you bullion rupees pagodas? Surf. O dear sir, nothing of the kind! no, no a few presents now and then china, shawls, congo tea, avadavats, and Indian crackers, little more, believe me. Sir Oliv. Here's gratitude for twelve thousand pounds! avadavats and Indian crackers. Surf. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, I doubt not, of the extravagance of my brother. Sir, there are very few would credit what I have done for that unfortunate young man. Sir Oliv. Not I for one! Surf. The sums I have lent him! Indeed, I have been exceedingly to blame it was an amiable weakness! however, I don't pretend to defend it; and now I feel it doubly cul- pable, since it has deprived me of the power of serving you, Mr. Stanley, as my heart directs Sir Oliv. Dissembler! Then, sir, you cannot assist me? Surf. At present it grieves me to say I cannot but whenever I have the ability, you may depend upon hearing from me. Sir Oliv. 1 am extremely sorry Surf. Not more than I am, believe me; to pity without the power to relieve is still more painful than to ask and be denied. Sir Oliv. Kind sir, your most obedient, humble servant. Surf. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. Stanley; William, be ready to open the door. Sir Oliv. O, dear sir, no ceremony Surf. Your very obedient Sir Oliv. Your most obsequious Surf. You may depend on hearing from me whenever I can be of service Sir Oliv. Sweet sir, you are too good Surf. In the mean time I wish you health and spirits Sir Oliv. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble servant Surf. Sir, yours as sincerely 425 ACT V, Sc. II. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Sir Oliv. Charles! you are my heir. [Exit. SURFACE, solus. Sob! This is one bad effect of a good character it invites applications from the unfortunate and there needs no small degree of address to gain the reputation of benevo- lence without incurring the expense. The eilver ore of pure charity is an expensive ar- ticle in the catalogue of a man's good quali- ties, whereas the sentimental French plate I use instead of it makes just as good a show, and pays no tax. Enter ROWLEY. Row. Mr. Surface, your servant. I was apprehensive of interrupting you, though my business demands immediate attention, as this note will inform you. Surf. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley. How Oliver Surface ! My uncle arrived ! Row. He is indeed we have just parted quite well after a speedy voyage and im- patient to embrace his worthy nephew. Surf. I am astonished ! William ! stop Mr. Stanley, if he's not gone. Row. O he's out of reach, I believe. Surf. Why didn't you let me know this when you came in together. Row. I thought you had particular business; but I must be gone to inform your brother, and appoint him here to meet his uncle. He will be with you in a quarter of an hour. Surf. So he says. Well, I am strangely overjoyed at his coming never to be sure was anything so damned unlucky! Row. You will be delighted to see how well he looks. Surf. O, I'm rejoiced to hear it just at this time Row. I'll tell him how impatiently you expect him. Surf. Do do pray give my best duty and affection indeed, I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of seeing him! certainly his coming just at this time is the cruellest piece of ill fortune [Exeunt. SCENE II At SIR PETER'S House. Enter MRS. CANDOUR and SERVANT. Serv. Indeed, ma'am, my Lady will see nobody at present. Mrs. Can. Did you tell her it was her friend, Mrs. Candour? Serv. Yes, ma'am, but she begs you will excuse her. Mrs. Can. Do go again I shall be glad to see her if it be only for a moment, for I am sure she must be in great distress [Exit MAID] Dear heart, how provoking ! I'm not mistress of half the circumstances ! We shall have the whole affair in the newspapers with the names of the parties at length be- fore I have dropt the story at a dozen houses. Enter SIR BENJAMIN. Sir Benjamin, you have heard, I sup- pose Sir Ben. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Sur- face Mrs. Can. And Sir Peter's discovery Sir Ben. O the strangest piece of busi- ness to be sure Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised in my life! am so sorry for all parties indeed. Sir Ben. Now, I don't pity Sir Peter at all; he was so extravagant partial to Mr. Surface Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface! why, 'twas with Charles Lady Teazle was detected. Sir Ben. No such thing! Mr. Surface is the gallant. Mrs. Can. No, no, Charles is the man; 'twas Mr. Surface brought Sir Peter on pur- pose to discover them. Sir Ben. I tell you I have it from one Mrs. Can. And I have it from one Sir Ben. Who had it from one who had it Mrs. Can. From one immediately but here comes Lady Sneerwell perhaps she knows the whole affair. Enter LADY SNEERWELL; Lady Sneer. So, my dear Mrs. Candour, here's a sad affair of our friend Teazle. Mrs. Can. Aye, my dear friend, who could have thought it? Lady Sneer. Well, there is no trusting to appearances; though, indeed, she was al- ways too lively for me. Mrs. Can. To be sure, her manners were a little too free but she was very young Lady Sneer. And had indeed some good qualities. Mrs. Can. So she had indeed but have you heard the particulars? Lady Sneer. No, but everybody says that Mr. Surface Sir Ben. Aye, there I told you Mr. Sur- face was the man. Mrs. Can. No, no, indeed the assignation was with Charles Lady Sneer. With Charles! You alarm me, Mrs. Candour ! Mrs. Can. Yes, yes, he was the lover; Mr. Surface do him justice was only the informer. 426 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT V, Sc. II. Sir Ben. Well, I'll not dispute with you, Mrs. Candour but be it which it may, I hope that Sir Peter's wound will not Mrs. Can. Sir Peter's wound! O mercy! I didn't hear a word of their fighting Lady Sneer. Nor I a syllable! Sir Ben. No! what no mention of the duel? Mrs. Can. Not a word Sir Ben. O, Lord, yes, yes, they fought before they left the room. Lady Sneer. Pray, let us hear. Mrs. Can. Aye do oblige us with the duel Sir Ben. ' Sir,' says Sir Peter immedi- ately after the discovery, ' you are a most ungrateful fellow.' Mrs. Can. Aye to Charles Sir Ben. No, no to Mr. Surface ' a most ungrateful fellow; and old as I am, sir,' says he, ' I insist on immediate satisfaction.' Mrs. Can. Aye, that must have been to Charles, for 'tis very unlikely Mr. Surface should go to fight in his own house. Sir Ben. Gad's life, ma'am, not at all 4 giving me immediate satisfaction ' on this, madam Lady Teazle seeing Sir Peter in such danger ran out of the room in strong hysterics and Charles after her calling out for hartshorn and water! Then, madam, they began to fight with swords Enter CRABTREE. Crab. With pistols, nephew, I have it from undoubted authority. Mrs. Can. Oh, Mr. Crabtree, then it is all true Crab. Too true indeed, ma'am, and Sir Peter dangerously wounded Sir Ben. By a thrust in second quite through his left side. Crab. By a bullet lodged in the thorax Mrs. Can. Mercy on me! Poor Sir Peter Crab. Yes, ma'am, tho' Charles would have avoided the matter if he could Mrs. Can. I knew Charles was the per- son Sir Ben. O my uncle, I see, knows nothing of the matter Crab. But Sir Peter taxed him with the basest ingratitude Sir Ben. That I told you, you know Crab. Do, nephew, let me speak and in- sisted on immediate Sir Ben. Just as I said Crab. Odds life! Nephew, allow others to know something too A pair of pistols lay on the bureau for Mr. Surface, it seems, had come home the night before late from Salt-Hill where he had been to see the Montem with a friend, who has a son at Eton so unluckily the pistols were left charged Sir Ben. I heard nothing of this Crab. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one and they .fired it seems pretty nearly together Charles's shot took place as I tell you, and Sir Peter's missed but what is very extraordinary the ball struck against a little bronze Pliny that stood over the fire place grazed out of the window at a right angle and wounded the postman, who was just coming to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire. Sir Ben. My uncle's account is more cir cumstantial, I must confess, but I believe mine is the true one for all that. Lady Sneer. I am more interested in this affair than they imagine and must have better information. [Exit. Sir Ben. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very easily accounted for. Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say but that's neither here nor there. Mrs. Can. But pray, where is Sir Peter at present? Crab. Oh! they brought him home and he is now in the house, tho' the servants are ordered to deny it. Mrs. Can. I believe so and Lady Teazle, I suppose, attending him. Crab. Yes, yes, and I saw one of the Faculty enter just before me. Sir Ben. Hey, who comes here? Crab. Oh, this is he, the physician, de- pend on't. Mrs. Can. O certainly, it must be ihe physician, and now we shall know Enter SIR OLIVER. Crab. Well, Doctor, what hopes? Mrs. Can. Aye, Doctor, how's your pa- tient? Sir Ben. Now, Doctor, isn't it a wound with a small sword Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax for a hundred! Sir Oliv. Doctor! a wound with a small sword! and a bullet in the thorax! Oons! are you mad, good people? Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a doctor. Sir Oliv. Truly, sir, I am to thank you for my degree if I am. Crab. Only a friend of Sir Peter's, then, I presume; but, sir, you must have heard of this accident. Sir Oliv. Not a word! Crab. Not of his being dangerously wounded ? Sir Oliv. The devil he is! Sir Ben. Run thro* the body Crab. Shot in the breast Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface 427 ACT V, Sc. II. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Crab. Aye, the younger. Sir Olii: Hey ! what the plague ! you seem to differ strangely in your accounts; how- ever, you agree that Sir Peter is danger- ously wounded. Sir Ben. Oh yes, we agree in that. Crab. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt in that. Sir OH- 1 . Then, upon my word, for a person in that situation, he is the most imprudent man alive, for here he comes walking as if nothing at all was the matter. Enter SIR PETER. Odd's heart, Sir Peter! you are come in good time I promise you, for we had just given you over ! Sir Ben. 'Egad, uncle, this is the most sudden recovery! Sir OH-'. Why, man, what do you do out of bed with a small sword through your body, and a bullet lodged in your thorax? Sir Pet. A small sword and a bullet Sir Olii'. Aye, these gentlemen would have killed you without law or physic, and wanted to dub me a doctor to make me an accomplice. Sir Pet. Why! what is all this? Sir Ben. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the story of the duel is not true and are sin- cerely sorry for your other misfortune. Sir Pet. So, so, all over the town al- ready ! [Aside. Crab. Though, Sir Peter, you were cer- tainly vastly to blame to marry at all at your years. Sir Pet. Sir, what business is that of yours ? Mrs. Can. Though, indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a husband, he's very much to be pitied. Sir Pet. Plague on your pity, ma'am, I desire none of it. Sir Ben. However, Sir Peter, you must not mind the laughing and jests you will meet with on the occasion. Sir Pet. Sir, I desire to be master in my own house. Crab. 'Tis no uncommon case, that's one comfort. Sir Pet. I insist on being left to myself, without ceremony, I insist on your leaving my house directly ! Mrs. Can. Well, well, we are going and depend on't, we'll make the best report of you we can. Sir Pet. Leave my house! Crab. And tell how hardly you have been treated. Sir Pet. Leave my house Sir Ben. And how patiently you bear it. Sir Pet. Friends ! Vipers ! Furies ! Oh that their own venom would choke them! Sir Oliv. They are very provoking in- deed, Sir Peter. Enter ROWLEY. Row. I heard high words: what has ruf- fled you, Sir Peter? Sir Pet. Pshaw! what signifies asking- do I ever pass a day without my vexations? Sir Olir. Well, I'm not inquisitive I come only to tell you that I have seen both my nephews in the manner we proposed. Sir Pet. A precious couple they are ! Row. Yes, and Sir Oliver is convinced that your judgment was right, Sir Peter. Sir ('/'/:. Yes, I find Joseph is indeed the man after all. Row. Aye, as Sir Peter says, he's a man of sentiment. Sir O/tV. And acts up to the sentiments he professes. Row. It certainly is edification to hear him talk. Sir Oliv. Oh, he's a model for the young men of the age! But how's this, Sir Peter? you don't join us in your friend Joseph's praise as I expected. Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and the fewer we praise the better. Row. What do you say so, Sir Peter, who were never mistaken in your life? Sir Pet. Pshaw! Plague on you both I see by your sneering you have heard the whole affair I shall go mad among you! Row. Then to fret you no longer, Sir Peter, we are indeed acquainted with it all. I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr. Surface's so humbled that she deigned to request me to be her advocate with you. Sir Pet. And does Sir Oliver know all too? Sir Oliv. Every circumstance! Sir Pet. What of the closet and the screen hey ? Sir Oliv. Yes, yes and the little French milliner. Oh, I have been vastly diverted with the story! ha! ha! ha! Sir Pet. 'Twas very pleasant! Sir Olii'. I never laughed more in my life, I assure you; ha! ha! Sir Pet. O vastly diverting! Ha! ha! Row. To be sure, Joseph with his senti- ments! ha! ha! Sir Pet. Yes, his sentiments! ha! ha! a hypocritical villain ! Sir Olii'. Aye, and that rogue Charles to pull Sir Peter out of the closet, ha! ha! Sir Pet. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish enter- taining, to be sure. Sir Oliv. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter, I should like to have seen your face when the screen was thrown down ha ! ha ! Sir Pet. Yes, my face when the screen 428 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT V, SCENE LAST was thrown down: ha! ha! ha! O, I must never show my head again! Sir OH:'. But come, come, it isn't fair to laugh at you neither, my old friend, tho' upon my soul I can't help it Sir Pet. O pray, don't restrain your mirth on my account: it does not hurt me at all I laugh at the whole affair myself. Yes- yes I think being a standing jest for all one's acquaintance a very happy situation yes and then of a morning to read the paragraphs about Mr. S , Lady T , and Sir P , will be so entertaining!! shall certainly leave town tomorrow and never look mankind in the face again! Row. Without affectation, Sir Peter, you may despise the ridicule of fools. But I see Lady Teazle going towards the next room 1 am sure you must desire a reconciliation as earnestly as she does. Sir Oliv. Perhaps my being here prevents her coming to you; well, I'll leave honest Rowley to mediate between you; but he must bring you all presently to Mr. Surface's where I am now returning if not to reclaim a libertine, at least to expose hypocrisy. Sir Pet. Ah! I'll be present at your dis- covering yourself there with all my heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky place for dis- coveries. Sir Oliv. However, it is very convenient to the carrying on of my plot that you all live so near one another! {.Exit SIR OLIVER. Row. We'll follow Sir Pet. She is not coming here, you see, Rowley Row. No, but she has left the door of that room open you perceive. See she is in tears ! Sir Pet. She seems indeed to wish I should go to her. How dejected she ap- pears ! Row. And will you refrain from comfort- ing her? Sir Pet. Certainly, a little mortification appears very becoming in a wife. Don't you think it will do her good to let her pine a little? Row. O, this is ungenerous in you. Sir Pet. Well, I know not what to think. You remember, Rowley, the letter I found of hers evidently intended for Charles ? Row. A mere forgery, Sir Peter, laid in your way on purpose. This is one of the points which I intend Snake shall give you conviction on. Sir Pet. I wish I were once satisfied of that. She looks this way what a remark- ably elegant turn of the head she has! Rowley, I'll go to her. Row. Certainly Sir Pet. Tho' when it is known that we are reconciled, people will laugh at me ten times more ! Row. Let them laugh and retort their malice only by showing them you are happy in spite of it. Sir Pet. Efaith, so I will and if I'm not mistaken, we may yet be the happiest couple in the country. Row. Nay, Sir Peter, he who once lays aside suspicion Sir Pet. Hold, Master Rowley, if you have any regard for me, never let me hear you utter anything like a sentiment. I have had enough of them to serve me the rest of my life. [Exeunt. SCENE THE LAST The Library. SURFACE and LADY SNEERWELL. Lady Sneer. Impossible! will not Sir Peter immediately be reconciled to Charles? and of consequence no longer oppose his union with Maria? The thought is distrac- tion to me ! Surf. Can passion furnish a remedy? Lady Sneer. No, nor cunning either. O I was a fool, an idiot, to league with such a blunderer ! Surf. Surely, Lady Sneerwell, I am the greatest sufferer yet you see I bear the accident with calmness. Lady Sneer. Because the disappointment hasn't reached your heart; your interest only attached you to Maria; had you felt for her what I have for that ungrateful libertine, neither your temper nor hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of your vexation. Surf. But why should your reproaches fall on me for this disappointment? Lady Sneer. Are not you the cause of it? what had you to bate in your pursuit of Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the way? had you not a sufficient field for your roguery in blinding Sir Peter and supplanting your brother? I hate such an avarice of crimes; 'tis an unfair monopoly and never prospers. Surf. Well, I admit I have been to blame. I confess I deviated from the direct road of wrong, but I don't think we're so totally defeated neither. Lady Sneer. No! Surf. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since we met and that you still believe him faithful to us. Lady Sneer. I do believe so. Surf. And that he has undertaken, should it be necessary, to swear and prove that Charles is at this time contracted by vows and honor to your ladyship, which some of 429 ACT V, SCENE LAST THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL his former letters to you will serve to sup- port Lady Sneer. This, indeed, might have assisted Surf. Come, come, it is not too late yet; but hark! this is probably my uncle, Sir Oliver; retire to that room we'll consult further when he's gone. Lady Sneer. Well, but if lie should find you out too Surf. O, I have no fear of that Sir Peter will hold his tongue for his own credit sake and you may depend on't, I shall soon dis- cover Sir Oliver's weak side! Lady Sneer. I have no diffidence of your abilities only be constant to one roguery at a time. [Exit. Surf. I will, I will. So 'tis confounded hard after such bad fortune, to be baited by one's confederate in evil. Well, at all events my character is so much better than Charles's, that I certainly hey what ! this is not Sir Oliver but old Stanley again! Plague on't, that he should return to teaze me just now; I shall have Sir Oliver come and find him here and Enter SIR OLIVER. Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you come back to plague me at this time? you must not stay now upon my word! Sir Oliv. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is expected here, and tho' he has been so penurious to you, I'll try what he'll do for me. Surf. Sir! 'tis impossible for you to stay now; so I must beg come any other time and I promise you, you shall be assisted. Sir Oliv. No Sir Oliver and I must be acquainted Surf. Zounds, sir, then I insist on your quitting the room directly Sir Oliv. Nay, sir Surf. Sir, I insist on't. Here, William, show this gentleman out. Since you compel me, sir not one moment this is such in- solence. [Going to push him out. Enter CHARLES. Chas. Heyday! what's the matter now? what the devil have you got hold of my little broker here! Zounds, brother, don't hurt little Premium. What's the matter my little fellow? Surf. So! He has been with you, too, has he? Chas. To be sure he has! Why, 'tis as honest a little But sure, Joseph, you have not been borrowing money too, have you? Surf. Borrowing no ! But, brother, you know sure we expect Sir Oliver every Chas. O Gad, that's true Noll mustn't find the little broker here, to be sure Surf. Yet Mr. Stanley insists Chas. Stanley ! why ' his name's Pre- mium Surf. No, no, Stanley. Chas. No, no, Premium. Surf. Well, no matter which but Chas. Aye, aye, Stanley or Premium, 'tis the same thing as you say for I suppose he goes by half a hundred names, besides A. B's at the coffee-house. [Knock. Surf. 'Sdeath, here's Sir Oliver at the door. Now, I beg, Mr. Stanley Chas. Aye, aye, and I beg, Mr. Pre- mium Sir Oliv. Gentlemen Surf. Sir, by Heaven, you shall go ('/:,:... Aye, out with him certainly Sir Oliv. This violence Surf. Tis your own fault. Chas. Out with him, to be sure. [Both forcing SIR OLIVER out. Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY. Sir Pet. My old friend, Sir Oliver! hey! what in the name of wonder! Here are dutiful nephews! assault their uncle at his first visit! Lady Teas. Indeed, Sir Oliver, 'twas well we came in to rescue you. Row. Truly it was, for I perceive, Sir Oliver, the character of old Stanley was no protection to you. Sir Oliv. Nor of Premium either. The necessities of the former could not extort a shilling from that benevolent gentleman; and with the other I stood a chance of faring worse than my ancestors, and being knocked down without being bid for. Surf. Charles! Chas. Joseph ! Surf. Tis complete! Chas. Very ! Sir Oliv. Sir Peter, my friend, and Row- ley too look on that elder nephew of mine. You know what he has already received from my bounty and you know also how gladly I would have looked on half my fortune as held in trust for him. Judge then my dis- appointment in discovering him to be desti- tute of truth, charity, and gratitude. Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more sur- prised at this declaration, if I had not my- self found him to be selfish, treacherous, and hypocritical. Lady Teas. And if the gentleman pleads not guilty to these, pray let him call me to his character. Sir Pet. Then I believe we need add no more. If he knows himself, he will con- sider it as the most perfect punishment that he is known to the world. 430 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL ACT V, SCENE LAST Chas. If they talk this way to Honesty, what will they say to me by and bye? Sir Oliv. As for that prodigal, his brother there Chas. Aye, now conies my turn the damned family pictures will ruin me. Surf. Sir Oliver, uncle, will you honor me with a hearing? Chas. I wish Joseph now would make one of his long speeches and I might recol- lect myself a little. Sir Oliv. And I suppose you would under- take to vindicate yourself entirely Surf. I trust I could Sir Oliv. Nay, if you desert your roguery in its distress and try to be justified, you have even less principle than I thought you had. [To CHARLES SURFACE] Well, sir, and yon could justify yourself too, I suppose? Chas. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver. Sir Oliv. What! little Premium has been let too much into the secret, I presume. Chas. True, sir, but they were family secrets, and should not be mentioned again, you know. Row. Come, Sir Oliver, I know you can- not speak of Charles's follies with anger. Sir Oliv. Odd's heart, no more I can nor with gravity either. Sir Peter, do you know the rogue bargained with me for all his an- cestors sold me judges and generals by the foot, and maiden aunts as cheap as broken china! Chas. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free with the family canvas, that's the truth on't: my ancestors may certainly rise in judgment against me, there's no denying it; but believe me sincere when I tell you, and upon my soul I would not say so if I was not, that if I do not appear mor- tified at the exposure of my follies, it is be- cause I feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in seeing you, my liberal bene- factor. Sir Oliv. Charles I believe you give me your hand again: the ill-looking little fellow over the couch has made your peace. Chas. Then, sir, my gratitude to the original is still encreased. Lady Teaz. [Advancing.] Yet I believe, Sir Oliver, here is one whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to. Sir Oliv. O, I have heard of his attach- ment there and with the young lady's par- don, if I construe right that blush Sir Pet. Well, child, speak your senti- ments; you know, we are going to be recon- ciled to Charles. Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I shall rejoice to hear that he is happy. For me whatever claim I had to his affection, I willing resign to one who has a better title. Chas. How, Maria! Sir Pet. Heyday, what's the mystery now? while he appeared an incorrigible rake, you would give your hand to no one else, and now that he's likely to reform I'll warrant you won't have him! Mar. His own heart and Lady Sneer- well know the cause. Chas. Lady Sneerwell ! Surf. Brother, it is with great concern I am obliged to speak on this point, but my regard to justice obliges me and Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer be con- cealed [Goes to the door. Enter LADY SNEERWELL. Sir Pet. Soh! another French milliner, egad! He has one in every room in the house, I suppose Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles! Well may you be surprised and feel for the in- delicate situation which your perfidy has forced me into. Chas. Pray, uncle, is this another plot of yours? for as I have life, I don't under- stand it. Surf. I believe, sir, there is but the evi- dence of one person more necessary to make it extremely clear. Sir Pet. And that person, I imagine, is Mr. Snake. Rowley, you were perfectly right to bring him with us, and pray let him appear. Row. Walk in, Mr. Snake- Enter SNAKE. I thought his testimony might be wanted, however it happens unluckily that he comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and not to sup- port her. Lady Sneer. A villain! Treacherous to me at last! Speak, fellow, have you too conspired against me? Snake. I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons, you paid me extremely liberally for the lie in question but I unfortunately have been offered double to speak the truth. Lady Sneer. The torments of shame and disappointment on you all ! Lady Teas. Hold, Lady Sneerwell, before you go, let me thank you for the trouble you and that gentleman have taken in writing letters from me to Charles and answering them yourself and let me also request you to make my respects to the Scandalous Col- lege of which you are President and inform them that Lady Teazle, Licentiate, begs leave to return the diploma they granted her as she leaves off practice and kills char- acters no longer. Lady Sneer. Provoking insolent! may your husband live these fifty years! [Exit. Sir Pet. Oons, what a fury! Lady Teas. A malicious creature indeed! 431 EPILOGUE THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Sir Pet. Hey not for her last wish? Lady Teas. O, no Sir Oliv. Well, sir, and what have you to say now? Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell could be guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner to impose on us all that I know not what to say. However, lest her revengeful spirit should prompt her to injure my brother, I had certainly better follow her directly. [Exit. Sir Pet. Moral to the last drop! Sir Oliv. Aye, and marry her, Joseph, if you can. Oil and vinegar egad: you'll do very well together. Row. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at present. Snake. Before I go, I beg pardon once for all for whatever uneasiness I have been the humble instrument of causing to the parties present. Sir Pet. Well, well, you have made atone- ment by a good deed at last. Snake. But I must request of the com- pany that it shall never be known. Sir Pet. Hey! what the plague are you ashamed of having done a right thing once in your life? Snake. Ah, sir, consider I live by the badness of my character! I have nothing but my infamy to depend on! and, if it were once known that I had been betrayed into an honest action, I should lose every friend I have in the world. Sir Oliv. Well, well, we'll not traduce you by saying anything to your praise, never fear. [Exit SNAKE. Sir Pet. There's a precious rogue. Yet that fellow is a writer and a critic. Lady Teaz. See, Sir Oliver, there needs no persuasion now to reconcile your nephew and Maria. Sir Oliv. Aye, aye, that's as it should be, and egad, we'll have the wedding to-morrow morning Chas. Thank you, dear uncle! 5t> Pet. What! you rogue, don't you ask the girl's consent first? Chas. Oh, I have done that a long time above a minute ago and she has looked yes Mar. For shame, Charles! I protest, Sir Peter, there has not been a word- Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better may your love for each other never know abatement. Sir Pet. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle and I intend to do. Chas. Rowley, my old friend, I am sure you congratulate me and I suspect too that I owe you much. Sir Oliv. You do, indeed, Charles. Row. If my efforts to serve you had not succeeded, you would have been in my debt for the attempt; but deserve to be happy and you over-repay me. Sir Pet. Aye, honest Rowley always said you would reform. Chas. Why, as to reforming, Sir Peter, I'll make no promises and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about it. But here shall be my monitor, my gentle guide. Ah! can I leave the virtuous path those eyes illumine? Tho' thou, dear maid, should'st waive thy beauty's sway, Thou still must rule because I will obey: An humbled fugitive from folly view, Nr sanctuary near but love and you: You can indeed each anxious fear remove, For even scandal dies if you approve. [To the audience. EPILOGUE BY MR. COLMAN SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE. I, who was late so volatile and gay, Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way, Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows, To one dull rusty weathercock my spouse! So wills our virtuous bard the motley Bayes Of crying epilogues and laughing plays! Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives, Learn from our play to regulate your lives: Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her London will prove the very source of honor. Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves, When principles relax, to brace the nerves: Such is my case; and yet I must deplore That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er. And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife, Born with a genius for the highest life, Like me untimely blasted in her bloom, Like me condemned to such a dismal doom? Save money when I just knew how to waste it! Leave London just as I began to taste it! Must I then watch the early crowing cock, The melancholy ticking of a clock; In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded, With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded ? With humble curate can I now retire, (While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,) And at backgammon mortify my soul, 432 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL EPILOGUE That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole? Seven's the main! Dear sound that must expire, Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire; The transient hour of fashion too soon spent, Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Farewell the plumed head, the cushioned tete, That takes the cushion from its proper seat! That spirit-stirring drum! card drums I mean, Spadille odd trick pam basto king and queen ! And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat, The welcome visitors' approach denote; Farewell all quality of high renown, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town! Farewell! your revels I partake no more, And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er! All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said 'twas clear, I ought to play deep tragedy next year. Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play, And in these solemn periods stalk'd away: " Blessed were the fair like you; her faults who stopped, And closed her follies when the curtain dropped ! No more in vice or error to engage, Or play the fool at large on life's great stage." 433 NOTES THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA P. 10. Mrs. Ellen Gwyn. Nell Gwyn, who so captivated Charles II by her delivery of the Epilogue to Tyrannic Love that he immediately made her his mistress. She bore him a son on May 8, 1670, shortly before she acted the part of the virtuous Almahide in The Conquest of Granada. t'other house's. The two theatrical companies were the King's at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, where The Conquest of Granada was acted, and the Duke's at the Dorset Garden Theatre. Nokes was a comedian in the latter company, and it is said that during the visit of the Duchess of Orleans and her suite to England in May, 1670, he caricatured French dress by means of a broad-brimmed hat. two the best comedians. Nokes and Nell Gwyn, who, as actors of such comic parts, are mere " blocks " for hats. P. ii. To like. As to like. The flying skirmish of the darted cane. A game in which horsemen gal- loping from all sides throw at one another a wooden javelin about five feet long, called the jerid. P. 12. launched. Pierced. attend. Await, as often. mirador. A turret or belvedere on the top of a Spanish house. escapade. A fit of plunging and rearing. ventanna. A window. prevents. Anticipate, as often. atabals. Kettle-drums. P. 13. ought. Owed. villain-blood. Low origin. P. 14. Xeriff. The still reigning royal family of Morocco. P. 15. precarious. Supplicating. P. 16. sambra. A Moorish festival or feast, attended with dancing and music. Here it is the dance alone. lost the tale, and took 'em by the great. Lost count and treated them as a whole. bands. Bonds. P. 17. our triumphs. Triumphs over us. P. 19. while. Noyes suggests " till " as an emendation to meet the sense. P. 21. upon liking. On approval or trial. P. 24. " The quotation marks in the quartos and folio before these lines [near the top of first column] are evidently meant to emphasize them, or to point them out as suitable for quotation." (Noyes.) P. 26. Age sets to fortune. Age gives a challenge to fortune, that is, will play only when it has a fortune on which it can risk the game, while youth will risk all, no matter what it has. expect. Await. P. 31. out. Without, outside. Cf. Timon of Athens, IV, i, 38, "Both within and out that wall." 435 NOTES equal. Impartial. P. 32. benefit. Gift, favor. P. 33- retrenchment. An inner line of defence within a large fortification. P. 35- deludes. Eludes. P. 36. still. Always, as often. hardly. With difficulty. your sight. The sight of you. on another's hand. For another's advantage. (Saintsbury.) still. Continually. P. 38. this 'year's delay. Elapsed since the production of Tyrannic Love, Dryden's last play. Nell Gwyn was one of the women who were away for the reason indicated in the note to the Prologue. ALL FOR LOVE P. 43. bate. Abate. Tonies. Fools, simpletons. Hectors. Ruffians, later called " Scowerers " and "Mohocks." (See New English Dictionary.) P. 44. rivelled. Wrinkled, shrivelled. phocce. Seals. sea-horses. Hippopotami. P. 45. can. " The absolute use of can is probably an affectation of archaism on Dryden's part." (Noyes.) O, she dotes, etc. A reminiscence of Midsummer Night's Dream, I, i, 108-110. P. 46. eagerly. Keenly, impatiently. influence. " Flowing from stars of ethereal fluid, affecting character and destiny of man." (N. E. D.) Frequent in Shakspere. vulgar fate. " If this be the phonetic spelling of fete, it is a far earlier example than any given in the New English Dictionary." (Furness, Antony and Cleopatra.) "Enter a second Gentleman of M. Antony." Noyes' reading for "Re- enter the Gentleman of M. Antony." It is justified " by the following speech headings and by the fact that the Gentleman mentioned [a hundred lines above] has never left the stage." P. 47. I'm now turned wild, etc. This passage is suggested by As You Like It, II, i, 29-57. (See Introduction.) Art thou Ventidius? The distinction between " thou " and " you " seems to be preserved here as in Shakspere. See elsewhere in the play. P. 48. marches. Boundaries, frontiers. used. Accustomed. P. 49. O that thou wert my equal! Antony's standard of honor, like that prevailing in the " heroic " plays, is made to accord with the sentiment of Dryden's own time. P. 50. May taste fate to them. " May act as their tasters in fortune." A reference to the officer who guarded the great from poison by tasting all dishes at a feast. The riming close of the act recalls the tags of scenes in Shakspere's plays. P. 51. fearful. " Timid," as often in Shakspere. close. Secret. The fable of the wren, who mounted to heaven concealed in the eagle's feathers and thus outstripped the king of birds in his flight, had already been used by Dryden in 2 Conquest of Granada, V, ii, 126. The story is 436 NOTES told by Alexander Neckham, De Naturis Rcrum (122), at the end of the twelfth century, a century before Rabbi Baradji Nikdani's version of The Tale, cited by Noyes. Grimm includes the fable in his collection. P. 55. / have refused a kingdom. Noyes contrasts Cleopatra's loyalty to Antony here with the faithlessness of Shakspere's Queen (Antony and Cleopatra, III, xiii, 73-78.) P. 56. Phlegrcean plains. The place that was fabled to have witnessed the conflict between the gods and the earth-born Titans. like Vulcan. A reference to the snaring of Venus and Mars by Vulcan. (Odyssey, VIII, 266-366.) There's no satiety, etc. This is obviously suggested by Antony and Cle- opatra, II, ii, 240. my father Hercules. This allusion to the supposed ancestor of the An- tonies is drawn not from Shakspere, but directly from Plutarch. P. 57. so one. So in accord. Her galley down the silver Cydnos, etc. Scott's preference for Dryden's description of Cleopatra's barge over Shakspere's more famous picture (An- tony and Cleopatra, II, ii, 196-223) is " founded upon the easy flow of the verse . . . and the beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowing without diffusiveness and rapturous without hyperbole." This opinion is not shared by recent editors. P. 59. confess a man. Admit yourself a man. mistakes. Mis judgments. P. 61. want. Lack. P. 62. Porc'pisce. Porpoise. Editors suggest that Alexis, like the por- poise, messenger of tempests, is fat and probably black. P. 63. puts out. Brings to surface. Callus. This great general was pitted by Octavius against Antony in Egypt. His passion for Lycoris (Cytheris) which inspired his elegies, now lost, is the subject of Vergil's tenth eclogue. Ovid speaks of Delia's poet, the far greater Tibullus, as the successor of Gallus and his companion in the Elysian fields. P. 64. Commerce. Stressed as in Shakspere on the second syllable until early in the eighteenth century. P. 65. prove. Test. So p. 70. every man's Cleopatra. An obvious reminiscence of Much Ado, III, ii, 108, " Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero." See Fielding's Tom Thumb, II, x, 13-15, p. 310. P. 68. secure of injured faith. " Safe from any breach of confidence." (Noyes.) P. 70. Egypt has been. Cf. JEneid, II, 325, " Fuit Ilium." in few. In brief. This needed not. " This was not necessary." P. 74. / played booty with my life. " To play booty is ' to allow one's adversary to win at cards at first, in order to induce him to continue playing and victimize him afterwards' (Webster's International Dictionary}. An- tony's meaning is that Caesar will suspect him of a sham attempt at suicide, in order to win compassion from the conqueror." (Noyes.) P. 76. Mr. Bayes. Here Dryden refers to the name given him by Buck- ingham in The Rehearsal. See the use of the name in the Epilogues of She Stoops to Conquer and The School for Scandal. writ of ease. A certificate of discharge from employment. (N. E. D.) 437 NOTES VENICE PRESERVED P. 81. Venice Preserved has yet another prologue, written by Dryden, and another epilogue by Otway, both " spoken upon his Royal Highness the Duke of York's coming to the Theatre, Friday, April 21, 1682." These are printed in the Appendix to the " Temple " and to the " Belles Lettres " editions of the play. witnesses. Titus Gates and other informers against the accused in the " Popish Plot." P. 82. Here is a traitor too that's very old. Though the application has been overlooked by all editors, this is an obvious reference to William Howard, Viscount Stafford, who, accused of participation in the " Popish Plot," was tried by his peers in December, 1680, found guilty and executed. The sentence " to be hanged and quartered " was remitted by the King in spite of much vindictive opposition to this clemency. Mother Creswold's. Mother Creswell, a white-slaver of the time like the Chaffinches in " Peveril of the Peak." Oh Poland, Poland, etc. An obvious reference to the designs of the Earl of Shaftesbury upon the crown of Poland. P. 83. practised. Plotted. Priuli's speech recalls Brabantio's words to Othello (I, ii, 62), "O thou foul thief, where hast thou stowed my daughter? " The Adriatic wedded, etc. Otway had found in his source this reference to the Venetian ceremony of Ascension Day : " Jaffier had the curiosity to witness the ceremony of the Doge espousing the sea." " We wed thee, O Sea, as token of a true and lasting dominion " was the formula, accom- panied by the casting of a gold ring into the depths. See below. still. Constantly, always, as in Shakspere. P. 84. weeds. Garments, dress, as in " widow's weeds." P. 85. that filthy cuckoo. The cuckoo's habit of depositing its eggs in the nest of some other bird, which is ultimately destroyed by its nestling, has been the theme of writers from Aristotle to Chaucer and Shakspere. See The Way of the World, Prologue, 8-9. Hirco. From Latin, hircus, a goat. privilege. Doubtless the special right or immunity of Antonio as a senator (i.e., of Anthony Ashley Cooper as a peer). public good. Commonwealth. See three lines below, common good. massy. Massive. P. 87. suage. Assuage, soothe. P. 88. out-act. Excel, outdo. hearse. Coffin, bier. The Ephesian matron. This story of the widow who mutilates her dead husband for the love of a knight is " perhaps the most popular of all stories " (Joseph Jacobs). Upon its earliest version, that of Petronius, Chapman founded his Widow's Tears. It was well known to the Middle Ages in a variant appearing in The Seven Sages of Rome. keep up. Shut up. fisk. Frisk, scamper about. mumping. Grimacing, chattering. P. 89. aches. A dissyllable, as in Shakspere. green-sickness girls. Young girls morbid with love. P. 90. dull. Slow in action. sea-coal. Usually explained as " coal brought to London by sea." " Pos- 438 NOTES sibly in early times, the chief source of coal supply may have been the beds exposed by marine denudation on the coasts of Northumberland and South Wales" (N. E. >.). P. 93. rump. Romp, frolic. P. 94. sixty-one years. Antonio's age, as well as his name, is made to conform to that of the Earl of Shaftesbury. P. 95. censurest. Judgest. P. 96. Cato's daughter. The story of " Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia " (Merchant of Venice, I, i, 166), was as popular among the Elizabethans (cf. Julius Casar) as that of Lucrece and Tarquin (cited earlier in this scene). bone. Boon, boon companion. P. 98. foil. Track of a hunted animal. caudles. Warm drinks sweetened and spiced. watering at. Longing for, lusting after. towzed. Tousle, pull about, handle roughly. monster. Beast with horns, cuckold. mortifying. Practising self-denial, ascetic. A common Shaksperean use of the word. P. 99. battalia. Body of men in battle array. P. 108. gall. Early quartos read, call. P. no. Hey then, up go we. The refrain of many songs of the period. P. 114. baited. Worried, tormented. P. 115. smuggle. Snuggle, fondle. P. 116. Rose Alley cudgel-ambuscade. A reference to the cowardly attack upon Dryden, at the end of 1679, by the hired ruffians of the Earl of Rochester, who was also Otway's enemy. picture-mangier at Guild-hall. The rascal that cut the Duke of York's picture. THE WAY OF THE WORLD P. 122. Audire est. . . It is worth your while, ye that do not wish well to adulterers, to hear how they are hampered on all sides. metuat. . . The woman fears for her dowry, if she should be caught. In her own nest . . . The cuckoo lays her eggs in the nest of another bird, which hatches them out. Cf. Venice Preserved, I, i, p. 85. buttered still... Always flattered lavishly. P. 124. vapors. Depression, hypochondria. one man of the community. Made up of Witwoud and Petulant. ratafia. A cordial or liqueur flavored with certain fruits or their kernels, usually almonds or peach-, apricot-, and cherry-kernels. (N. E. D.) continued in the state of nature. Proceeded naturally. the last canonical hour. The canonical hours were certain times of the day appointed by the canons for prayer and devotion. (N. E. D.) tedious. Slow. Pancras. The Church of St. Pancras in the Fields. Duke's-place. St. James's Church, Duke's Place, Aldgate, where Fleet marriages were performed. P. 125. Dame Partlet. The proper name of a hen, so used in Chaucer's Nonne Preestes Tale. Rosamond's Pond. Situated in the southwest corner of St. James's Park and famous as a lovers' meeting-place. the monster in The Tempest. Caliban. 439 NOTES P. 126. commonplace of comparisons. A commonplace book or collection of comparisons for use in conversation. P. 127. cinnamon-water. A drink composed of sugar, water, and spirit flavored with cinnamon. (Archer.) Roxolanas. Roxolana is the queen of Solyman the Magnificent in D'Avenant's Siege of Rhodes, P. 128. pearl of orient. A pearl from the Indian seas of greater beauty .than that found in European waters. a quaker hates a parrot. Because the parrot is so talkative. (Archer.) a fishmonger hates a hard frost. Because the cold makes his work very unpleasant. the Mall. Once part of St. James's Park, now Pall Mall. P. 129. Pcnthesilea. Queen of the Amazons. P. 131. you have a mask. Masks were as generally worn at this time as veils are to-day. Mosca in The Fox . . . Mosca in Jonson's Volpone made what terms he pleased with his dupes by declaring each of them to be the sole heir of Volpone, who was falsely represented as on the point of death. P. 132. with her fan spread. A play on fan, meaning wing, sail. tift and tift. To tiff is to dress, deck out, trick out (one's person, hair, etc.). crips. Crisp, curly. P. 134. Mopus. A dull, stupid person. Spanish paper. A cosmetic. bit of nutmeg in your pocket. Cf. Swift, Polite Conversation, 97: "If you carry a nutmeg in your pocket, you'll certainly be marry'd to an old man." (Quoted in N. E. D.) P. 135. Maritornes. A chambermaid with whom Don Quixote is in love. Quarles and Prynne. Francis Quarles (1592-1644), a sacred poet, whose most famous work is Divine Emblems. William Prynne (1600-1669), a Puritan lawyer, whose Histriomastix, a huge work of eleven hundred pages, was a violent attack upon the stage. The Short View of the Stage. Jeremy Collier (1650-1726) in 1698 severely arraigned the stage in his Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage. Robin from Locket's. A drawer or waiter from Locket's Ordinary, a well- known tavern. Long-lane. From West Smithfield to Barbican ; it was given over to the sale of second-hand clothes. P. 136. the million lottery. A lottery with a million pounds in prizes. the whole court upon a birthday. Because of the presents given a royal personage upon his birthday. Ludgate. A prison for debtors of the better class. It was in. the precinct of Blackfriars. has a month's mind. Has an inclination or liking, in this case to Mirabell. passe-partout. A master-key. P. 137. the day of projection. Projection in alchemy was the casting of the powder of philosopher's stone upon a metal in fusion to effect its transmuta- tion into gold or silver. (N. E. D.} drop de Berri. A kind of woollen cloth coming from Berry in France. (N. E. D.) .Kkenish -wine tea. Taken to reduce flesh. (Archer.) burnishes. Increases in breadth. P. 138. the ordinary's paid for setting the psalm. The ordinary was the 440 NOTES chaplain of Newgate prison, whose duty it was to prepare condemned pris- oners for death. (N. E. D.) See The Beggar's Opera, p. 279. P. 139. Bartlemew and his fair. In August every year from 1133 to 1855 a fair was held at West Smithfield at which all kinds of wares were sold and shows exhibited. See Ben Jonson's account of this in his Bartholomew Fair. smoke. Make fun of. by the Wrekin. A solitary hill near Shrewsbury. Cf. Farquhar's address " To all friends round the Wrekin " prefixed to his Recruiting Officer. flap-dragon. From signifying a play in which a raisin burning in brandy is caught in the mouth and then eaten, the word comes to mean a raisin thus caught and eaten, till at last it denotes anything worthless, as here. a hare's scut. A hare's short, erect tail, hence anything worthless. P. 140. Salop. Shropshire, of which the county seat is Shrewsbury. a call of sergeants. When a sergeant-at-law or lawyer was called to the bar. out of your time. While you were still indentured to an attorney. (Archer.) Furnival's Inn. In Holborn, one of the inns of Chancery, attached to Lincoln's Inn. Dawks's Letter. The news-letter founded by Ichabod Dawks in 1696. Weekly Bill. The Weekly Bills of Mortality for London, issued from 1538 until 1837, ar e mentioned by Farquhar, The Beaux' Stratagem, II, i (this edition, p. 167). to choose. By choice, in preference. P. 141. deputy-lieutenant's hall. Because decorated with antlers. cap of maintenance. A kind of cap, with two points like horns behind, borne in the arms of certain families ... is described by heralds as a " cap of maintenance." (N. E. D.) The word " maintenance " is to be taken in its usual meaning, since Mrs. Marwood says that his horns (the sign of the cuckold) may maintain him if he can endure ("away with") his wife. set his hand in. Enter him in the game. P. 142. pulvilled. Perfumed with powder. " There never yet. . ." From " Poems on Several Occasions," p. 20, ed. 1719, of Suckling's 'Works. Sir John Suckling (1609-1642) was a lyric and dramatic poet. " Thyrsis, a youth . . ." From Waller's The Story of Phccbus and Daphne Applied. Edmund Waller (1606-1687) was a lyric poet. "/ prithee spare me..." These and the following verses are also from Suckling's " Poems on Several Occasions," p. 24. P. 143. all a case. All one. "Like Phccbus sung..." From Waller's poem mentioned above. instant. Urgent. douceurs, ye sommeils du matin. Sweetnesses, ye morning naps. (Archer.) P. 144. Barbadoes zvaters. A cordial flavored with orange- and lemon-peel. (.V. E. D.) clary. A sweet liquor consisting of a mixture of wine, clarified honey, and various spices, as pepper and ginger. (N. E. D.) P. 145. unsized camlet. A kind of stuff originally made of silk and camel's hair. (Johnson.) Hence very soft and delicate stuff. "Unsized" means without size or stiffening. noli prosequi. Notice of unwillingness to prosecute. Lacedemonian. One who speaks with laconic brevity. Baldwin. The name of the ass in the mediaeval story of Reynard the Fox. 441 NOTES Gemini. The twin stars, Castor and Pollux ; hence loosely used for a pair. Borachio. The Spanish word borachio means a leather wine bottle ; hence it is applied to a drunkard. Cf. Borachio in Shakspere's Much Ado. P. 146. a good pimple. A boon companion. Salopian. An inhabitant of Salop or Shropshire. thou shalt be my Tantony... The hog is one of the symbols of St. Anthony. " The monks of the Order of St. Anthony kept herds of con- secrated pigs, which were allowed to feed at the public charge, and which it was a profanation to steal or kill ; hence the proverb about the fatness of a 'Tantony pig.'" (Mrs. Jameson, Sacred and Legendary Art, ii, 733.) P. 147. save-all. A pan with spike for burning up candle-ends. P. 148. bulk. A framework projecting from the front of a shop; a stall. (N. E. D.) Frisoneer gorget. A kerchief made of woollen stuff and worn by women over their bosoms. colbertine. A kind of open lace with a square ground. put upon his clergy. Forced to plead benefit of clergy, thereby escaping punishment at the hands of the law. Abigails and Andrews. Ladies' maids and gentlemen's valets. Philander. Lover. P. 149. Duke's-place. See above, I, i. Bridewell-bride. Bridewell was a house of correction for prisoners. Cf. Tom Thumb, p. 303. P. 150. O yes. The Old French Oyez, hear ye. A call by a court officer to command silence; hence here as an introduction to a scandalous case to be tried at court. *moif. A white cap formerly worn by lawyers as a distinctive mark of their profession. (N. E. D.} cantharides. Used internally as a stimulant to the genito-urinary organs. (N. E. >.) cow-itch. Cpwage, the hairs of the pod of a tropical plant, which cause intolerable itching. P. 151. Csarish Majesty's retinue. Peter the First paid a visit to England in 1697, three years before the production of this play. P. 152. Pylades and Orestes. Orestes, who was offered life by the priestess Iphigeneia provided he carry a message to Greece, persuades Pylades to take his place while he undergoes death. The discovery that Iphigeneia is his sister saves his life. quorum. Certain justices of the peace, usually of eminent learning and ability, whose presence was necessary to constitute a bench. (N. E. >.) an old fox. A sword. mittimus. A command in writing to a jailer to keep the person in custody in close confinement ; here the vellum upon which such an order might be written. (Archer.) P. 153. Messalina's poems. Messalina was the shameless wife of Tiberius Claudius (10 B.C.-54 A.D.), emperor of Rome. THE BEAUX' STRATAGEM P. 161. the Plain-Dealer. A reference to Wycherley, under the name of his last and perhaps greatest comedy, which appeared in the year of Farquhar's birth (1677). P. 162. Union. The Treaty of Union between England and Scotland 442 NOTES received the assent of Queen Anne, March 6, 1707, two days before the pro- duction of our comedy. P. 163. the Lion and the Rose. The names of inn-rooms. Cf. She Stoops to Conquer, III, i, p. 340. usquebaugh. Irish "water of life" or whisky (cf. French "eau de vie "). tympanies. Dropsical swelling of the abdomen. fits of the mother. Hysterics. the king's evil. Scrofula. chincough. Whooping-cough. P. 164. whisk. The old form of whist. curious. Eccentric. P. 165. counterscarp. In fortification the slope of a ditch opposite the parapet. Act&on. A hunter changed to a stag by Diana, whom he sees bathing, and torn to pieces by his own dogs. out of doors. Out of fashion. P. 166. our gang. Macaulay, in the famous third chapter of his History, cites " a proclamation warning the innkeepers that the eye of the government was upon them. Their criminal connivance, it was affirmed, enabled banditti to infest the roads with impunity. That these suspicions were not without foundation is proved by the dying speeches of some penitent robbers of that age, who appear to have received from the innkeepers services much resem- bling those which Farquhar's Boniface rendered to Gibbet." See, too, Austin Dobson's " Ballad of Beau Brocade." P. 167. In St. Martin's Parish. In this parish, Farquhar wrote our play, and here, a month or two later, he died and was buried. Doctors' Commons. " The Association or College of Doctors of Civil Law dined in commons : hence the name, which was applied also to the civil and ecclesiastical courts which convened in the buildings of the Association. These courts had jurisdiction in matters of marriage and divorce." (Strauss.) within the weekly bills. The district covered by the London Bills of Mortality, kept from 1538 to 1837, hence the city, as distinguished from the country. Cf. The Way of the World, III, i (p. 140). P. 168. tea. Tea, introduced into England at the Restoration, was drunk in mid-morning at this period. naught. Wicked. Like " naughty " in Shakspere. P. 169. the coronation. The coronation of Queen Anne, nearly five years before, April 23, 1702. ceruse. A white-lead cosmetic. P. 170. premises. The articles just mentioned. ._. . gentlemen o' the pad. Gentlemen of the road (path), or highwaymen. smoke. Discover. Old Brentford at Christmas. As Strauss notes, " Brentford, eight miles west of London, divided by the River Brent into the Old and New towns, has frequent mention in literature from Shakspere (Merry Wives) to Thackeray (Miscellanies)^" catechise. This catechism was published separately under the title, " Love's Catechism compiled by the Author of the Recruiting Officer for the use and benefit of all young bachelors, maids and widows that are inclinable to change their condition" (1707). Other "single sheets" of like character were popular at this time. P. 171. habit. Dress. cephalic plaster. Plaster for headache. 443 NOTES P. 172. Oroondates. The hero of Cassandra, La Calprenede's heroical romance. Cesario. The assumed name of Viola in Twelfth Night. Amadis. The hero of the great Spanish romance of chivalry, Amadis of Gaul, so popular at the time of the Renaissance. P. 173. quoif clear-starched. "A close-fitting cap, stiffened with colorless starch." (Temple.) Toftida. Mrs. Katherine Tofts, a famous opera singer of the day, who had sung in The Recruiting Officer. Will's coffee-house and White's. Macaulay quotes (History of England, chap, iii) this reference to the two famous coffee-houses (both of which are mentioned by Steele in the first number of The Toiler as the addresses of his papers) and comments: "The highwayman held an aristocratical position in the community of thieves, appeared at fashionable coffee-houses and betted with men of quality on the race-ground." The " Sons of Will's " (Epilogue) are poets and men of letters. (See Archer's song in III, iii.) P. 174. Teague. A traditional nickname for Irishmen, both on and off the stage used as the name of the Irish character in Farquhar's The Twin Rivals, and applied in a satire of the day to the dramatist himself. The Mermaid edition cites a letter on " Teague " and his " brogue " by Mr. Albert Matthews in the Nation (New York), July 21, 1904. what King of Spain, This was the time of the War of the Spanish Suc- cession. P. 175. Pressing Act. The Recruiting Officer furnishes an admirable com- mentary upon the Impressment Acts occasioned during Anne's reign by the War of the Spanish Succession. " Such able-bodied men as have not any lawful calling or employment or visible means for their maintenance and livelihood " were liable to be enlisted. P. 176. Sir Simon the King. A popular air deriving its name from Simon Wadloe, the host of the Devil's Tavern in Ben Jonson's days. This tune was the favorite of Fielding's Squire Western. P. 177. prevent. Anticipate. P. 178. Enter Count Bellair. The editions of 1736 and 1760 have this note : " This scene, with the entire part of the Count, was cut out by the Author after the first night's representation, and where he should enter in the last scene of Act V, it is added to the part of Foigard." P. 182. Cedunt arma togae. " Arms yield to the toga " i.e., the gown takes precedence over the sword. Incongruous on the lips of Scrub. Alexander's battles. Le Brun's famous paintings of the battles of Alex- ander the Great for the Gobelins tapestries of Louis XIV. a greater general. Archer compares with the triumphs of Alexander the recent victories of Marlborough. P. 185. Tom's. The coffee-house of Thomas Eaton, near Will's in the Covent Garden neighborhood. Morris. Yet another coffee-house, mentioned frequently by Farquhar. club o' th' reckoning. Each one's share of the total amount of the bill. Steal two acts of a play. An allusion to the contemporary custom of per- mitting the playgoer to see one act of a play for nothing. Tipperary and Kilkenny. Famous grammar schools. The second counted among its pupils Swift and Congreve. P. 186. This picturesque scene between innkeeper and highwaymen was omitted from early stage versions at the advice of Steele. a Vigo business. The great victory of Vigo, won by the English and Dutch over the fleets of France and Spain (October 12, 1702), made such an impression upon Farquhar that he described it at length in his epic, Bar- 444 NOTES celona, and mentioned it often in his plays. "Abundance of plate and other valuables fell into the hands of the conquerors." Tyburn. The famous London place of execution, which was situated near the site of the Marble Arch. P. 187. all-fours. A card-game, " High, low, Jack and the game." P. 188. Alcmena. The mother of Hercules by Jupiter, who took the form of her husband, Amphitryon. P. 191. Swiss. An allusion to the Swiss mercenaries, celebrated a cen- tury later for their defence of Louis XVI, and memorialized in the famous " Lion of Lucerne." the Eddystone. The first lighthouse, completed in 1699, was destroyed by the terrible storm of November 27, 1703. P. 193. Garzoon. The Frenchman's form of the oath, "Gadzoons!" (cor- rupted from "God's wounds!"), perhaps under the influence of " gargon." Charles, Viscount Aimwcll. Farquhar is certainly nodding here, as Aim- well is elsewhere called "Tom" (II, ii ; V, iv). ombre. See Pope's detailed description of this very old card-game in The Rape of the Lock, Canto III. P. 194. Leuctra. " Epaminondas saved his Thebes and died" (Byron) in this great victory over the forces of Sparta, 371 B.C. Sergeant Kite. A prominent character in The Recruiting Officer. CATO P. 200. While Cato gives his little senate laws. Later Pope turned this line against Addison (" Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot," 209-210) : " Like Cato, give his little senate laws And sit attentive to his own applause." P. 201. Attend. Altered from "arise" in deference to Addison's fear that this would be misconstrued. The dawn is overcast, etc. Hurd notes that " the opening of the drama is too solemn and declamatory; the author speaks, not his persona dramatis" Pharsalia. In the region around the city of Pharsalus in Thessaly, Caesar won a decisive victory over the army of Pompey. (See II, i, p. 208.) P. 202. Utica. This city, the scene of our play, was an important sea- coast town of Africa, northwest of Carthage. From it Cato derived his name of " Uticensis," as it was the stronghold of the republican party, of which he was now leader. Numidian prince. Juba I, the father of the young hero, espoused the cause of Pompey in his contest with Cassar, and was forced by the conqueror to forfeit his African kingdom, which became a Roman province. P. 204. the embattled elephant. In their first battle with Pyrrhus, the Romans fled terrified before the elephants of the enemy. Zama. A town of Numidia, celebrated for Scipio's victory over Hannibal (202 B.C.). It was destroyed by the Romans after the death of Juba I. P. 205. He's still severely bent against himself. Plutarch tells us of Cato : " He employed himself in inuring his body to labor and violent exercise and habituated himself to go bareheaded in the hottest and coldest weather, and to go on foot at all seasons. In sickness the patience he showed in supporting, and the abstinence he used for curing his distemper, were admirable." stoicism. The doctrine of the school of philosophy founded by Zeno 445 NOTES about 308 B.C. " The Stoics held that men should be free from passion and unsubdued by joy or grief." P. 206. For the part of the love-scenes in the action, see Introduction. P. 207. So the pure limpid stream, etc. The older critics found this simile most appropriate in the mouth of a Roman lady, accustomed to the sight of the yellow Tiber. Pp. 208-210. The indebtedness of these two scenes to the " Philippics " of Cicero has been generally recognized. P. 208. Scythia. Used here as in Horace to indicate the uttermost parts of the earth. P. 211. Reduced like Hannibal, etc. For several years before Hannibal's suicide by poison in 183 B.C., he was a refugee at the court of Bithynia. liberty or death. Had Patrick Henry read Cato? P. 212. Honor's a fine imaginary notion. The contrast between Syphax's view of honor and that of Juba may be set side by side with the varying views of Falstaff and Prince Hal in I Henry IV. ravished Sabines. The story of the rape of the Sabine women during the games at Rome in the first days of the city is fiction pure and simple. P. 213. This simile of Mount Atlas is, as Hurd long ago remarked, fittingly addressed to an African, Syphax. Goldsmith uses a similar image in " The Deserted Village," 189-190. P. 215. stiffens, yet alive. This passage in its original form was objected to by Mrs. Oldfield and was changed, at Pope's suggestion, to the line, as we now have it. (Spence's Anecdotes.) P. 217. the envenomed aspic's rage. Compare Plutarch's account of Cato's African march : " He had likewise in his train some of the people, called Psylli, who obviate the bad effect of the bite of serpents by sucking out the poison ; and deprive the serpents themselves of their ferocity by their charms." the long laborious march. " During a continued march for seven days, Cato was always foremost, though he made use of neither horse nor chariot." (Plutarch.) P. 218. seized of. Having in his possession. This is still the sense of the phrase in law. P. 222. the self-devoted Decii. Three Roman leaders, grandfather, father and son, who devoted themselves to the gods Manes for the safety of their country. (B.C. 337, 296, 280.) the Fabii. There were four great Fabii, all soldiers and consuls the last and greatest being Hannibal's opponent. The great Scipios. At least a dozen warriors of this great name won for Rome some of her most splendid triumphs. the great Censor. M. Porcius Cato (b. 232 B.C.), often called "the Elder" to distinguish him from our hero celebrated as a soldier and orator, spent many years of his long life on his Sabine farm, which he had inherited from plebeian ancestors. His treatise on "Agriculture" (De Re Rustica) is " the loose, unconnected journal of a plain farmer." P. 223. This scene (V, i) is in close accord with what Plutarch tells us of Cato's end. P. 224. just. Here the early quartos read, " good." P. 225. The last line of the play was altered, in accord with Pope's sug- gestion, from its first form : "And oh. 'twas this that ended Cato's life!" "I believe that Mr. Addison did not leave a. word unchanged that I objected to in his Cato," said Pope to Spence. 446 NOTES THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS P. 233. Cymon. See Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenia, 11. 216-225. give herself a loose. Give full vent to her feelings. vails. Gratuities to servants. P. 234. put upon. Imposed upon. The Painted Chamber. A lofty and narrow room in the old Palace of Westminster, adjoining the old House of Lords. It was so called from the paintings on the walls, representing on one side of the room the wars of the Maccabees and on the other side scenes from the life of Edward the Confessor. (Besant's Westminster,- p. 49.) Court of Requests. In the old Palace of Westminster; this was converted later into the House of Lords. Nemine contradic'ente. Without opposition. ridotto. An entertainment or social assembly consisting of music and dancing. It was introduced into England in 1722, the year of our play, at the Opera House in the Haymarket, and it was a marked feature of London social life during the eighteenth century. (N. E. D.) Belsize. Belsize House was the forerunner of Ranelagh and Vauxhall. There were gardens in which refreshments could be obtained, and hunting, races, etc., were provided to amuse the visitors. (Mermaid Ed.) P. 235. twire. Leer. Crispo's fate. See p. 243. P. 239. natural. A half-witted person. P. 242. Crispo or Griselda. Operas by G. B. Bononcini, produced in 1722, with words by Rolli. P. 243. Signor Carbonelli. A violinist then in high favor. P. 245. tenement. Real estate held of another on any tenure. P. 246. liquorish. Greedy. P. 248. mansion house. The dwelling house. messuage. A dwelling house with its outbuildings and land assigned to its use. P. 250. advertisement. Notification. P. 252. cocker. A supporter of cock-fighting. P. 253. And while abroad, etc. From the Prologue to Southerne's Disap- pointment, or The Mother in Fashion. 11. 55-56. P. 254. security. Protection. P. 256. table book. Memorandum book. P. 257. commode. Accommodating, in a bad sense. THE BEGGAR'S OPERA P. 267. two most excellent ballad-singers. In his Polly Peachum, Pearce advances the opinion that " the weight of hypothesis as to the origin of the musical form of the Opera is on the side of Gay's familiarity with English ballad singing, while the popularity of ballads with people of every degree ought certainly to be taken into account." The similes that are in your celebrated Operas. Addison remarks i Spectator, No. 5: "The finest writers among the modern Italians ... fill their writings with such poor imaginations and conceits, as our youths are ashamed of, before they have been two years at the University." a prison scene, which the ladies always reckon charmingly pathetic. Per- 447 NOTES haps Gay had in mind the sentimental scene in Newgate prison which opens the last act of Steele's Lying Lover." (Nettleton.) St. Giles's. An almshouse near the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields. " Custom had established yearly festivals for the ballad-singers in the classic regions of St. Giles's, which were much frequented by some of the wits of the day Swift, Gay, Bolingbroke, Steele, etc." (Pearce.) except our wives. Except by our wives' death. P. 268. Newgate. Newgate Prison, at the corner of Old Bailey, was long the principal prison of London. Here were confined men so different as Daniel Defoe, Jack Sheppard, Titus Gates and William Penn. P. 269. Bagshot. Bagshot, like Hounslow, was a favorite stamping-ground of highwaymen near London. Bagshot and Hounslow are Gibbet's com- panions in The Beaux' Stratagem. quadrille. A card-game played by four people, described at length by Hoyle. Our play (I, xiii, p. 274) attests the popularity of the game among women. Marybone. Then the chief gambling-hell of London (cf. p. 284). chap. Probably abbreviation of " chapman," merchant here a peddler (cf. p. 285). P. 270. since I was pumpt. Gay thus describes the fate of the youthful pickpocket (Trivia, III, 74) : " Seized by rough hands, he's dragged amid the rout And stretched beneath the pump's incessant spout." Hockley in the Hole. A famous bear-garden, " a place of no small renown for the gallantry of the lower order." (Spectator.) The Old Bailey. The Criminal Court on the street of the same name, adjoining Newgate. At 68 Old Bailey lived the notorious thief-catcher, Jonathan Wild, the prototype of Peachum. the ordinary's paper. The chaplain's report. Covent-garden. Still a flower and vegetable market. P. 272. Drury Lane. " Drury's mazy courts and dark abodes " ( Trivia, III, 260). Cf. II, iii, p. 275. Goldsmith in She Stoops to Conquer, II, i, 184 (P- 33i) refers to "the Duchesses of Drury Lane." fuller's earth. A special kind of earth used in cleansing and thickening cloth. Nimming. The epithet, derived from nim, " to steal," recalls Shakspere's Nym (Henry IV). The verb, nim (Anglo-Saxon, niman, "to take"), occurs later, II, x, p. 280. P. 273. / see him already in the cart, etc. The passage describes the senti- mental interest created by the passage of the highwayman in his cart along Holborn to the gallows-tree at Tyburn (near Marble Arch). Jack Ketch. The traditional name of the hangman, derived from a notori- ous executioner (d. 1686). Pretty Polly, say. Contemporary parody ran : " Pretty Polly, say What makes Johnny Gay To call, to call his Newgate scenes The Beggar's Opera ? " P. 274. Air XVI. The air, " Over the Hills and Far Away," recalls Far- quhar, in whose Recruiting Officer it appears on the lips of Captain Plume. otamys. A corruption for anatomies, " skeletons." P. 276. // music be the food of love, play on. From Twelfth Night, I, i, I. lutestring. Lustring, glossy silk fabric. padesoy. Or paduasoy, a strong corded silk. See The Rivals, p. 368. 448 NOTES P. 278. Air XXVIII. The song, "'Twas when the sea was roaring," is Gay's own (cf. What d'ye Call It, II, viii). P. 279. the ordinary. Clergyman appointed to hold service for condemned criminals. Here, the prison chaplain. P. 284. lock. " A cant word signifying a warehouse, where stolen goods are deposited." (Gay's own note.) The Coronation account. Statement of things stolen during the Coronation festivities of George II in 1727. P. 285. Air XLV. " Gay's preference for similes, derived from the animal world, is explained by his recently composed 'Fables.'" (Sarrazin.) the mint. The mint in Southwark, which had been destroyed by act of Parliament five years before the date of our play (1723), was the resort of criminals. Compare the name, Matt of the Mint. P. 290. Ill, x-vi. In like manner Fielding discusses the fate of the puppets of his burlesque, Tom Thumb (p. 317). The scene is a "palpable hit at the conventional happy ending of sentimental drama and opera." (Nettleton.) TOM THUMB The following plays are mentioned in Fielding's footnotes to Tom Thumb: Joseph Addison's Cato (1713). John Banks's Albion Queens, formerly known as The Island Queens, or the Death of Mary Queen of Scots (1684) ; Cyrus the Great, or The Tragedy of Love (1696); The Earl of Essex (1682); Virtue Betrayed, or Anna Bullen (1682). John Dennis's Liberty Asserted (1704). John Dryden's All for Love (1678) ; Aurengzebe (1676) ; King Arthur, or The British Worthy (1691); Cleomenes (1692); Conquest of Granada (1670); Don Sebastian (1690); Duke of Guise (1690); Indian Emperor (1667); Love Triumphant (1694) ; Rival Ladies (1664) ; State of Innocence (1676). Edward Ecclestone's Noah's Flood (1679). Elijah Fenton's Mariamne (1723)- Henry Fielding's The Coffee-House Politician (1730). John Fletcher's Bloody Brother (1640). John Gay's Captives (1724)- Charles Johnson's Medea (1731); Victim (1714). Charles Hopkins's Female Warrior (1697). Nathaniel Lee's Lucius Junius Brutus (1681) ; Casar Borgia (1680); Gloriana (1676); Mithridates (1678); Nero (1678); Sophonisba, or Han- nibal's Overthrow (1676). David Mallet's Eurydice (i73i)- -'Thomas Otway's Don Carlos (1676); History and Fall of Caius Manus X (i68o). Nicholas Rowe's Tamerlane (1702). Nahum Tate's Injured Love (1707)- Lewis Theobald's Persian Princess, or The Royal Villain (1715)- James Thomson's Sophonisba (1730), here called The New Sophonisba. Jidward Young's Busiris (1719) ; Revenge (1721). P. 296. H. Scriblerus Secundus. Henry (Fielding), the second scribbler; in imitation of Pope's Prolegomena of Martinus Scriblerus attached to The Dunciad in 1729. 449 NOTES P. 297. birth-day suit. A suit worn at the celebration of the king's birthday. giants in Guildhall. Two wooden figures (i2 l / 2 feet high) carved by Saunders in 1708; they are on the right and the left in the great Hall of Guildhall. Dr. B y. Richard Bentley (1662-1742), the most famous Greek scholar of hi? day, signally unhappy in his emendations of Paradise Lost. Mr. D s. John Dennis (1657-1734), a heavy-handed critic of the works of Addison, Steele, Rowe and others. Mr. T d. Lewis Theobald (1688-1744), dramatist, Shaksperean editor, and the first hero of Pope's Dunciad. Mr. S n. Either Nathaniel Salmon (1675-1742) or his brother Thomas (1679-1767), both historical and geographical writers. Petrus Burmannus. A distinguished Dutch scholar (1668-1741), professor of Greek and politics and later at Leyden, and editor of many classical texts. Hermes Trismegistus. The Egyptian Thoth, scribe of the gods, was ac- credited with the authorship of all the strictly sacred books generally called by Greek authors, Hermetic. Justus Lipsius. (1547-1606), a famous Belgian scholar, professor suc- cessively at Jena, Leyden and Louvain. Mr. Midwinter. The supposititious author of the ballad of Tom Thumb which Wagstaffe criticized in parody of Addison's appreciation of the ballad of Chevy Chase. Risum . . . You should restrain your laughter, friends. P. 298. Omne... Every greater contains the less, but the less cannot contain the greater. Scaliger in Thumbo. Joseph Justus Scaliger (1540-1609), a great Latin and Greek scholar. This work is, of course, an invention of Fielding's. P. 299. arrack. An eastern name for any native spirituous liquor. " Rack " immediately below is the same word. P. 300. Mr. W Warburton, perhaps. That is pas'. That is certain, positive. P. 302. Monmouth-street.. .A London street where second-hand clothes were bought and sold. .^"303. Aristotle. See the Poetics, XXI and XXII, for a discussion of diction. Tothill Bridewell. A prison in the City for disreputable women. Cf. The Way of the World, V, i, p. 149. Bajaset. A character in Rowe's Tamerlane. P. 304. O Tom Thumb... Otway's "Oh! Marius..." is but Shakspere's "Oh, Romeo, Romeo..." (R. and J., II, ii, 33.) Bantam. The bantam is to other fowls as Tom Thumb to other men; hence the satirical allusion to " mighty Bantam," a purely fictitious character. King of Brentford. The kings of Brentford are burlesque characters in The Rehearsal. (See note to The Beaux' Stratagem, II, ii, p. 170.) P. 305. lead apes in hell. As unmarried women were compelled to do when they reached the other world. (Cf. Much Ado, II, i, 43, 49 f.) P. 306. durgen. Dwarf. P. 307. Doctors' Commons. Buildings (in which certain courts were held) of . former College of Doctors of Civil Law in London. Here marriage licenses were obtained. (See note to The Beaux' Stratagem, II, i, p. 167.) Fleet. Clandestine marriages were performed by disreputable parsons in the Fleet district about Ludgate Hill. tdmatches. Pieces of card dipped in melted sulphur. 450 NOTES P. 308. Mr. L . Nathaniel Lee, the author of Sophonisba. P. 309. Curae . . . " Light cares can freely speak; Great cares heart rather break." (Florio's translation in Montaigne's Essays, I, ii.) The quotation is taken from Seneca's Hippolytus, Act II, scene ii. The Egyptian king. The story is told in Montaigne's Essays, Book I, chap, ii, '' Of Sadness or Sorrow." Battle. A variant of " bottle," a bundle. fMr. F . Fielding. P. 310. My Huncamunca. . . Compare also Much Ado, III, ii, 109, no. P. 311. M. Dacier. (1651-1722). With his wife, the editor of a series of ancient texts for the use of the dauphin. He translated and annotated Horace. Te premet... " Night presses down upon thee and the storied (or unsub- stantial) ghosts." (Horace, Odes, I, iv, 16.) Nee quidquam... "Nor was there anything more wonderful in that than a certain awful ghost, which I should far prefer to all other spectres in which English tragedy abounds" (I speak with the permission of the very learned Dionysius V). P. 312. Red Sea. "Ghosts least like to be laid in the Red Sea." (See Brand's Popular Antiquities, III, 72.) P. 314. Credat Judccus Apella, etc. " Apella, the Jew, may believe it, not I." (Horace, Satires, I, v, 100-101.) SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER P. 323. Title. The second title of the play, The Mistakes of a Night, was originally the only one ; but, as this was felt to be undignified for comedy, others were suggested: The Old House, a New Inn; The Belle's Stratagem by Joshua Reynolds. Finally Goldsmith, recalling Dryden's line, " But kneels to conquer, and but stoops to rise," hit upon the present appro- priate name. P. 324. 'Tis not alone this mourning suit. A reminiscence of Hamlet, I, ii, 77 f. Shuter . . . Poor Ned. References to Edward Shuter, who played Mr. Hardcastle. Woodward, who recited the Prologue, had refused the part of Tony, which fell to Quick. a mawkish drab. The description of sentimental comedy as " a mawkish drab of spurious breed" shows Garrick's reaction against a type of play that he had once heartily approved. P. 325. basket. A receptacle for luggage at the back of stage-coaches, used occasionally for the conveyance of passengers. See also V, ii (p. 348). Prince Eugene. Eugene of Savoy was Marlborough's ally in the War of the Spanish Succession. (Compare Southey's ballad, "The Battle of Blen- heim.") Darby ... Joan. These traditional types of married bliss were the subjects of an eighteenth-century song. he fastened my wig, etc. This joke was played by Lord Clare's daughter upon Goldsmith himself. P. 327. Would it were bed-time, etc. A reminiscence of Falstaffs speech, (i Henry IV, V, i, 125.) 451 NOTES Song. Tony's composition of this admirable song hardly seems consistent with his illiteracy, as Dobson has pointed out. P. 328. pigeon. A gull, a dupe. low. See Introduction. Water Parted. A song in Arne's opera of Artaxerxes, 1762. the minuet in Ariadne. At the end of the overture of this opera by Handel. woundily. Excessively. we wanted no ghost. Suggested by Hamlet, I, v, 125. P. 329. trapesing. From trapes, " a sloven," " a slattern," used as the name of one of the worst of the women in The Beggar's Opera. find out the longitude. A scientific inquiry of the time, finally solved by John Harrison, who received in the very year of Goldsmith's play (1773) his reward of 20,000. //, t. Hardcastle's drilling of the servants recalls a well-known scene in The Taming of the Shrew (IV, i). The Temple editor compares the drilling by Sables of the undertaker's men in Steele's comedy, The Funeral, which is supposed to have furnished Goldsmith a hint of Young Marlow in its character of Lord Hardy. P. 330. Quid Grouse in the gun-room. A story that no one has yet traced. Wauns. A corruption for " swounds " or " God's wounds." P. 331. duchesses of Drury Lane. Such ladies as those in The Beggar's Opera. (II, iii, p. 275.) Denain. Here the French won a victory over the Allies in 1712. P. 332. Heyder Ally. Sultan of Mysore (1717-1782). Ally Cawn. Sultan of Bengal. Ally Croaker. A popular Irish ditty. Westminster Hall. In Goldsmith's day, and for a century later (until 1882), the scene of the Law Courts. the battle of Belgrade. Here the Turks were beaten, August 16, 1717. pruin. Prune. P- 333- norentine. " A made dish of minced meats, currants, spices, eggs, etc., baked." A shaking pudding. A jelly. taffeta cream. A dish suggesting the thin glossy silk called taffeta. the laws of marriage. This reference to the Royal Marriage Act of 1772, which prevented the legal marriage of the Duke of Gloucester and Lady Waldegrave, was greeted with loud applause. P- 335- Kanelagh, St. James or Tower Wharf. The humor of Hastings' references to London localities, like those of Mrs. Hardcastle in the next speech, lies in the jumble of fashionable resorts and places of low repute. Tower Wharf and The Borough (Southwark) are social leagues away from Ranelagh gardens at Chelsea, or the Pantheon on Oxford Street. the Scandalous Magazine. The Town and Country Magazine, then cele- brated for its Tete-d-Tete portraits. See The School for Scandal, I, i, p. 398. since inoculation began. Inoculation was introduced into England from Turkey in 1721. Gothic. Barbarous. P. 336. crack. Lie. Quincy. The author of a Complete English Dispensatory, very popular in the eighteenth century. P- 337- Anon. What do you say? mauvaise honte. Shamefacedness. Bully Dawson. A Whitefriars ruffian, whom Sir Roger " kicked in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster." (Spectator, No. 2.) P. 338. Morrice. Off with you ! 452 NOTES marcasites. A mineral, much in use for ornaments at this time, and closely resembling gold or silver ore. table-cut. With flat surfaces. P- 339- Cherry. For Goldsmith's indebtedness to Farquhar, see Intro- duction. P. 340. The Lion, etc. These are common names of inn-rooms. Cf. The Beaux' Stratagem, I, i, p. 163. the Ladies' Club. Goldsmith had in mind " the Female Coterie " of Albe- marle Street. P. 341. Miss Biddy Buckskin. Her original was a friend of Walpole and a member of the Ladies' Club, Miss Rachel Lloyd. / never nicked seven, etc. I never bet on seven, that I did not throw both aces (ames-ace), the lowest throw upon the dice, three times i.e., I always played in hard luck. would discover my name. Is not Goldsmith nodding here? Hardcastle already knows Hastings' name (II, i, 204). P. 343. liberty and Fleet Street. " Suggested by the then popular cry of ' Wilkes and Liberty.'" (Dobson.) the Rake's Progress... Hogarth's celebrated engravings, published in 1735- P. 344. The Dullissimo Maccaroni. The London maccaronis or fops of the day were caricatured in prints, sold in all the shops. See the reference to the name in "Yankee Doodle." Cf. The School for Scandal, II, ii, p. 405. haspicholls. A popular vulgarism for harpsichords. P- 345- feeder. Cock feeder. P. 346. baskets. Single-sticks with basket-hilts. P. 348. rabbit. Humble (< Fr. rabattre). P. 352. We have our exits, etc. Taken from As You Like It, II, vii, 141. Nancy Dawson. A popular song of the day. Che faro. The opening words of an air in Gluck's opera of Orfeo, 1764. Heinel. A Prussian danseuse, a popular favorite in this year. spadille. The ace of spades, high card in ombre and quadrille. Bayes. Character in Buckingham's Rehearsal representing Dryden, the laureate. Here used as a synonym of " dramatist." Second Epilogue. "This came too late to be spoken." (Note in First Edi- tion.) The writer, Joseph Cradock of Gumley, was a warm friend of Goldsmith. Two other epilogues, one representing a quarrel between Mrs. Bulkley, who played Miss Hardcastle, and Mrs. Catley, were drawn up by Goldsmith, but were never used. Sadler's Wells. A pleasure garden at Islington near the New River Head. THE RIVALS Our text of The Rivals follows the first edition of 1775, reproduced by Adams in 1910. (See Bibliography.) P. 360. The poet's brief again. The play revised and produced after its failure on its first presentation ten days before. P. 361. Cast. Overthrow in a lawsuit. amend our plea. Revise our play. sons of Phoebus. Poets. the Fleet. The famous debtors' prison in London. No writ. . .Drury-lane. There is no appeal through writ of error from this theater, Covent Garden, to the other one, Drury-lane. 453 NOTES newsman. Newspaper reporter. P. 362. this form. The figure of Comedy on one side of the proscenium in the Covent Garden Theatre ; on the other side was the figure of Tragedy. Pilgrim's Progress. . .rue. The emblems of moral purpose and repentance, which dominate the sentimental tragedy. Woodward... Green. Actors in the performance of the revised play. their favorite. The figure of Tragedy. P. 363. Odd's. God's. Z ds. Zounds, a contraction for God's wounds. P. 364. thread-papers. Strips of thin, soft paper folded in creases so as to form separate divisions for different skeins of thread. (N. E. D.) a set of thousands. A team of usually six horses costing thousands of pounds. mart. A great deal. High-roomians and Low-roomians. Patrons respectively of the Upper and the Lower Rooms of the Bath Assemblies, between which at this time there was considerable rivalry. Pump-Room. The Room where all Bath met to drink the mineral waters and to gossip. ton. Style. ta'en to his carrots. Appears in his own red hair. bob. A wig with short curls. Gyde's Porch. The Lower Rooms kept by Mr. Gyde. Mr. Bull. A Bath bookseller in 1785. (Nettleton.) Mr. Frederick. A Bath bookseller. _ 364-366. Lydia Languish's Books. The Reward of Constancy. Conjectured by Nettleton to be identical with The Happy Pair; or Virtue and Constancy Rewarded. A novel by Mr. Shebbeare, c. 1771. The Fatal Connection. A novel by Mrs. Fogerty (1773). The Mistakes of the Heart; or, Memoirs of Lady Caroline Pelham and Lady Victoria Nevil. By Treyssac de Vergy (1769). The Delicate Distress. A novel in letters by Mrs. Griffith (1769). The Memoirs of Lady Woolford. Written by herself and addressed to a friend (1771). The Gordian Knot. A novel in letters by Mr. Griffith, the husband of the author of The Delicate Distress above (1769). Peregrine Pickle and Humphry Clinker. Novels by Tobias Smollett, the former 1751, the latter 1771. Peregrine Pickle includes The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality. The Tears of Sensibility. Novels translated from the French of M. D'Armaud by John Murdoch (1773). The Sentimental Journey. By Laurence Sterne (1768). The Whole Duty of Man. Of uncertain authorship (1660). A new and revised edition was extensively advertised in 1773. Roderick Random. By Tobias Smollett (1748). The Innocent Adultery. A translation of Paul Scarron's L'Adultere Inno- cente (1722). Lord Aimworth. The History of Lord Aimworth and the Honorable Charles Hanford, Esq., in a series of letters (1773). The Man of Feeling. By Henry Mackenzie (1771). Mrs. Chap one: Letters on the Improvement of the Mind. Addressed to a Young Lady. By Mrs. Chapone (1773). Fordyce's Sermons. Sermons to Young Women (1765). 454 NOTES Lord Chesterfield's Letters. Letters written by the Earl of Chesterfield to his son, Philip Stanhope, published by Mrs. Eugenia Stanhope (1774). Net- tleton has done more than any other editor in identifying the books in Lydia's library. P. 365. blonds. A silk lace of two threads, twisted and formed in hexagonal meshes. (N. E. D.) rout. A large evening party or reception. P. 368. paduasoy. Strong corded silk fabric much worn in the eighteenth century. pocket-pieces. Coins carried in the pocket as a charm. disbanded chairmen. Unemployed bearers of Sedan chairs or wheelers of invalid chairs. minority -waiters. Probably waiters out of work. (Adams.) P. 369. reversion. The right of ultimate succession to an estate. P. 370. the German Spa. Spa is a watering-place in Belgium near the German border; it was at the height of its fame in the eighteenth century. (See The School for Scandal, II, ii, p. 407.) squallante. . .quiver ante. Burlesque Italian musical terms. minnums and crochets. Half-notes and quarter-notes. Go, gentle gales. The refrain of The Faithful Lover, given in Clio and Euterpe, or British Harmony (1762), vol. iii, p. i: " Go, gentle gales, Go, bear my sighs away; And to my love The tender notes convey." (Nettleton.) My heart's my own. A song in Isaac Bickerstaffe's Love in a Village, I, i. : " My heart's my own, my will is free, And so shall be my voice; No mortal man shall wed with me, Till first he's made my choice." (Nettleton.) P. 371. race-ball. A dance held in connection with the races. looby. A lubberly fellow, a lout. frogs and tambours. Frogs were military coat fastenings of spindle- shaped buttons and loops; tambours are embroidered stuffs. P- 373- Bull in Coxe's Museum. " The Curious Bull " was one of the. mechanical curiosities exhibited in Bath in 1773-4 by Mr. Coxe, a London jeweller. turnspit. A long-bodied, short-legged dog formerly used to turn the spit. P. 376. the Grove. The Orange grove near the Parades, so named from the Prince of Orange. P- 379- doubt. Suspect. P. 380. an'. If. monkeyrony. David's pronunciation of " maccaroni," a dandy. Oons. God's wounds. Cf. Zounds. balancing and chasing and boring. Steps in dancing. (Adams.) coupee. A dance step formerly much used ; the dancer rests on one foot and passes the other forward or backward, making a sort of salutation. (N. E. D.) P. 381. Allemandes. German dances. we wear no swords here. The Bath regulations against duelling were so strict that no swords were allowed to be worn in public. (Cf. V, ii, i.) the new room. The new assembly rooms were opened in 1771. 455 NOTES pinchbeck. An alloy of copper and zinc used in cheap jewelry. "/ could do such deeds." A misquotation probably of Lear's "I will do such things." (II, iv, 283.) P. 382. King's Mead-fields. An extensive meadow to the west of the city. (Adams.) sharps and snaps. Swords and pistols used in duelling. P. 384. What Hamlet says: " Hyperion curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill." (Ill, iv, 56-59.) P. 385. Bedlam. A corruption of St. Mary of Bethlehem, the famous London hospital for the insane. Youth's the season, etc. See Gay's Beggar's Opera, II, iv. P. 386. still. Always. P. 387. Spring' Gardens. A pleasure resort on the east bank and on the other side of the river from the city. P. 388. not unsought be won. Milton's Paradise Lost, viii, 502-503 : " Her virtue, and the conscience of her worth, That would be wooed, and not unsought be won." P. 390. Smithfield bargain. A sharp or roguish bargain ; also, a marriage of interest in which money is the chief consideration. (N. E. D.) Smith- field was formerly a cattle market. Scotch parson. Eloping couples could more easily be married in Scotland than in England. P- 39i- fire-office. Really a fire-insurance office, " but here, of course, mis- used by David in a way worthy of Mrs. Malaprop." (Nettleton.) putrefactions. For petrifactions, which were found abundantly in Derby- shire. sword . . . Bath. See note on III, iv, p. 381. P. 393. Abbey. The abbey church of Bath. P. 396. cit. Citizen. THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL Our text follows Sheridan's manuscript of The School for Scandal, as printed in the editions of Rae and Nettleton. (See Bibliography.) P. 397. vapors. Low spirits. quantum sufficit. As much as suffices. sal volatile. An aromatic solution taken for faintness. poz. Slang for " positive." dash and star. Used instead of names in scandalous news items. P. 398. Dramatis Persona. The part of "Miss Verjuice" was, in later versions, merged in that of " Snake." " Spunge " became at once " Trip." Lappet. This part of the Maid is withdrawn in later versions. demirep. A woman of suspected reputation. a Tete-a-Tete. . .Magazine. The Tete-a-Tete column in The Town and Country Magazine, or Useful Repository of Knowledge, Instruction, and Entertainment, was devoted to accounts of scandals in fashionable society. (See She Stoops to Conquer, II, i, p. 335.) P. 399- execution. Seizure of goods in default of payment. P. 401. Petrarch's. . .Sacharissa. Laura was the object of Petrarch's (1304- 456 NOTES verses> and Sachariss a (Lady Dorothy Sidney) of Waller's P. 402. Tunbridge. Tunbridge Wells, a pleasure resort about thirty-five miles southeast of London. Old Jewry. A London street in the heart of the City, so named from the Synagogue which stood here prior to the persecution of the Jews in 1201 (Baedeker.) Tontine. A tontine is an annuity shared by subscribers to a loan the shares increasing as the subscribers die till the last survivor gets all.' In 1773 the great increase of the Irish national debt led to the establishment of the Tontine Annuities and Stamp Duties by which immediate needs were met. doubt. Rather think, suspect. P. 404. the Pantheon. A concert hall in Oxford Street. Fete Champetre. An open-air fete or festival. tambour. A circular frame on which silk or the like is stretched to be embroidered. Pope Joan. A card-game which survives to-day in a modified form as New Market. fly cap. A kind of head-dress resembling an overgrown butterfly with outstretched wings. Vis-a-vis. A kind of carriage in which persons sit facing each other. P. 405. rid on hurdles. Condemned criminals rode on carts to their place of execution. clippers of reputation. The allusion is to those who clipped the edges of coins. High park. Hyde Park. macaronies. Dandies. The quatrain was taken from some earlier verses, which are given in Fraser Rae's Life, I, 330-331. Phoebus. As the god of poetry. P. 406. the Ring. A fashionable drive round an enclosed space in Hyde Park about 350 yards in length. P. 407. Spa. See note on The Rivals, II, i, p. 370. Law Merchant. Mercantile law. P. 408. Cicisbeo. A gallant in attendance upon a married lady. P. 409. jet. The real point, the gist. "A tear. . .charity." Quoted from 2 Henry IV, IV, iv, 81-82. The original has " open as day." P. 410. Crutched Friars. A street near the Tower of London, named after the convent of the Crossed or Crouched Friars. P. 411. annuity bill. A bill was passed in May, 1777, "providing that all contracts with minors for annuities shall be void, and that those procuring them and solicitors charging more than ten shillings per cent, shall be subject to fine or imprisonment." (Matthews.) P. 413. Bags. A small silken pouch to contain the back hair of the wig. (N. E. D.) throws off faster. Nobody discards faster from his wardrobe. (Net- tleton.) mortgage . . . post-obit. Legal terms that Charles's servant would be familiar with. point. Point-lace. hazard. A game of chance with dice. P. 415. bough-pots. Pots for holding flowers or boughs. P. 416. race-cups and corporation-bowls. Cups won at races and bowls given by the Corporation of the city. 457 NOTES P. 417. What do you bid? Part of the fun of this auction scene lies in the fact that the auction is a farce, since there is only one bidder, who with only one exception accepts the price set on the pictures. Kneller. A famous portrait painter (1646-1723) of royal and noble per- sonages. woolsack. The cushion on which the Lord Chancellor sits in the House of Lords ; here applied to the law generally. P. 419. Draw that screen, etc. When Lady Teazle later hides behind the screen, she will, of course, expose herself to the " maiden lady of so curious a temper." P. 424. Sir Peter, etc. Charles's speech is not so heartless as it seems at first sight, for he believes that everyone present has been guilty of dissimula- tion while he has been acting innocently. The situation is penetrated with a very grim humor on the verge of tragedy, just as Lady Teazle has been on the verge of her own moral destruction. P. 425. rupees, pagodas. A rupee is equal to two shillings, a pagoda to about seven. avadavats. The more usual form is " amadavat," an Indian song bird brown in color with white spots. (N. E. D.) Indian crackers. Indian fire-crackers " tastefully got up with colored paper." (Notes and Queries, 6th Series, II, 199.) P. 427. thrust in second. " A term in fencing for ' a thrust, parry, or other movement downward toward the left.'" (Nettleton.) Montem. " The montem was a triennial ceremony of the boys at Eton, abolished only in 1847. It consisted of a procession to a mound (ad montem) near the Bath road, where they exacted money from those present and from all passersby. The sum collected, sometimes nearly 1,000, went to the captain or senior scholar, and served to pay his expenses at the uni- versity." (Matthews.) P. 430. A. B.'s at the coffee-house. Cf. the modern practice of giving initials in advertisements to be answered by addressing to the care of the newspaper office. P. 431. sold me judges, etc. Sir Oliver repeats himself from IV, ii. P. 432. Mr. Colman. George Colman, proprietor of the Haymarket Theatre and writer of plays. Bayes. The name given to the caricature of Dryden in Buckingham's Rehearsal, a burlesque, like Sheridan's Critic, of extravagant fashions in the drama. Here it is synonymous with dramatist or poet, as in the Epilogue to She Stoops to Conquer. P- 433- loo. An eighteenth-century card-game. vole. Winning of all tricks in the game. Seven's the main. In the game of hazard the main is the number (from 5 to 9) called by the caster before he throws the dice. hot cockles. A game in which one person lay or knelt down with his eyes covered and on being struck by the others in turn guessed who struck him. Farewell, etc. A parody on Othello's " Farewell," III, iii, 347-357. card drums. Card parties. spadille. The ace of spades. pam. The knave of clubs. basto. The ace of clubs in quadrille and ombre. 458 BIBLIOGRAPHY CHIEF WORKS OF GENERAL REFERENCE The single volume most useful to the student of the whole period is G. H. Nettleton's English Drama of the Restoration and Eighteenth Century (1642-1780), 1914, with its careful criticism and concise bibliography. The third volume of A. W. Ward's History of English Dramatic Literature to the death of Queen Anne, 1899, particularly chapter IX, will assist the study of the earlier part of the time. The Cambridge History of English Literature, vol. VIII (1912), chapters V, VI, VII, vol. IX (1913), chapter II, and vol. X (1914), chapters II, IV, and IX, discusses nearly all our authors. The stage history of the epoch receives elaborate treatment in Genest's monumental work in ten volumes, Some Account of the English Stage from the Restoration in 1660 to 1830, 1832. Other works of general value are Ashley H. Thorndike's Tragedy, 1908, chapters VIII and IX, and John Palmer's The Comedy of Manners (1664-1720), 1913. Every reader of Restoration Comedy should know Leigh Hunt's Dramatic Works of Wycher- ley, Congreve, Vanbrugh and Farquhar (1849), a complete edition of the plays, containing memoirs of the dramatists and the famous essays of Lamb and Hazlitt, and should read Macaulay's equally famous review of this edition. DRYDEN The standard edition of the plays is the Scott-Saintsbury, in eight volumes, 1882. Saintsbury has a selection of plays in the Mermaid Series in two volumes containing among others " The Conquest of Granada " and " All for Love." Professor George R. Noyes has edited with notes Selected Dramas of John Dryden with The Rehearsal, 1910, which includes both our plays. The most important treatises on the heroic play are Holzhausen's " Dryden's Heroisches Drama " in Englische Studien, vols. XIII, XV, XVI, 1889-1892; L. N. Chase's The English Heroic Play, 1903; C. G. Child's " The Rise of the Heroic Play " in Modern Language Notes, 1904 ; J. W. Tupper's " The Relation of the Heroic Play to the Romances of Beaumont . / and Fletcher " in the Publications of the M. L. A. of America, 1905 ; Herbert W. Hill's " La Calprenede's Romances and the Restoration Drama," T/w- versiiy of Nevada Studies, vol. II, no. 3, 1910. "All for Love" has been included by Furness in his Variorum edition of Shakspere's " Antony and Cleopatra," 1907, pp. 409-472, and has been edited (with " The Spanish Friar") by William Strunk, Jr., in the Belles Lettres Series, 1911, with notes and bibliography. Valuable comment upon this play is found in 459 BIBLIOGRAPHY Margaret Sherwood's Dry den's Dramatic Theory and Practice (Yale Uni- versity Dissertation, 1898), pp. 85-93. OTWAY The chief plays of Otway have been edited by Roden Noel in the Mermaid Series, 1888. Annotated editions of " Venice Preserved " are those of Gollancz in the Temple Dramatists, 1898, and of McClumpha (with "The Orphan") in the Belles Lettres Series, 1908, containing a full bibliography. The student should read the delightful sketch of Otway by Edmund Gosse in his Seventeenth-Century Studies, 1883, and the suggestive comments of Hazlitt, Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth, and of Taine, English Literature, Book III, chapter II. CONGREVE The modern editions of Congreve's plays are A. C. Ewald's in the Mermaid Series, 1887, G. S. Street's Comedies of William Congreve, 1895, and William Archer's selections in Masterpieces of the English Drama, 1912. A convenient Life is Edmund Gosse's in the Great Writers Series, 1888. A critical monograph is D. Schmid's " William Congreve, sein Leben und seine Lustspiele " in Wiener Beitr'dge zur englischen Philologie, 1897. Meredith's Essay on Comedy, 1897, has some brilliant remarks on Congreve's comedy. FARQUHAR All of Farquhar's plays are included in A. C. Ewald's Dramatic Works of George Farquhar, 1892. The chief plays have been edited by William Archer in the Mermaid Series, 1906, with an excellent introduction. An annotated edition of " The Beaux' Stratagem " by H. M. Fitzgibbon is found in the Temple Dramatists Series, 1898; and of "The Beaux' Stratagem" (with "A Discourse upon Comedy" and " The Recruiting Officer") by Louis A. Strauss in the Belles Lettres Series, 1914. D. Schmid's " George Farquhar, sein Leben und seine Original-Dramen " in Wiener Beitr'dge sur englischen Philologie, 1904, is an elaborate study. Miss Guiney has a pleasant essay upon Farquhar in Poet-Lore, VI, 1894, 406-413. ADDISON " Cato " appears in the first volume of Kurd's edition of Addison's Works, 1811, and is readily accessible for a dime in Maynard's English Classics Series. Johnson's Life of Addison contains much famous criticism of the play; and the sixth chapter in Courthope's Life (English Men of Letters Series), 1884, is a valuable sketch. Good accounts of the presentation of " Cato " are those of D. Cook, Once a Week, V, 72 f. and J. F. Molloy, Famous Plays, 1886, pp. 39-70. STEELE The best modern edition of Steele's plays is G. A. Aitken's in the Mermaid Series. Aitken has also a Life in two volumes, 1889. Austin 460 BIBLIOGRAPHY Dobson has a much shorter Life in the English Writers Series, 1888. Steele's share in the sentimental comedy is dealt with in Osborn Waterhouse's " The Development of English Sentimental Comedy in the Eighteenth Century" in Anglia, vol. XXX, 137-172, 269-305 (1907); and in D. C. Croisant's " Studies in the Work of Colley Gibber " in Humanistic Studies, vol. I, no. i, Bulletin of the University of Kansas, 1912. GAY Two excellent modern editions of " The Beggar's Opera " are the re- prints by G. Hamilton Macleod in The King's Library, 1905, and by Gregor Sarrazin, John Gay's Singspiele in Englische Textbibliothek, 1898. Entertain- ingly discursive is Charles E. Pearce's " Polly Peachum," being the story of Lavinia Fenton (Duchess of Bolton) and " The Beggar's Opera" 1913. Molloy's Famous Plays, 1886, pp. 73-100, discusses particularly the presentation of the play. See also the sketch of Gay by Austin Dobson in The Dictionary of National Biography and John Underbill's introductory memoir to his edition of Gay's Poetical Works, 1893. \*W ' FIELDING Besides the editions of Fielding's complete works by Leslie Stephen in ten volumes, 1882, by George Saintsbury in twelve volumes, 1893, by Edmund Gosse in twelve volumes, and by W. E. Henley in tw$l^e volumes, 1902, there is a critical edition of " Tom Thumb " by Felix Lindner in Englische Textbibliothek, 1899. The best Lives are Austin Dob- son's Memoir, 1900, and G. M. Godden's Memoir, 1910. GOLDSMITH Among modern editions of Goldsmith's two plays are those of Austin Dobson in the Belles Lettres Series, 1903, with introduction, notes and bibliog- raphy, and of T. H. Dickinson in the Riverside Literature Series, 1908, with introduction and notes. Other annotated editions of " She Stoops to Conquer " are by J. M. Dent in the Temple Dramatists, 1900, and by G. A. F. M. Chatwin, 1912. Forster's The Life and Times of Oliver Goldsmith, 1848, and all succeeding biographies contain more or less complete accounts of the author's dramatic work. Molloy discusses " She Stoops to Conquer " in his Famous Plays, pp. 129-174. SHERIDAN There are numerous editions of Sheridan's plays, of which the most important are Brander Matthews's Sheridan's Comedies, The Rivals and The I School for Scandal, 1885, W. Fraser Rae's Sheridan's Plays, 1902, G. H. I Nettleton's The Major Dramas of Sheridan, 1906, and J. Q. Adams, Jr.'s \The Rivals, 1910. The latest Life is W. Sichcl's Sheridan, from new and original material, 1909. Both " The Rivals " and " The School for Scandal " are discussed in Molloy's Famous Plays, pp. 177-218. 461 Oxford Editions of the Dramatists The Works of Thomas Kyd. Edited, with facsimile letters and title-pages, by F. S. BOAS. 8vo. $5.00. The Works of John Lyly. Edited by R. W. BOND. In three volumes 8vo, with collotype and facsimile title-pages. $12.75. The Plays and Poems of Robert Greene. Edited, with facsimile title-pages, etc., by J. CHURTON COLLINS. 2vols. 8vo. $5.75. The Mediaeval Stage, from classical times through folk-play and minstrelsy to Elizabethan drama. By E. K. CHAMBERS. 8vo. $7.75- York Plays. Edited by L. TOULMIN SMITH. 8vo. $6.75. The Pilgrimage to Parnassus, etc. : comedies performed in St. John's College, Cambridge, A.D. 1597-1601. Ed. W. D. MACRAY. Med. 8vo. $2.25. Miracle Plays, Moralities and Interludes, being specimens of the pre-Elizabethan drama. Edited by A. W. POLLARD. Ed. 5. Cr. 8vo. $1.90. Karly Knglish Tragedies. Edited, with introduction and notes, by J. W. CUNLIFFE. Cr. 8vo. $2.50. Plays from the Italian: Supposes, The Buggbears, Misogonus. Edited by R. W. BOND. Cr. 8vo. $2.50. Ancient Classical Drama. By R. G. MOULTON. Cr. 8vo. $2.25. Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist. By R. G. MOULTON. Third edition. Cr. 8vo. $1.00. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES COLLEGE LIBRARY This book is due on the last date stamped below. uct 2 o Book Slip-25m-7,'61(Cl437s4)4280 uv,.^,-,, - PR1245T83 L 005 765 434 5 College Library PR 1245 T83 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 001 161 742 o I if!!