The Old Bachelor
by
William Congreve
Part 1 out of 3
The Old Bachelor
by William Congreve
Quem tulit ad scenam ventoso Gloria curru,
Exanimat lentus spectator; sedulus inflat:
Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum
Subruit, and reficit.
HORAT. Epist. I. lib. ii.
To the Right Honourable Charles, Lord Clifford of Lanesborough,
etc.
My Lord,--It is with a great deal of pleasure that I lay hold on
this first occasion which the accidents of my life have given me of
writing to your lordship: for since at the same time I write to
all the world, it will be a means of publishing (what I would have
everybody know) the respect and duty which I owe and pay to you. I
have so much inclination to be yours that I need no other
engagement. But the particular ties by which I am bound to your
lordship and family have put it out of my power to make you any
compliment, since all offers of myself will amount to no more than
an honest acknowledgment, and only shew a willingness in me to be
grateful.
I am very near wishing that it were not so much my interest to be
your lordship's servant, that it might be more my merit; not that I
would avoid being obliged to you, but I would have my own choice to
run me into the debt: that I might have it to boast, I had
distinguished a man to whom I would be glad to be obliged, even
without the hopes of having it in my power ever to make him a
return.
It is impossible for me to come near your lordship in any kind and
not to receive some favour; and while in appearance I am only
making an acknowledgment (with the usual underhand dealing of the
world) I am at the same time insinuating my own interest. I cannot
give your lordship your due, without tacking a bill of my own
privileges. 'Tis true, if a man never committed a folly, he would
never stand in need of a protection. But then power would have
nothing to do, and good nature no occasion to show itself; and
where those qualities are, 'tis pity they should want objects to
shine upon. I must confess this is no reason why a man should do
an idle thing, nor indeed any good excuse for it when done; yet it
reconciles the uses of such authority and goodness to the
necessities of our follies, and is a sort of poetical logic, which
at this time I would make use of, to argue your lordship into a
protection of this play. It is the first offence I have committed
in this kind, or indeed, in any kind of poetry, though not the
first made public, and therefore I hope will the more easily be
pardoned. But had it been acted, when it was first written, more
might have been said in its behalf: ignorance of the town and
stage would then have been excuses in a young writer, which now
almost four years' experience will scarce allow of. Yet I must
declare myself sensible of the good nature of the town, in
receiving this play so kindly, with all its faults, which I must
own were, for the most part, very industriously covered by the care
of the players; for I think scarce a character but received all the
advantage it would admit of from the justness of the action.
As for the critics, my lord, I have nothing to say to, or against,
any of them of any kind: from those who make just exceptions, to
those who find fault in the wrong place. I will only make this
general answer in behalf of my play (an answer which Epictetus
advises every man to make for himself to his censurers), viz.:
'That if they who find some faults in it, were as intimate with it
as I am, they would find a great many more.' This is a confession,
which I needed not to have made; but however, I can draw this use
from it to my own advantage: that I think there are no faults in
it but what I do know; which, as I take it, is the first step to an
amendment.
Thus I may live in hopes (sometime or other) of making the town
amends; but you, my lord, I never can, though I am ever your
lordship's most obedient and most humble servant,
WILL. CONGREVE.
To Mr. Congreve.
When virtue in pursuit of fame appears,
And forward shoots the growth beyond the years.
We timely court the rising hero's cause,
And on his side the poet wisely draws,
Bespeaking him hereafter by applause.
The days will come, when we shall all receive
Returning interest from what now we give,
Instructed and supported by that praise
And reputation which we strive to raise.
Nature so coy, so hardly to be wooed,
Flies, like a mistress, but to be pursued.
O Congreve! boldly follow on the chase:
She looks behind and wants thy strong embrace:
She yields, she yields, surrenders all her charms,
Do you but force her gently to your arms:
Such nerves, such graces, in your lines appear,
As you were made to be her ravisher.
Dryden has long extended his command,
By right divine, quite through the muses' land,
Absolute lord; and holding now from none,
But great Apollo, his undoubted crown.
That empire settled, and grown old in power
Can wish for nothing but a successor:
Not to enlarge his limits, but maintain
Those provinces, which he alone could gain.
His eldest Wycherly, in wise retreat,
Thought it not worth his quiet to be great.
Loose, wand'ring Etherege, in wild pleasures tost,
And foreign int'rests, to his hopes long lost:
Poor Lee and Otway dead! Congreve appears,
The darling, and last comfort of his years.
May'st thou live long in thy great master's smiles,
And growing under him, adorn these isles.
But when--when part of him (be that but late)
His body yielding must submit to fate,
Leaving his deathless works and thee behind
(The natural successor of his mind),
Then may'st thou finish what he has begun:
Heir to his merit, be in fame his son.
What thou hast done, shews all is in thy pow'r,
And to write better, only must write more.
'Tis something to be willing to commend;
But my best praise is, that I am your friend,
THO. SOUTHERNE.
To Mr. Congreve.
The danger's great in these censorious days,
When critics are so rife to venture praise:
When the infectious and ill-natured brood
Behold, and damn the work, because 'tis good,
And with a proud, ungenerous spirit, try
To pass an ostracism on poetry.
But you, my friend, your worth does safely bear
Above their spleen; you have no cause for fear;
Like a well-mettled hawk, you took your flight
Quite out of reach, and almost out of sight.
As the strong sun, in a fair summer's day,
You rise, and drive the mists and clouds away,
The owls and bats, and all the birds of prey.
Each line of yours, like polished steel's so hard,
In beauty safe, it wants no other guard.
Nature herself's beholden to your dress,
Which though still like, much fairer you express.
Some vainly striving honour to obtain,
Leave to their heirs the traffic of their brain:
Like China under ground, the ripening ware,
In a long time, perhaps grows worth our care.
But you now reap the fame, so well you've sown;
The planter tastes his fruit to ripeness grown.
As a fair orange-tree at once is seen
Big with what's ripe, yet springing still with green,
So at one time, my worthy friend appears,
With all the sap of youth, and weight of years.
Accept my pious love, as forward zeal,
Which though it ruins me I can't conceal:
Exposed to censure for my weak applause,
I'm pleased to suffer in so just a cause;
And though my offering may unworthy prove,
Take, as a friend, the wishes of my love.
J. MARSH.
To Mr. Congreve, on his play called The Old Bachelor.
Wit, like true gold, refined from all allay,
Immortal is, and never can decay:
'Tis in all times and languages the same,
Nor can an ill translation quench the flame:
For, though the form and fashion don't remain,
The intrinsic value still it will retain.
Then let each studied scene be writ with art,
And judgment sweat to form the laboured part.
Each character be just, and nature seem:
Without th' ingredient, wit, 'tis all but phlegm:
For that's the soul, which all the mass must move,
And wake our passions into grief or love.
But you, too bounteous, sow your wit so thick,
We are surprised, and know not where to pick;
And while with clapping we are just to you,
Ourselves we injure, and lose something new.
What mayn't we then, great youth, of thee presage,
Whose art and wit so much transcend thy age?
How wilt thou shine at thy meridian height,
Who, at thy rising, giv'st so vast a light?
When Dryden dying shall the world deceive,
Whom we immortal, as his works, believe,
Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the stage,
Adorn and entertain the coming age.
BEVIL. HIGGONS.
PROLOGUE INTENDED FOR THE OLD BACHELOR.
Written by the Lord Falkland.
Most authors on the stage at first appear
Like widows' bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear:
They judge, from the experience of the dame,
How hard a task it is to quench her flame;
And who falls short of furnishing a course
Up to his brawny predecessor's force,
With utmost rage from her embraces thrown,
Remains convicted as an empty drone.
Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner
Proves in the end a miserable sinner.
As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him,
With all the vigour of his youth about him;
But he, more sanguine, trusts in one and twenty,
And impudently hopes he shall content you:
For though his bachelor be worn and cold,
He thinks the young may club to help the old,
And what alone can be achieved by neither,
Is often brought about by both together.
The briskest of you all have felt alarms,
Finding the fair one prostitute her charms
With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms:
But for our spark, he swears he'll ne'er be jealous
Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows.
Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave,
After his bragging, prove a washy knave,
May he be banished to some lonely den
And never more have leave to dip his pen.
But if he be the champion he pretends,
Both sexes sure will join to be his friends,
For all agree, where all can have their ends.
And you must own him for a man of might,
If he holds out to please you the third night.
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
How this vile world is changed! In former days
Prologues were serious speeches before plays,
Grave, solemn things, as graces are to feasts,
Where poets begged a blessing from their guests.
But now no more like suppliants we come;
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum.
Armed with keen satire and with pointed wit,
We threaten you who do for judges sit,
To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit.
But for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We've a young author and his first-born play;
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He's very civil, and entreats your favour.
Not but the man has malice, would he show it,
But on my conscience he's a bashful poet;
You think that strange--no matter, he'll outgrow it.
Well, I'm his advocate: by me he prays you
(I don't know whether I shall speak to please you),
He prays--O bless me! what shall I do now?
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how!
And 'twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it!
Well, the deuce take me, if I han't forgot it.
O Lord, for heav'n's sake excuse the play,
Because, you know, if it be damned to-day,
I shall be hanged for wanting what to say.
For my sake then--but I'm in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution. [Runs off]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
MEN.
HEARTWELL, a surly old bachelor, pretending to slight women,
secretly in love with Silvia--Mr. Betterton.
BELLMOUR, in love with Belinda--Mr. Powell
VAINLOVE, capricious in his love; in love with Araminta--Mr.
Williams
SHARPER--Mr. Verbruggen
SIR JOSEPH WITTOL--Mr. Bowen
CAPTAIN BLUFFE--Mr. Haines.
FONDLEWIFE, a banker--Mr. Dogget
SETTER, a pimp--Mr Underhill
SERVANT to Fondlewife.
WOMEN.
ARAMINTA, in love with Vainlove--Mrs. Bracegirdle
BELINDA, her cousin, an affected lady, in love with Bellmour--Mrs.
Mountfort
LAETITIA, wife to Fondlewife--Mrs. Barry
SYLVIA, Vainlove's forsaken mistress--Mrs. Bowman
LUCY, her maid--Mrs. Leigh
BETTY
BOY and FOOTMEN.
SCENE: London.
THE OLD BACHELOR: ACT I.--SCENE I.
SCENE: The Street.
BELLMOUR and VAINLOVE meeting.
BELL. Vainlove, and abroad so early! Good-morrow; I thought a
contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a
morning than he could have slept in't.
VAIN. Bellmour, good-morrow. Why, truth on't is, these early
sallies are not usual to me; but business, as you see, sir--
[Showing Letters.] And business must be followed, or be lost.
BELL. Business! And so must time, my friend, be close pursued, or
lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the
bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark.
VAIN. Pleasure, I guess you mean.
BELL. Ay; what else has meaning?
VAIN. Oh, the wise will tell you -
BELL. More than they believe--or understand.
VAIN. How, how, Ned! A wise man say more than he understands?
BELL. Ay, ay! Wisdom's nothing but a pretending to know and
believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and
all that he knew was, that he knew nothing. Come, come, leave
business to idlers and wisdom to fools; they have need of 'em. Wit
be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let Father Time
shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel till they have
worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my
element--I roll in a higher orb, and dwell -
VAIN. In castles i' th' air of thy own building. That's thy
element, Ned. Well, as high a flier as you are, I have a lure may
make you stoop. [Flings a Letter.]
BELL. I, marry, sir, I have a hawk's eye at a woman's hand.
There's more elegancy in the false spelling of this superscription
[takes up the Letter] than in all Cicero. Let me see.--How now!--
Dear PERFIDIOUS VAINLOVE. [Reads.]
VAIN. Hold, hold, 'slife, that's the wrong.
BELL. Nay, let's see the name--Sylvia!--how canst thou be
ungrateful to that creature? She's extremely pretty, and loves
thee entirely--I have heard her breathe such raptures about thee -
VAIN. Ay, or anybody that she's about -
BELL. No, faith, Frank, you wrong her; she has been just to you.
VAIN. That's pleasant, by my troth, from thee, who hast had her.
BELL. Never--her affections. 'Tis true, by heaven: she owned it
to my face; and, blushing like the virgin morn when it disclosed
the cheat which that trusty bawd of nature, night, had hid,
confessed her soul was true to you; though I by treachery had
stolen the bliss.
VAIN. So was true as turtle--in imagination--Ned, ha? Preach this
doctrine to husbands, and the married women will adore thee.
BELL. Why, faith, I think it will do well enough, if the husband
be out of the way, for the wife to show her fondness and impatience
of his absence by choosing a lover as like him as she can; and what
is unlike, she may help out with her own fancy.
VAIN. But is it not an abuse to the lover to be made a blind of?
BELL. As you say, the abuse is to the lover, not the husband. For
'tis an argument of her great zeal towards him, that she will enjoy
him in effigy.
VAIN. It must be a very superstitious country where such zeal
passes for true devotion. I doubt it will be damned by all our
Protestant husbands for flat idolatry. But, if you can make
Alderman Fondlewife of your persuasion, this letter will be
needless.
BELL. What! The old banker with the handsome wife?
VAIN. Ay.
BELL. Let me see--LAETITIA! Oh, 'tis a delicious morsel. Dear
Frank, thou art the truest friend in the world.
VAIN. Ay, am I not? To be continually starting of hares for you
to course. We were certainly cut out for one another; for my
temper quits an amour just where thine takes it up. But read that;
it is an appointment for me, this evening--when Fondlewife will be
gone out of town, to meet the master of a ship, about the return of
a venture which he's in danger of losing. Read, read.
BELL. [reads.] Hum, Hum--Out of town this evening, and talks of
sending for Mr. Spintext to keep me company; but I'll take care he
shall not be at home. Good! Spintext! Oh, the fanatic one-eyed
parson!
VAIN. Ay.
BELL. [reads.] Hum, Hum--That your conversation will be much more
agreeable, if you can counterfeit his habit to blind the servants.
Very good! Then I must be disguised?--With all my heart!--It adds
a gusto to an amour; gives it the greater resemblance of theft;
and, among us lewd mortals, the deeper the sin the sweeter. Frank,
I'm amazed at thy good nature -
VAIN. Faith, I hate love when 'tis forced upon a man, as I do
wine. And this business is none of my seeking; I only happened to
be, once or twice, where Laetitia was the handsomest woman in
company; so, consequently, applied myself to her--and it seems she
has taken me at my word. Had you been there, or anybody, 't had
been the same.
BELL. I wish I may succeed as the same.
VAIN. Never doubt it; for if the spirit of cuckoldom be once
raised up in a woman, the devil can't lay it, until she has done't.
BELL. Prithee, what sort of fellow is Fondlewife?
VAIN. A kind of mongrel zealot, sometimes very precise and
peevish. But I have seen him pleasant enough in his way; much
addicted to jealousy, but more to fondness; so that as he is often
jealous without a cause, he's as often satisfied without reason.
BELL. A very even temper, and fit for my purpose. I must get your
man Setter to provide my disguise.
VAIN. Ay; you may take him for good and all, if you will, for you
have made him fit for nobody else. Well -
BELL. You're going to visit in return of Sylvia's letter. Poor
rogue! Any hour of the day or night will serve her. But do you
know nothing of a new rival there?
VAIN. Yes; Heartwell--that surly, old, pretended woman-hater--
thinks her virtuous; that's one reason why I fail her. I would
have her fret herself out of conceit with me, that she may
entertain some thoughts of him. I know he visits her every day.
BELL. Yet rails on still, and thinks his love unknown to us. A
little time will swell him so, he must be forced to give it birth;
and the discovery must needs be very pleasant from himself, to see
what pains he will take, and how he will strain to be delivered of
a secret, when he has miscarried of it already.
VAIN. Well, good-morrow. Let's dine together; I'll meet at the
old place.
BELL. With all my heart. It lies convenient for us to pay our
afternoon services to our mistresses. I find I am damnably in
love, I'm so uneasy for not having seen Belinda yesterday.
VAIN. But I saw my Araminta, yet am as impatient.
SCENE II.
BELLMOUR alone.
BELL. Why, what a cormorant in love am I! Who, not contented with
the slavery of honourable love in one place, and the pleasure of
enjoying some half a score mistresses of my own acquiring, must yet
take Vainlove's business upon my hands, because it lay too heavy
upon his; so am not only forced to lie with other men's wives for
'em, but must also undertake the harder task of obliging their
mistresses. I must take up, or I shall never hold out. Flesh and
blood cannot bear it always.
SCENE III.
[To him] SHARPER.
SHARP. I'm sorry to see this, Ned. Once a man comes to his
soliloquies, I give him for gone.
BELL. Sharper, I'm glad to see thee.
SHARP. What! is Belinda cruel, that you are so thoughtful?
BELL. No, faith, not for that. But there's a business of
consequence fallen out to-day that requires some consideration.
SHARP. Prithee, what mighty business of consequence canst thou
have?
BELL. Why, you must know, 'tis a piece of work toward the
finishing of an alderman. It seems I must put the last hand to it,
and dub him cuckold, that he may be of equal dignity with the rest
of his brethren: so I must beg Belinda's pardon.
SHARP. Faith, e'en give her over for good and all; you can have no
hopes of getting her for a mistress; and she is too proud, too
inconstant, too affected and too witty, and too handsome for a
wife.
BELL. But she can't have too much money. There's twelve thousand
pound, Tom. 'Tis true she is excessively foppish and affected; but
in my conscience I believe the baggage loves me: for she never
speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me.
Then, as I told you, there's twelve thousand pound. Hum! Why,
faith, upon second thoughts, she does not appear to be so very
affected neither.--Give her her due, I think the woman's a woman,
and that's all. As such, I'm sure I shall like her; for the devil
take me if I don't love all the sex.
SHARP. And here comes one who swears as heartily he hates all the
sex.
SCENE IV.
[To them] HEARTWELL.
BELL. Who? Heartwell? Ay, but he knows better things. How now,
George, where hast thou been snarling odious truths, and
entertaining company, like a physician, with discourse of their
diseases and infirmities? What fine lady hast thou been putting
out of conceit with herself, and persuading that the face she had
been making all the morning was none of her own? For I know thou
art as unmannerly and as unwelcome to a woman as a looking-glass
after the smallpox.
HEART. I confess I have not been sneering fulsome lies and
nauseous flattery; fawning upon a little tawdry whore, that will
fawn upon me again, and entertain any puppy that comes, like a
tumbler, with the same tricks over and over. For such, I guess,
may have been your late employment.
BELL. Would thou hadst come a little sooner. Vainlove would have
wrought thy conversion, and been a champion for the cause.
HEART. What! has he been here? That's one of love's April fools;
is always upon some errand that's to no purpose; ever embarking in
adventures, yet never comes to harbour.
SHARP. That's because he always sets out in foul weather, loves to
buffet with the winds, meet the tide, and sail in the teeth of
opposition.
HEART. What! Has he not dropt anchor at Araminta?
BELL. Truth on't is she fits his temper best, is a kind of
floating island; sometimes seems in reach, then vanishes and keeps
him busied in the search.
SHARP. She had need have a good share of sense to manage so
capricious a lover.
BELL. Faith I don't know, he's of a temper the most easy to
himself in the world; he takes as much always of an amour as he
cares for, and quits it when it grows stale or unpleasant.
SHARP. An argument of very little passion, very good
understanding, and very ill nature.
HEART. And proves that Vainlove plays the fool with discretion.
SHARP. You, Bellmour, are bound in gratitude to stickle for him;
you with pleasure reap that fruit, which he takes pains to sow: he
does the drudgery in the mine, and you stamp your image on the
gold.
BELL. He's of another opinion, and says I do the drudgery in the
mine. Well, we have each our share of sport, and each that which
he likes best; 'tis his diversion to set, 'tis mine to cover the
partridge.
HEART. And it should be mine to let 'em go again.
SHARP. Not till you had mouthed a little, George. I think that's
all thou art fit for now.
HEART. Good Mr. Young-Fellow, you're mistaken; as able as
yourself, and as nimble, too, though I mayn't have so much mercury
in my limbs; 'tis true, indeed, I don't force appetite, but wait
the natural call of my lust, and think it time enough to be lewd
after I have had the temptation.
BELL. Time enough, ay, too soon, I should rather have expected,
from a person of your gravity.
HEART. Yet it is oftentimes too late with some of you young,
termagant, flashy sinners--you have all the guilt of the intention,
and none of the pleasure of the practice--'tis true you are so
eager in pursuit of the temptation, that you save the devil the
trouble of leading you into it. Nor is it out of discretion that
you don't swallow that very hook yourselves have baited, but you
are cloyed with the preparative, and what you mean for a whet,
turns the edge of your puny stomachs. Your love is like your
courage, which you show for the first year or two upon all
occasions; till in a little time, being disabled or disarmed, you
abate of your vigour; and that daring blade which was so often
drawn, is bound to the peace for ever after.
BELL. Thou art an old fornicator of a singular good principle
indeed, and art for encouraging youth, that they may be as wicked
as thou art at thy years.
HEART. I am for having everybody be what they pretend to be: a
whoremaster be a whoremaster, and not like Vainlove, kiss a lap-dog
with passion, when it would disgust him from the lady's own lips.
BELL. That only happens sometimes, where the dog has the sweeter
breath, for the more cleanly conveyance. But, George, you must not
quarrel with little gallantries of this nature: women are often
won by 'em. Who would refuse to kiss a lap-dog, if it were
preliminary to the lips of his lady?
SHARP. Or omit playing with her fan, and cooling her if she were
hot, when it might entitle him to the office of warming her when
she should be cold?
BELL. What is it to read a play in a rainy day? Though you should
be now and then interrupted in a witty scene, and she perhaps
preserve her laughter, till the jest were over; even that may be
borne with, considering the reward in prospect.
HEART. I confess you that are women's asses bear greater burdens:
are forced to undergo dressing, dancing, singing, sighing, whining,
rhyming, flattering, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drudgery of
loving to boot.
BELL. O brute, the drudgery of loving!
HEART. Ay! Why, to come to love through all these incumbrances is
like coming to an estate overcharged with debts, which, by the time
you have paid, yields no further profit than what the bare tillage
and manuring of the land will produce at the expense of your own
sweat.
BELL. Prithee, how dost thou love?
SHARP. He! He hates the sex.
HEART. So I hate physic too--yet I may love to take it for my
health.
BELL. Well come off, George, if at any time you should be taken
straying.
SHARP. He has need of such an excuse, considering the present
state of his body.
HEART. How d'ye mean?
SHARP. Why, if whoring be purging, as you call it, then, I may
say, marriage is entering into a course of physic.
BELL. How, George! Does the wind blow there?
HEART. It will as soon blow north and by south--marry, quotha! I
hope in heaven I have a greater portion of grace, and I think I
have baited too many of those traps to be caught in one myself.
BELL. Who the devil would have thee? unless 'twere an oysterwoman
to propagate young fry for Billingsgate--thy talent will never
recommend thee to anything of better quality.
HEART. My talent is chiefly that of speaking truth, which I don't
expect should ever recommend me to people of quality. I thank
heaven I have very honestly purchased the hatred of all the great
families in town.
SHARP. And you in return of spleen hate them. But could you hope
to be received into the alliance of a noble family -
HEART. No; I hope I shall never merit that affliction, to be
punished with a wife of birth, be a stag of the first head and bear
my horns aloft, like one of the supporters of my wife's coat.
S'death I would not be a Cuckold to e'er an illustrious whore in
England.
BELL. What, not to make your family, man and provide for your
children?
SHARP. For her children, you mean.
HEART. Ay, there you've nicked it. There's the devil upon devil.
Oh, the pride and joy of heart 'twould be to me to have my son and
heir resemble such a duke; to have a fleering coxcomb scoff and
cry, 'Mr. your son's mighty like his Grace, has just his smile and
air of's face.' Then replies another, 'Methinks he has more of the
Marquess of such a place about his nose and eyes, though he has my
Lord what-d'ye-call's mouth to a tittle.' Then I, to put it off as
unconcerned, come chuck the infant under the chin, force a smile,
and cry, 'Ay, the boy takes after his mother's relations,' when the
devil and she knows 'tis a little compound of the whole body of
nobility.
BELL+SHARP. Ha, ha, ha!
BELL. Well, but, George, I have one question to ask you -
HEART. Pshaw, I have prattled away my time. I hope you are in no
haste for an answer, for I shan't stay now. [Looking on his
watch.]
BELL. Nay, prithee, George -
HEART. No; besides my business, I see a fool coming this way.
Adieu.
SCENE V.
SHARPER, BELLMOUR.
BELL. What does he mean? Oh, 'tis Sir Joseph Wittoll with his
friend; but I see he has turned the corner and goes another way.
SHARP. What in the name of wonder is it?
BELL. Why, a fool.
SHARP. 'Tis a tawdry outside.
BELL. And a very beggarly lining--yet he may be worth your
acquaintance; a little of thy chymistry, Tom, may extract gold from
that dirt.
SHARP. Say you so? 'Faith I am as poor as a chymist, and would be
as industrious. But what was he that followed him? Is not he a
dragon that watches those golden pippins?
BELL. Hang him, no, he a dragon! If he be, 'tis a very peaceful
one. I can ensure his anger dormant; or should he seem to rouse,
'tis but well lashing him, and he will sleep like a top.
SHARP. Ay, is he of that kidney?
BELL. Yet is adored by that bigot, Sir Joseph Wittoll, as the
image of valour. He calls him his back, and indeed they are never
asunder--yet, last night, I know not by what mischance, the knight
was alone, and had fallen into the hands of some night-walkers,
who, I suppose, would have pillaged him. But I chanced to come by
and rescued him, though I believe he was heartily frightened; for
as soon as ever he was loose, he ran away without staying to see
who had helped him.
SHARP. Is that bully of his in the army?
BELL. No; but is a pretender, and wears the habit of a soldier,
which nowadays as often cloaks cowardice, as a black gown does
atheism. You must know he has been abroad--went purely to run away
from a campaign; enriched himself with the plunder of a few oaths,
and here vents them against the general, who, slighting men of
merit, and preferring only those of interest, has made him quit the
service.
SHARP. Wherein no doubt he magnifies his own performance.
BELL. Speaks miracles, is the drum to his own praise--the only
implement of a soldier he resembles, like that, being full of
blustering noise and emptiness -
SHARP. And like that, of no use but to be beaten.
BELL. Right; but then the comparison breaks, for he will take a
drubbing with as little noise as a pulpit cushion.
SHARP. His name, and I have done?
BELL. Why, that, to pass it current too, he has gilded with a
title: he is called Capt. Bluffe.
SHARP. Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance--you steer another
course, are bound -
For love's island: I, for the golden coast.
May each succeed in what he wishes most.
ACT II.--SCENE I.
SIR JOSEPH WITTOLL, SHARPER following.
SHARP. Sure that's he, and alone.
SIR JO. Um--Ay, this, this is the very damned place; the inhuman
cannibals, the bloody-minded villains, would have butchered me last
night. No doubt they would have flayed me alive, have sold my
skin, and devoured, etc.
SHARP. How's this!
SIR JO. An it hadn't been for a civil gentleman as came by and
frighted 'em away--but, agad, I durst not stay to give him thanks.
SHARP. This must be Bellmour he means. Ha! I have a thought -
SIR JO. Zooks, would the captain would come; the very remembrance
makes me quake; agad, I shall never be reconciled to this place
heartily.
SHARP. 'Tis but trying, and being where I am at worst, now luck!--
cursed fortune! this must be the place, this damned unlucky place -
SIR JO. Agad, and so 'tis. Why, here has been more mischief done,
I perceive.
SHARP. No, 'tis gone, 'tis lost--ten thousand devils on that
chance which drew me hither; ay, here, just here, this spot to me
is hell; nothing to be found, but the despair of what I've lost.
[Looking about as in search.]
SIR JO. Poor gentleman! By the Lord Harry I'll stay no longer,
for I have found too -
SHARP. Ha! who's that has found? What have you found? Restore it
quickly, or by -
SIR JO. Not I, sir, not I; as I've a soul to be saved, I have
found nothing but what has been to my loss, as I may say, and as
you were saying, sir.
SHARP. Oh, your servant, sir; you are safe, then, it seems. 'Tis
an ill wind that blows nobody good. Well, you may rejoice over my
ill fortune, since it paid the price of your ransom.
SIR JO. I rejoice! agad, not I, sir: I'm very sorry for your
loss, with all my heart, blood and guts, sir; and if you did but
know me, you'd ne'er say I were so ill-natured.
SHARP. Know you! Why, can you be so ungrateful to forget me?
SIR JO. O Lord, forget him! No, no, sir, I don't forget you--
because I never saw your face before, agad. Ha, ha, ha!
SHARP. How! [Angrily.]
SIR JO. Stay, stay, sir, let me recollect--he's a damned angry
fellow--I believe I had better remember him, until I can get out of
his sight; but out of sight out of mind, agad. [Aside.]
SHARP. Methought the service I did you last night, sir, in
preserving you from those ruffians, might have taken better root in
your shallow memory.
SIR JO. Gads-daggers-belts-blades and scabbards, this is the very
gentleman! How shall I make him a return suitable to the greatness
of his merit? I had a pretty thing to that purpose, if he ha'n't
frighted it out of my memory. Hem! hem! sir, I most submissively
implore your pardon for my transgression of ingratitude and
omission; having my entire dependence, sir, upon the superfluity of
your goodness, which, like an inundation, will, I hope, totally
immerge the recollection of my error, and leave me floating, in
your sight, upon the full-blown bladders of repentance--by the help
of which, I shall once more hope to swim into your favour. [Bows.]
SHARP. So-h, oh, sir, I am easily pacified, the acknowledgment of
a gentleman -
SIR JO. Acknowledgment! Sir, I am all over acknowledgment, and
will not stick to show it in the greatest extremity by night or by
day, in sickness or in health, winter or summer; all seasons and
occasions shall testify the reality and gratitude of your
superabundant humble servant, Sir Joseph Wittoll, knight. Hem!
hem!
SHARP. Sir Joseph Wittoll?
SIR JO. The same, sir, of Wittoll Hall in COMITATU Bucks.
SHARP. Is it possible! Then I am happy to have obliged the mirror
of knighthood and pink of courtesie in the age. Let me embrace
you.
SIR JO. O Lord, sir!
SHARP. My loss I esteem as a trifle repaid with interest, since it
has purchased me the friendship and acquaintance of the person in
the world whose character I admire.
SIR JO. You are only pleased to say so, sir. But, pray, if I may
be so bold, what is that loss you mention?
SHARP. Oh, term it no longer so, sir. In the scuffle last night I
only dropt a bill of a hundred pound, which, I confess, I came half
despairing to recover; but, thanks to my better fortune -
SIR JO. You have found it, sir, then, it seems; I profess I'm
heartily glad -
SHARP. Sir, your humble servant. I don't question but you are,
that you have so cheap an opportunity of expressing your gratitude
and generosity, since the paying so trivial a sum will wholly
acquit you and doubly engage me.
SIR JO. What a dickens does he mean by a trivial sum? [Aside.]
But ha'n't you found it, sir!
SHARP. No otherwise, I vow to Gad, but in my hopes in you, sir.
SIR JO. Humh.
SHARP. But that's sufficient. 'Twere injustice to doubt the
honour of Sir Joseph Wittoll.
SIR JO. O Lord, sir.
SHARP. You are above, I'm sure, a thought so low, to suffer me to
lose what was ventured in your service; nay, 'twas in a manner paid
down for your deliverance; 'twas so much lent you. And you scorn,
I'll say that for you -
SIR JO. Nay, I'll say that for myself, with your leave, sir, I do
scorn a dirty thing. But, agad, I'm a little out of pocket at
present.
SHARP. Pshaw, you can't want a hundred pound. Your word is
sufficient anywhere. 'Tis but borrowing so much dirt. You have
large acres, and can soon repay it. Money is but dirt, Sir Joseph-
-mere dirt.
SIR JO. But, I profess, 'tis a dirt I have washed my hands of at
present; I have laid it all out upon my Back.
SHARP. Are you so extravagant in clothes, Sir Joseph?
SIR JO. Ha, ha, ha, a very good jest, I profess, ha, ha, ha, a
very good jest, and I did not know that I had said it, and that's a
better jest than t'other. 'Tis a sign you and I ha'n't been long
acquainted; you have lost a good jest for want of knowing me--I
only mean a friend of mine whom I call my Back; he sticks as close
to me, and follows me through all dangers--he is indeed back,
breast, and head-piece, as it were, to me. Agad, he's a brave
fellow. Pauh, I am quite another thing when I am with him: I
don't fear the devil (bless us) almost if he be by. Ah! had he
been with me last night -
SHARP. If he had, sir, what then? he could have done no more, nor
perhaps have suffered so much. Had he a hundred pound to lose?
[Angrily]
SIR JO. O Lord, sir, by no means, but I might have saved a hundred
pound: I meant innocently, as I hope to be saved, sir (a damned
hot fellow), only, as I was saying, I let him have all my ready
money to redeem his great sword from limbo. But, sir, I have a
letter of credit to Alderman Fondlewife, as far as two hundred
pound, and this afternoon you shall see I am a person, such a one
as you would wish to have met with -
SHARP. That you are, I'll be sworn. [Aside.] Why, that's great
and like yourself.
SCENE II.
[To them] CAPTAIN BLUFFE.
SIR JO. Oh, here a' comes--Ay, my Hector of Troy, welcome, my
bully, my Back; agad, my heart has gone a pit pat for thee.
BLUFF. How now, my young knight? Not for fear, I hope; he that
knows me must be a stranger to fear.
SIR JO. Nay, agad, I hate fear ever since I had like to have died
of a fright. But -
BLUFF. But? Look you here, boy, here's your antidote, here's your
Jesuits' powder for a shaking fit. But who hast thou got with
thee? is he of mettle? [Laying his hand upon his sword.]
SIR JO. Ay, bully, a devilish smart fellow: 'a will fight like a
cock.
BLUFF. Say you so? Then I honour him. But has he been abroad?
for every cock will fight upon his own dunghill.
SIR JO. I don't know, but I'll present you -
BLUFF. I'll recommend myself. Sir, I honour you; I understand you
love fighting, I reverence a man that loves fighting. Sir, I kiss
your hilts.
SHARP. Sir, your servant, but you are misinformed, for, unless it
be to serve my particular friend, as Sir Joseph here, my country,
or my religion, or in some very justifiable cause, I'm not for it.
BLUFF. O Lord, I beg your pardon, sir, I find you are not of my
palate: you can't relish a dish of fighting without sweet sauce.
Now, I think fighting for fighting sake's sufficient cause;
fighting to me's religion and the laws.
SIR JO. Ah, well said, my Hero; was not that great, sir? by the
Lord Harry he says true; fighting is meat, drink, and cloth to him.
But, Back, this gentleman is one of the best friends I have in the
world, and saved my life last night--you know I told you.
BLUFF. Ay! Then I honour him again. Sir, may I crave your name?
SHARP. Ay, sir, my name's Sharper.
SIR JO. Pray, Mr. Sharper, embrace my Back. Very well. By the
Lord Harry, Mr. Sharper, he's as brave a fellow as Cannibal, are
not you, Bully-Back?
SHARP. Hannibal, I believe you mean, Sir Joseph.
BLUFF. Undoubtedly he did, sir; faith, Hannibal was a very pretty
fellow--but, Sir Joseph, comparisons are odious--Hannibal was a
very pretty fellow in those days, it must be granted--but alas,
sir! were he alive now, he would be nothing, nothing in the earth.
SHARP. How, sir! I make a doubt if there be at this day a greater
general breathing.
BLUFF. Oh, excuse me, sir! Have you served abroad, sir?
SHARP. Not I, really, sir.
BLUFF. Oh, I thought so. Why, then, you can know nothing, sir: I
am afraid you scarce know the history of the late war in Flanders,
with all its particulars.
SHARP. Not I, sir, no more than public letters or gazettes tell
us.
BLUFF. Gazette! Why there again now. Why, sir, there are not
three words of truth the year round put into the Gazette. I'll
tell you a strange thing now as to that. You must know, sir, I was
resident in Flanders the last campaign, had a small post there, but
no matter for that. Perhaps, sir, there was scarce anything of
moment done but an humble servant of yours, that shall be nameless,
was an eye-witness of. I won't say had the greatest share in't,
though I might say that too, since I name nobody you know. Well,
Mr. Sharper, would you think it? In all this time, as I hope for a
truncheon, this rascally gazette-writer never so much as once
mentioned me--not once, by the wars--took no more notice than as if
Nol. Bluffe had not been in the land of the living.
SHARP. Strange!
SIR JO. Yet, by the Lord Harry, 'tis true, Mr. Sharper, for I went
every day to coffee-houses to read the gazette myself.
BLUFF. Ay, ay, no matter. You see, Mr. Sharper, after all I am
content to retire; live a private person. Scipio and others have
done it.
SHARP. Impudent rogue. [Aside.]
SIR JO. Ay, this damned modesty of yours. Agad, if he would put
in for't he might be made general himself yet.
BLUFF. Oh, fie! no, Sir Joseph; you know I hate this.
SIR JO. Let me but tell Mr. Sharper a little, how you ate fire
once out of the mouth of a cannon. Agad, he did; those
impenetrable whiskers of his have confronted flames -
BLUFF. Death, what do you mean, Sir Joseph?
SIR JO. Look you now. I tell you he's so modest he'll own
nothing.
BLUFF. Pish, you have put me out, I have forgot what I was about.
Pray hold your tongue, and give me leave. [Angrily.]
SIR JO. I am dumb.
BLUFF. This sword I think I was telling you of, Mr. Sharper. This
sword I'll maintain to be the best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or
casuist in Europe; it shall decide a controversy or split a cause -
SIR JO. Nay, now I must speak; it will split a hair, by the Lord
Harry, I have seen it.
BLUFF. Zounds, sir, it's a lie; you have not seen it, nor sha'n't
see it; sir, I say you can't see; what d'ye say to that now?
SIR JO. I am blind.
BLUFF. Death, had any other man interrupted me -
SIR JO. Good Mr. Sharper, speak to him; I dare not look that way.
SHARP. Captain, Sir Joseph's penitent.
BLUFF. Oh, I am calm, sir, calm as a discharged culverin. But
'twas indiscreet, when you know what will provoke me. Nay, come,
Sir Joseph, you know my heat's soon over.
SIR JO. Well, I am a fool sometimes, but I'm sorry.
BLUFF. Enough.
SIR JO. Come, we'll go take a glass to drown animosities. Mr.
Sharper, will you partake?
SHARP. I wait on you, sir. Nay, pray, Captain; you are Sir
Joseph's back.
SCENE III.
ARAMINTA, BELINDA, BETTY waiting, in Araminta's apartment.
BELIN. Ah! nay, dear; prithee, good, dear, sweet cousin, no more.
O Gad! I swear you'd make one sick to hear you.
ARAM. Bless me! what have I said to move you thus?
BELIN. Oh, you have raved, talked idly, and all in commendation of
that filthy, awkward, two-legged creature man. You don't know what
you've said; your fever has transported you.
ARAM. If love be the fever which you mean, kind heaven avert the
cure. Let me have oil to feed that flame, and never let it be
extinct till I myself am ashes.
BELIN. There was a whine! O Gad, I hate your horrid fancy. This
love is the devil, and, sure, to be in love is to be possessed.
'Tis in the head, the heart, the blood, the--all over. O Gad, you
are quite spoiled. I shall loathe the sight of mankind for your
sake.
ARAM. Fie! this is gross affectation. A little of Bellmour's
company would change the scene.
BELIN. Filthy fellow! I wonder, cousin -
ARAM. I wonder, cousin, you should imagine I don't perceive you
love him.
BELIN. Oh, I love your hideous fancy! Ha, ha, ha, love a man!
ARAM. Love a man! yes, you would not love a beast.
BELIN. Of all beasts not an ass--which is so like your Vainlove.
Lard, I have seen an ass look so chagrin, ha, ha, ha (you must
pardon me, I can't help laughing), that an absolute lover would
have concluded the poor creature to have had darts, and flames, and
altars, and all that in his breast. Araminta, come, I'll talk
seriously to you now; could you but see with my eyes the buffoonery
of one scene of address, a lover, set out with all his equipage and
appurtenances; O Gad I sure you would--But you play the game, and
consequently can't see the miscarriages obvious to every stander
by.
ARAM. Yes, yes; I can see something near it when you and Bellmour
meet. You don't know that you dreamt of Bellmour last night, and
called him aloud in your sleep.
BELIN. Pish, I can't help dreaming of the devil sometimes; would
you from thence infer I love him?
ARAM. But that's not all; you caught me in your arms when you
named him, and pressed me to your bosom. Sure, if I had not
pinched you until you waked, you had stifled me with kisses.
BELIN. O barbarous aspersion!
ARAM. No aspersion, cousin, we are alone. Nay, I can tell you
more.
BELIN. I deny it all.
ARAM. What, before you hear it?
BELIN. My denial is premeditated like your malice. Lard, cousin,
you talk oddly. Whatever the matter is, O my Sol, I'm afraid
you'll follow evil courses.
ARAM. Ha, ha, ha, this is pleasant.
BELIN. You may laugh, but -
ARAM. Ha, ha, ha!
BELIN. You think the malicious grin becomes you. The devil take
Bellmour. Why do you tell me of him?
ARAM. Oh, is it come out? Now you are angry, I am sure you love
him. I tell nobody else, cousin. I have not betrayed you yet.
BELIN. Prithee tell it all the world; it's false.
ARAM. Come, then, kiss and friends.
BELIN. Pish.
ARAM. Prithee don't be so peevish.
BELIN. Prithee don't be so impertinent. Betty!
ARAM. Ha, ha, ha!
BETTY. Did your ladyship call, madam?
BELIN. Get my hoods and tippet, and bid the footman call a chair.
ARAM. I hope you are not going out in dudgeon, cousin.
SCENE IV.
[To them] FOOTMAN.
FOOT. Madam, there are -
BELIN. Is there a chair?
FOOT. No, madam, there are Mr. Bellmour and Mr. Vainlove to wait
upon your ladyship.
ARAM. Are they below?
FOOT. No, madam, they sent before, to know if you were at home.
BELIN. The visit's to you, cousin; I suppose I am at my liberty.
ARAM. Be ready to show 'em up.
SCENE V.
[To them] BETTY, with Hoods and Looking-glass.
I can't tell, cousin; I believe we are equally concerned. But if
you continue your humour, it won't be very entertaining. (I know
she'd fain be persuaded to stay.) [Aside.]
BELIN. I shall oblige you, in leaving you to the full and free
enjoyment of that conversation you admire.
BELIN. Let me see; hold the glass. Lard, I look wretchedly to-
day!
ARAM. Betty, why don't you help my cousin? [Putting on her
hoods.]
BELIN. Hold off your fists, and see that he gets a chair with a
high roof, or a very low seat. Stay, come back here, you Mrs.
Fidget--you are so ready to go to the footman. Here, take 'em all
again, my mind's changed; I won't go.
SCENE VI.
ARAMINTA, BELINDA.
ARAM. So, this I expected. You won't oblige me, then, cousin, and
let me have all the company to myself?
BELIN. No; upon deliberation, I have too much charity to trust you
to yourself. The devil watches all opportunities; and in this
favourable disposition of your mind, heaven knows how far you may
be tempted: I am tender of your reputation.
ARAM. I am obliged to you. But who's malicious now, Belinda?
BELIN. Not I; witness my heart, I stay out of pure affection.
ARAM. In my conscience I believe you.
SCENE VII.
[To them] VAINLOVE, BELLMOUR, FOOTMAN.
BELL. So, fortune be praised! To find you both within, ladies, is
-
ARAM. No miracle, I hope.
BELL. Not o' your side, madam, I confess. But my tyrant there and
I, are two buckets that can never come together.
BELIN. Nor are ever like. Yet we often meet and clash.
BELL. How never like! marry, Hymen forbid. But this it is to run
so extravagantly in debt; I have laid out such a world of love in
your service, that you think you can never be able to pay me all.
So shun me for the same reason that you would a dun.
BELIN. Ay, on my conscience, and the most impertinent and
troublesome of duns--a dun for money will be quiet, when he sees
his debtor has not wherewithal. But a dun for love is an eternal
torment that never rests -
BELL. Until he has created love where there was none, and then
gets it for his pains. For importunity in love, like importunity
at Court, first creates its own interest and then pursues it for
the favour.
ARAM. Favours that are got by impudence and importunity, are like
discoveries from the rack, when the afflicted person, for his ease,
sometimes confesses secrets his heart knows nothing of.
VAIN. I should rather think favours, so gained, to be due rewards
to indefatigable devotion. For as love is a deity, he must be
served by prayer.
BELIN. O Gad, would you would all pray to love, then, and let us
alone.
VAIN. You are the temples of love, and 'tis through you, our
devotion must be conveyed.
ARAM. Rather poor silly idols of your own making, which upon the
least displeasure you forsake and set up new. Every man now
changes his mistress and his religion as his humour varies, or his
interest.
VAIN. O madam -
ARAM. Nay, come, I find we are growing serious, and then we are in
great danger of being dull. If my music-master be not gone, I'll
entertain you with a new song, which comes pretty near my own
opinion of love and your sex. Who's there? Is Mr. Gavot gone?
[Calls.]
FOOT. Only to the next door, madam. I'll call him.
SCENE VIII.
ARAMINTA, BELINDA, VAINLOVE, and BELLMOUR.
BELL. Why, you won't hear me with patience.
ARAM. What's the matter, cousin?
BELL. Nothing, madam, only -
BELIN. Prithee hold thy tongue. Lard, he has so pestered me with
flames and stuff, I think I sha'n't endure the sight of a fire this
twelvemonth.
BELL. Yet all can't melt that cruel frozen heart.
BELIN. O Gad, I hate your hideous fancy--you said that once
before--if you must talk impertinently, for Heaven's sake let it be
with variety; don't come always, like the devil, wrapt in flames.
I'll not hear a sentence more, that begins with an 'I burn'--or an
'I beseech you, madam.'
BELL. But tell me how you would be adored. I am very tractable.
BELIN. Then know, I would be adored in silence.
BELL. Humph, I thought so, that you might have all the talk to
yourself. You had better let me speak; for if my thoughts fly to
any pitch, I shall make villainous signs.
BELIN. What will you get by that; to make such signs as I won't
understand?
BELL. Ay, but if I'm tongue-tied, I must have all my actions free
to--quicken your apprehension--and I-gad let me tell you, my most
prevailing argument is expressed in dumb show.
SCENE IX.
[To them] MUSIC-MASTER.
ARAM. Oh, I am glad we shall have a song to divert the discourse.
Pray oblige us with the last new song.
SONG.
I.
Thus to a ripe, consenting maid,
Poor, old, repenting Delia said,
Would you long preserve your lover?
Would you still his goddess reign?
Never let him all discover,
Never let him much obtain.
II.
Men will admire, adore and die,
While wishing at your feet they lie:
But admitting their embraces,
Wakes 'em from the golden dream;
Nothing's new besides our faces,
Every woman is the same.
ARAM. So, how de'e like the song, gentlemen?
BELL. Oh, very well performed; but I don't much admire the words.
ARAM. I expected it; there's too much truth in 'em. If Mr. Gavot
will walk with us in the garden, we'll have it once again; you may
like it better at second hearing. You'll bring my cousin.
BELL. Faith, madam, I dare not speak to her, but I'll make signs.
[Addresses Belinda in dumb show.]
BELIN. Oh, foh, your dumb rhetoric is more ridiculous than your
talking impertinence, as an ape is a much more troublesome animal
than a parrot.
ARAM. Ay, cousin, and 'tis a sign the creatures mimic nature well;
for there are few men but do more silly things than they say.
BELL. Well, I find my apishness has paid the ransom for my speech,
and set it at liberty--though, I confess, I could be well enough
pleased to drive on a love-bargain in that silent manner--'twould
save a man a world of lying and swearing at the year's end.
Besides, I have had a little experience, that brings to mind -
When wit and reason both have failed to move;
Kind looks and actions (from success) do prove,
Ev'n silence may be eloquent in love.
ACT III.--SCENE I.
SCENE: The Street.
SILVIA and LUCY.
SILV. Will he not come, then?
LUCY. Yes, yes; come, I warrant him, if you will go in and be
ready to receive him.
SILV. Why did you not tell me? Whom mean you?
LUCY. Whom you should mean, Heartwell.
SILV. Senseless creature, I meant my Vainlove.
LUCY. You may as soon hope to recover your own maiden-head as his
love. Therefore, e'en set your heart at rest, and in the name of
opportunity mind your own business. Strike Heartwell home before
the bait's worn off the hook. Age will come. He nibbled fairly
yesterday, and no doubt will be eager enough to-day to swallow the
temptation.
SILV. Well, since there's no remedy--yet tell me--for I would
know, though to the anguish of my soul, how did he refuse? Tell
me, how did he receive my letter--in anger or in scorn?
LUCY. Neither; but what was ten times worse, with damned senseless
indifference. By this light I could have spit in his face.
Receive it! Why, he received it as I would one of your lovers that
should come empty-handed; as a court lord does his mercer's bill or
a begging dedication--he received it as if 't had been a letter
from his wife.
SILV. What! did he not read it?
LUCY. Hummed it over, gave you his respects, and said he would
take time to peruse it--but then he was in haste.
SILV. Respects, and peruse it! He's gone, and Araminta has
bewitched him from me. Oh, how the name of rival fires my blood.
I could curse 'em both; eternal jealousy attend her love, and
disappointment meet his. Oh that I could revenge the torment he
has caused; methinks I feel the woman strong within me, and
vengeance kindles in the room of love.
LUCY. I have that in my head may make mischief.
SILV. How, dear Lucy?
LUCY. You know Araminta's dissembled coyness has won, and keeps
him hers -
SILV. Could we persuade him that she loves another -
LUCY. No, you're out; could we persuade him that she dotes on him,
himself. Contrive a kind letter as from her, 'twould disgust his
nicety, and take away his stomach.
SILV. Impossible; 'twill never take.
LUCY. Trouble not your head. Let me alone--I will inform myself
of what passed between 'em to-day, and about it straight. Hold,
I'm mistaken, or that's Heartwell, who stands talking at the
corner--'tis he--go get you in, madam, receive him pleasantly,
dress up your face in innocence and smiles, and dissemble the very
want of dissimulation. You know what will take him.
SILV. 'Tis as hard to counterfeit love as it is to conceal it:
but I'll do my weak endeavour, though I fear I have not art.
LUCY. Hang art, madam, and trust to nature for dissembling.
Man was by nature woman's cully made:
We never are but by ourselves betrayed.
SCENE II.
HEARTWELL, VAINLOVE and BELLMOUR following.
BELL. Hist, hist, is not that Heartwell going to Silvia?
VAIN. He's talking to himself, I think; prithee let's try if we
can hear him.
HEART. Why, whither in the devil's name am I agoing now? Hum--let
me think--is not this Silvia's house, the cave of that enchantress,
and which consequently I ought to shun as I would infection? To
enter here is to put on the envenomed shirt, to run into the
embraces of a fever, and in some raving fit, be led to plunge
myself into that more consuming fire, a woman's arms. Ha! well
recollected, I will recover my reason, and be gone.
BELL. Now Venus forbid!
VAIN. Hush -
HEART. Well, why do you not move? Feet, do your office--not one
inch; no, fore Gad I'm caught. There stands my north, and thither
my needle points. Now could I curse myself, yet cannot repent. O
thou delicious, damned, dear, destructive woman! S'death, how the
young fellows will hoot me! I shall be the jest of the town: nay,
in two days I expect to be chronicled in ditty, and sung in woful
ballad, to the tune of the Superannuated Maiden's Comfort, or the
Bachelor's Fall; and upon the third, I shall be hanged in effigy,
pasted up for the exemplary ornament of necessary houses and
cobblers' stalls. Death, I can't think on't--I'll run into the
danger to lose the apprehension.
SCENE III.
BELLMOUR, VAINLOVE.
BELL. A very certain remedy, probatum est. Ha, ha, ha, poor
George, thou art i' th' right, thou hast sold thyself to laughter;
the ill-natured town will find the jest just where thou hast lost
it. Ha, ha, how a' struggled, like an old lawyer between two fees.
VAIN. Or a young wench between pleasure and reputation.
BELL. Or as you did to-day, when half afraid you snatched a kiss
from Araminta.
VAIN. She has made a quarrel on't.
BELL. Pauh, women are only angry at such offences to have the
pleasure of forgiving them.
VAIN. And I love to have the pleasure of making my peace. I
should not esteem a pardon if too easily won.
BELL. Thou dost not know what thou wouldst be at; whether thou
wouldst have her angry or pleased. Couldst thou be content to
marry Araminta?
VAIN. Could you be content to go to heaven?
BELL. Hum, not immediately, in my conscience not heartily. I'd do
a little more good in my generation first, in order to deserve it.
VAIN. Nor I to marry Araminta till I merit her.
BELL. But how the devil dost thou expect to get her if she never
yield?
VAIN. That's true; but I would -
BELL. Marry her without her consent; thou 'rt a riddle beyond
woman -
SCENE IV.
[To them] SETTER.
Trusty Setter, what tidings? How goes the project?
SETTER. As all lewd projects do, sir, where the devil prevents our
endeavours with success.
BELL. A good hearing, Setter.
VAIN. Well, I'll leave you with your engineer.
BELL. And hast thou provided necessaries?
SETTER. All, all, sir; the large sanctified hat, and the little
precise band, with a swinging long spiritual cloak, to cover carnal
knavery--not forgetting the black patch, which Tribulation Spintext
wears, as I'm informed, upon one eye, as a penal mourning for the
ogling offences of his youth; and some say, with that eye he first
discovered the frailty of his wife.
BELL. Well, in this fanatic father's habit will I confess
Laetitia.
SETTER. Rather prepare her for confession, sir, by helping her to
sin.
BELL. Be at your master's lodging in the evening; I shall use the
robes.
SCENE V.
SETTER alone.
SETTER. I shall, sir. I wonder to which of these two gentlemen I
do most properly appertain: the one uses me as his attendant; the
other (being the better acquainted with my parts) employs me as a
pimp; why, that's much the more honourable employment--by all
means. I follow one as my master, the other follows me as his
conductor.
SCENE VI.
[To him] Lucy.
LUCY. There's the hang-dog, his man--I had a power over him in the
reign of my mistress; but he is too true a VALET DE CHAMBRE not to
affect his master's faults, and consequently is revolted from his
allegiance.
SETTER. Undoubtedly 'tis impossible to be a pimp and not a man of
parts. That is without being politic, diligent, secret, wary, and
so forth--and to all this valiant as Hercules--that is, passively
valiant and actively obedient. Ah, Setter, what a treasure is here
lost for want of being known.
LUCY. Here's some villainy afoot; he's so thoughtful. May be I
may discover something in my mask. Worthy sir, a word with you.
[Puts on her mask.]
SETTER. Why, if I were known, I might come to be a great man -
LUCY. Not to interrupt your meditation -
SETTER. And I should not be the first that has procured his
greatness by pimping.
LUCY. Now poverty and the pox light upon thee for a contemplative
pimp.
SETTER. Ha! what art who thus maliciously hast awakened me from my
dream of glory? Speak, thou vile disturber -
LUCY. Of thy most vile cogitations--thou poor, conceited wretch,
how wert thou valuing thyself upon thy master's employment? For
he's the head pimp to Mr. Bellmour.
SETTER. Good words, damsel, or I shall--But how dost thou know my
master or me?
LUCY. Yes; I know both master and man to be -
SETTER. To be men, perhaps; nay, faith, like enough: I often
march in the rear of my master, and enter the breaches which he has
made.
LUCY. Ay, the breach of faith, which he has begun: thou traitor
to thy lawful princess.
SETTER. Why, how now! prithee who art? Lay by that worldly face
and produce your natural vizor.
LUCY. No, sirrah, I'll keep it on to abuse thee and leave thee
without hopes of revenge.
SETTER. Oh! I begin to smoke ye: thou art some forsaken Abigail
we have dallied with heretofore--and art come to tickle thy
imagination with remembrance of iniquity past.
LUCY. No thou pitiful flatterer of thy master's imperfections;
thou maukin made up of the shreds and parings of his superfluous
fopperies.
SETTER. Thou art thy mistress's foul self, composed of her sullied
iniquities and clothing.
LUCY. Hang thee, beggar's cur, thy master is but a mumper in love,
lies canting at the gate; but never dares presume to enter the
house.
SETTER. Thou art the wicket to thy mistress's gate, to be opened
for all comers. In fine thou art the highroad to thy mistress.
LUCY. Beast, filthy toad, I can hold no longer, look and tremble.
[Unmasks.]
SETTER. How, Mrs. Lucy!
LUCY. I wonder thou hast the impudence to look me in the face.
SETTER. Adsbud, who's in fault, mistress of mine? who flung the
first stone? who undervalued my function? and who the devil could
know you by instinct?
LUCY. You could know my office by instinct, and be hanged, which
you have slandered most abominably. It vexes me not what you said
of my person; but that my innocent calling should be exposed and
scandalised--I cannot bear it.
SETTER. Nay, faith, Lucy, I'm sorry, I'll own myself to blame,
though we were both in fault as to our offices--come, I'll make you
any reparation.
LUCY. Swear.
SETTER. I do swear to the utmost of my power.
LUCY. To be brief, then; what is the reason your master did not
appear to-day according to the summons I brought him?
SETTER. To answer you as briefly--he has a cause to be tried in
another court.
LUCY. Come, tell me in plain terms, how forward he is with
Araminta.
SETTER. Too forward to be turned back--though he's a little in
disgrace at present about a kiss which he forced. You and I can
kiss, Lucy, without all that.
LUCY. Stand off--he's a precious jewel.
SETTER. And therefore you'd have him to set in your lady's locket.
LUCY. Where is he now?
SETTER. He'll be in the Piazza presently.
LUCY. Remember to-day's behaviour. Let me see you with a penitent
face.
SETTER. What, no token of amity, Lucy? You and I don't use to
part with dry lips.
LUCY. No, no, avaunt--I'll not be slabbered and kissed now--I'm
not i' th' humour.
SETTER. I'll not quit you so. I'll follow and put you into the
humour.
SCENE VII.
SIR JOSEPH WITTOLL, BLUFFE.
BLUFF. And so, out of your unwonted generosity -
SIR JO. And good-nature, Back; I am good-natured and I can't help
it.
BLUFF. You have given him a note upon Fondlewife for a hundred
pound.
SIR JO. Ay, ay, poor fellow; he ventured fair for't.
BLUFF. You have disobliged me in it--for I have occasion for the
money, and if you would look me in the face again and live, go, and
force him to redeliver you the note. Go, and bring it me hither.
I'll stay here for you.
SIR JO. You may stay until the day of judgment, then, by the Lord
Harry. I know better things than to be run through the guts for a
hundred pounds. Why, I gave that hundred pound for being saved,
and de'e think, an there were no danger, I'll be so ungrateful to
take it from the gentleman again?
BLUFF. Well, go to him from me--tell him, I say, he must refund--
or Bilbo's the world, and slaughter will ensue. If he refuse, tell
him--but whisper that--tell him--I'll pink his soul. But whisper
that softly to him.
SIR JO. So softly that he shall never hear on't, I warrant you.
Why, what a devil's the matter, Bully; are you mad? or de'e think
I'm mad? Agad, for my part, I don't love to be the messenger of
ill news; 'tis an ungrateful office--so tell him yourself.
BLUFF. By these hilts I believe he frightened you into this
composition: I believe you gave it him out of fear, pure, paltry
fear--confess.
SIR JO. No, no, hang't; I was not afraid neither--though I confess
he did in a manner snap me up--yet I can't say that it was
altogether out of fear, but partly to prevent mischief--for he was
a devilish choleric fellow. And if my choler had been up too,
agad, there would have been mischief done, that's flat. And yet I
believe if you had been by, I would as soon have let him a' had a
hundred of my teeth. Adsheart, if he should come just now when I'm
angry, I'd tell him--Mum.
SCENE VIII.
[To them] BELLMOUR, SHARPER.
BELL. Thou 'rt a lucky rogue; there's your benefactor; you ought
to return him thanks now you have received the favour.
SHARP. Sir Joseph! Your note was accepted, and the money paid at
sight. I'm come to return my thanks -
SIR JO. They won't be accepted so readily as the bill, sir.
BELL. I doubt the knight repents, Tom. He looks like the knight
of the sorrowful face.
SHARP. This is a double generosity: do me a kindness and refuse
my thanks. But I hope you are not offended that I offered them.
SIR JO. May be I am, sir, may be I am not, sir, may be I am both,
sir; what then? I hope I may be offended without any offence to
you, sir.
SHARP. Hey day! Captain, what's the matter? You can tell.
BLUFF. Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain: Sir Joseph has found out
your trick, and does not care to be put upon, being a man of
honour.
SHARP. Trick, sir?
SIR JO. Ay, trick, sir, and won't be put upon, sir, being a man of
honour, sir, and so, sir -
SHARP. Harkee, Sir Joseph, a word with ye. In consideration of
some favours lately received, I would not have you draw yourself
into a PREMUNIRE, by trusting to that sign of a man there--that
pot-gun charged with wind.
SIR JO. O Lord, O Lord, Captain, come justify yourself--I'll give
him the lie if you'll stand to it.
SHARP. Nay, then, I'll be beforehand with you, take that, oaf.
[Cuffs him.]
SIR JO. Captain, will you see this? Won't you pink his soul?
BLUFF. Husht, 'tis not so convenient now--I shall find a time.
SHARP. What do you mutter about a time, rascal? You were the
incendiary. There's to put you in mind of your time.--A
memorandum. [Kicks him.]
BLUFF. Oh, this is your time, sir; you had best make use on't.
SHARP. I--Gad and so I will: there's again for you. [Kicks him.]
BLUFF. You are obliging, sir, but this is too public a place to
thank you in. But in your ear, you are to be seen again?
SHARP. Ay, thou inimitable coward, and to be felt--as for example.
[Kicks him.]
BELL. Ha, ha, ha, prithee come away; 'tis scandalous to kick this
puppy unless a man were cold and had no other way to get himself
aheat.
SCENE IX.
SIR JOSEPH, BLUFFE.
BLUFF. Very well--very fine--but 'tis no matter. Is not this
fine, Sir Joseph?
SIR JO. Indifferent, agad, in my opinion, very indifferent. I'd
rather go plain all my life than wear such finery.
BLUFF. Death and hell to be affronted thus! I'll die before I'll
suffer it. [Draws]
SIR JO. O Lord, his anger was not raised before. Nay, dear
Captain, don't be in passion now he's gone. Put up, put up, dear
Back, 'tis your Sir Joseph begs, come let me kiss thee; so, so, put
up, put up.
BLUFF. By heaven, 'tis not to be put up.
SIR JO. What, Bully?
BLUFF. The affront.
SIR JO. No, aged, no more 'tis, for that's put up all already; thy
sword, I mean.
BLUFF. Well, Sir Joseph, at your entreaty--But were not you, my
friend, abused, and cuffed, and kicked? [Putting up his sword.]
SIR JO. Ay, ay, so were you too; no matter, 'tis past.
BLUFF. By the immortal thunder of great guns, 'tis false--he sucks
not vital air who dares affirm it to this face. [Looks big.]
SIR JO. To that face I grant you, Captain. No, no, I grant you--
not to that face, by the Lord Harry. If you had put on your
fighting face before, you had done his business--he durst as soon
have kissed you, as kicked you to your face. But a man can no more
help what's done behind his back than what's said--Come, we'll
think no more of what's past.
BLUFF. I'll call a council of war within to consider of my revenge
to come.
SCENE X.
HEARTWELL, SILVIA. Silvia's apartment.
SONG.
As Amoret and Thyrsis lay
Melting the hours in gentle play,
Joining faces, mingling kisses,
And exchanging harmless blisses:
He trembling cried, with eager haste,
O let me feed as well as taste,
I die, if I'm not wholly blest.
[After the song a dance of antics.]
SILV. Indeed it is very fine. I could look upon 'em all day.
HEART. Well has this prevailed for me, and will you look upon me?
SILV. If you could sing and dance so, I should love to look upon
you too.
HEART. Why, 'twas I sung and danced; I gave music to the voice,
and life to their measures. Look you here, Silvia, [pulling out a
purse and chinking it] here are songs and dances, poetry and music-
-hark! how sweetly one guinea rhymes to another--and how they dance
to the music of their own chink. This buys all t'other--and this
thou shalt have; this, and all that I am worth, for the purchase of
thy love. Say, is it mine then, ha? Speak, Syren--Oons, why do I
look on her! Yet I must. Speak, dear angel, devil, saint, witch;
do not rack me with suspense.
SILV. Nay, don't stare at me so. You make me blush--I cannot
look.
HEART. O manhood, where art thou? What am I come to? A woman's
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