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diff --git a/1244-0.txt b/1244-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4beb1ac --- /dev/null +++ b/1244-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5229 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Love for Love, by William Congreve + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Love for Love + A Comedy + + +Author: William Congreve + + + +Release Date: January 27, 2015 [eBook #1244] +[This file was first posted on March 10, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE FOR LOVE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1895 Methuen and Co. edition (_Comedies of William +Congreve_, _Volume_ 2) by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + LOVE FOR LOVE + A COMEDY + + + _Nudus agris_, _nudus nummis paternis_, + _Insanire parat certa ratione modoque_. + + —HOR. + + + + +TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE +CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX, +LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY’S HOUSEHOLD, +AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, ETC. + + +MY LORD,—A young poet is liable to the same vanity and indiscretion with +a young lover; and the great man who smiles upon one, and the fine woman +who looks kindly upon t’other, are both of ’em in danger of having the +favour published with the first opportunity. + +But there may be a different motive, which will a little distinguish the +offenders. For though one should have a vanity in ruining another’s +reputation, yet the other may only have an ambition to advance his own. +And I beg leave, my lord, that I may plead the latter, both as the cause +and excuse of this dedication. + +Whoever is king is also the father of his country; and as nobody can +dispute your lordship’s monarchy in poetry, so all that are concerned +ought to acknowledge your universal patronage. And it is only presuming +on the privilege of a loyal subject that I have ventured to make this, my +address of thanks, to your lordship, which at the same time includes a +prayer for your protection. + +I am not ignorant of the common form of poetical dedications, which are +generally made up of panegyrics, where the authors endeavour to +distinguish their patrons, by the shining characters they give them, +above other men. But that, my lord, is not my business at this time, nor +is your lordship _now_ to be distinguished. I am contented with the +honour I do myself in this epistle without the vanity of attempting to +add to or explain your Lordships character. + +I confess it is not without some struggling that I behave myself in this +case as I ought: for it is very hard to be pleased with a subject, and +yet forbear it. But I choose rather to follow Pliny’s precept, than his +example, when, in his panegyric to the Emperor Trajan, he says:— + + _Nec minus considerabo quid aures ejus pati possint_, _quam quid + virtutibus debeatur_. + +I hope I may be excused the pedantry of a quotation when it is so justly +applied. Here are some lines in the print (and which your lordship read +before this play was acted) that were omitted on the stage; and +particularly one whole scene in the third act, which not only helps the +design forward with less precipitation, but also heightens the ridiculous +character of Foresight, which indeed seems to be maimed without it. But +I found myself in great danger of a long play, and was glad to help it +where I could. Though notwithstanding my care and the kind reception it +had from the town, I could heartily wish it yet shorter: but the number +of different characters represented in it would have been too much +crowded in less room. + +This reflection on prolixity (a fault for which scarce any one beauty +will atone) warns me not to be tedious now, and detain your lordship any +longer with the trifles of, my lord, your lordship’s most obedient and +most humble servant, + + WILLIAM CONGREVE. + + + + +PROLOGUE. + + + Spoken, at the opening of the new house, by Mr. BETTERTON. + + THE husbandman in vain renews his toil + To cultivate each year a hungry soil; + And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit, + When what should feed the tree devours the root; + Th’ unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth, + Unless transplanted to more kindly earth. + So the poor husbands of the stage, who found + Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground, + This last and only remedy have proved, + And hope new fruit from ancient stocks removed. + Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid, + Well plant a soil which you so rich have made. + As Nature gave the world to man’s first age, + So from your bounty, we receive this stage; + The freedom man was born to, you’ve restored, + And to our world such plenty you afford, + It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own accord. + But since in Paradise frail flesh gave way, + And when but two were made, both went astray; + Forbear your wonder, and the fault forgive, + If in our larger family we grieve + One falling Adam and one tempted Eve. + We who remain would gratefully repay + What our endeavours can, and bring this day + The first-fruit offering of a virgin play. + We hope there’s something that may please each taste, + And though of homely fare we make the feast, + Yet you will find variety at least. + There’s humour, which for cheerful friends we got, + And for the thinking party there’s a plot. + We’ve something, too, to gratify ill-nature, + (If there be any here), and that is satire. + Though satire scarce dares grin, ’tis grown so mild + Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled. + As asses thistles, poets mumble wit, + And dare not bite for fear of being bit: + They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools, + And are afraid to use their own edge-tools. + Since the Plain-Dealer’s scenes of manly rage, + Not one has dared to lash this crying age. + This time, the poet owns the bold essay, + Yet hopes there’s no ill-manners in his play; + And he declares, by me, he has designed + Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind. + And should th’ ensuing scenes not chance to hit, + He offers but this one excuse, ’twas writ + Before your late encouragement of wit. + + + + +EPILOGUE. + + +Spoken, at the opening of the new house, by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE. + + SURE Providence at first designed this place + To be the player’s refuge in distress; + For still in every storm they all run hither, + As to a shed that shields ’em from the weather. + But thinking of this change which last befel us, + It’s like what I have heard our poets tell us: + For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading, + To help their love, sometimes they show their reading; + And, wanting ready cash to pay for hearts, + They top their learning on us, and their parts. + Once of philosophers they told us stories, + Whom, as I think, they called—Py—Pythagories, + I’m sure ’tis some such Latin name they give ’em, + And we, who know no better, must believe ’em. + Now to these men, say they, such souls were given, + That after death ne’er went to hell nor heaven, + But lived, I know not how, in beasts; and then + When many years were past, in men again. + Methinks, we players resemble such a soul, + That does from bodies, we from houses stroll. + Thus Aristotle’s soul, of old that was, + May now be damned to animate an ass, + Or in this very house, for ought we know, + Is doing painful penance in some beau; + And thus our audience, which did once resort + To shining theatres to see our sport, + Now find us tossed into a tennis-court. + These walls but t’other day were filled with noise + Of roaring gamesters and your dam’me boys; + Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast, + And now they’re filled with jests, and flights, and bombast! + I vow, I don’t much like this transmigration, + Strolling from place to place by circulation; + Grant heaven, we don’t return to our first station! + I know not what these think, but for my part + I can’t reflect without an aching heart, + How we should end in our original, a cart. + But we can’t fear, since you’re so good to save us, + That you have only set us up, to leave us. + Thus from the past we hope for future grace, + I beg it— + And some here know I have a begging face. + Then pray continue this your kind behaviour, + For a clear stage won’t do, without your favour. + + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. + + MEN. +SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, father to Valentine and _Mr. Underhill_. +Ben, +VALENTINE, fallen under his father’s _Mr. Betterton_. +displeasure by his expensive way of living, in +love with Angelica, +SCANDAL, his friend, a free speaker, _Mr. Smith_. +TATTLE, a half-witted beau, vain of his _Mr. Bowman_. +amours, yet valuing himself for secrecy, +BEN, Sir Sampson’s younger son, half home-bred _Mr. Dogget_. +and half sea-bred, designed to marry Miss +Prue, +FORESIGHT, an illiterate old fellow, peevish _Mr. Sanford_. +and positive, superstitious, and pretending to +understand astrology, palmistry, physiognomy, +omens, dreams, etc.; uncle to Angelica, +JEREMY, servant to Valentine, _Mr. Bowen_. +TRAPLAND, a scrivener, _Mr. Triffusis_. +BUCKRAM, a lawyer, _Mr. Freeman_. + WOMEN. +ANGELICA, niece to Foresight, of a _Mrs. Bracegirdle_. +considerable fortune in her own hands, +MRS. FORESIGHT, second wife to Foresight, _Mrs. Bowman_. +MRS. FRAIL, sister to Mrs. Foresight, a woman _Mrs. Barry_. +of the town, +MISS PRUE, daughter to Foresight by a former _Mrs. Ayliff_. +wife, a silly, awkward country girl, +NURSE to MISS, _Mrs. Leigh_. +JENNY, _Mrs. Lawson_. + + A STEWARD, OFFICERS, SAILORS, AND SEVERAL SERVANTS. + + The Scene in London. + + + + +ACT I.—SCENE I. + + + VALENTINE _in his chamber reading_. JEREMY _waiting_. + + _Several books upon the table_. + +VAL. Jeremy. + +JERE. Sir? + +VAL. Here, take away. I’ll walk a turn and digest what I have read. + +JERE. You’ll grow devilish fat upon this paper diet. [_Aside_, _and +taking away the books_.] + +VAL. And d’ye hear, go you to breakfast. There’s a page doubled down in +Epictetus, that is a feast for an emperor. + +JERE. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts? + +VAL. Read, read, sirrah, and refine your appetite; learn to live upon +instruction; feast your mind and mortify your flesh; read, and take your +nourishment in at your eyes; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of +understanding. So Epictetus advises. + +JERE. O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a gentleman +at Cambridge. Pray what was that Epictetus? + +VAL. A very rich man.—Not worth a groat. + +JERE. Humph, and so he has made a very fine feast, where there is +nothing to be eaten? + +VAL. Yes. + +JERE. Sir, you’re a gentleman, and probably understand this fine +feeding: but if you please, I had rather be at board wages. Does your +Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of these poor rich rogues, teach +you how to pay your debts without money? Will they shut up the mouths of +your creditors? Will Plato be bail for you? Or Diogenes, because he +understands confinement, and lived in a tub, go to prison for you? +’Slife, sir, what do you mean, to mew yourself up here with three or four +musty books, in commendation of starving and poverty? + +VAL. Why, sirrah, I have no money, you know it; and therefore resolve to +rail at all that have. And in that I but follow the examples of the +wisest and wittiest men in all ages, these poets and philosophers whom +you naturally hate, for just such another reason; because they abound in +sense, and you are a fool. + +JERE. Ay, sir, I am a fool, I know it: and yet, heaven help me, I’m poor +enough to be a wit. But I was always a fool when I told you what your +expenses would bring you to; your coaches and your liveries; your treats +and your balls; your being in love with a lady that did not care a +farthing for you in your prosperity; and keeping company with wits that +cared for nothing but your prosperity; and now, when you are poor, hate +you as much as they do one another. + +VAL. Well, and now I am poor I have an opportunity to be revenged on +them all. I’ll pursue Angelica with more love than ever, and appear more +notoriously her admirer in this restraint, than when I openly rivalled +the rich fops that made court to her. So shall my poverty be a +mortification to her pride, and, perhaps, make her compassionate the love +which has principally reduced me to this lowness of fortune. And for the +wits, I’m sure I am in a condition to be even with them. + +JERE. Nay, your condition is pretty even with theirs, that’s the truth +on’t. + +VAL. I’ll take some of their trade out of their hands. + +JERE. Now heaven of mercy continue the tax upon paper. You don’t mean +to write? + +VAL. Yes, I do. I’ll write a play. + +JERE. Hem! Sir, if you please to give me a small certificate of three +lines—only to certify those whom it may concern, that the bearer hereof, +Jeremy Fetch by name, has for the space of seven years truly and +faithfully served Valentine Legend, Esq., and that he is not now turned +away for any misdemeanour, but does voluntarily dismiss his master from +any future authority over him— + +VAL. No, sirrah; you shall live with me still. + +JERE. Sir, it’s impossible. I may die with you, starve with you, or be +damned with your works. But to live, even three days, the life of a +play, I no more expect it than to be canonised for a muse after my +decease. + +VAL. You are witty, you rogue. I shall want your help. I’ll have you +learn to make couplets to tag the ends of acts. D’ye hear? Get the +maids to Crambo in an evening, and learn the knack of rhyming: you may +arrive at the height of a song sent by an unknown hand, or a +chocolate-house lampoon. + +JERE. But, sir, is this the way to recover your father’s favour? Why, +Sir Sampson will be irreconcilable. If your younger brother should come +from sea, he’d never look upon you again. You’re undone, sir; you’re +ruined; you won’t have a friend left in the world if you turn poet. Ah, +pox confound that Will’s coffee-house: it has ruined more young men than +the Royal Oak lottery. Nothing thrives that belongs to’t. The man of +the house would have been an alderman by this time, with half the trade, +if he had set up in the city. For my part, I never sit at the door that +I don’t get double the stomach that I do at a horse race. The air upon +Banstead-Downs is nothing to it for a whetter; yet I never see it, but +the spirit of famine appears to me, sometimes like a decayed porter, worn +out with pimping, and carrying _billet doux_ and songs: not like other +porters, for hire, but for the jests’ sake. Now like a thin chairman, +melted down to half his proportion, with carrying a poet upon tick, to +visit some great fortune; and his fare to be paid him like the wages of +sin, either at the day of marriage, or the day of death. + +VAL. Very well, sir; can you proceed? + +JERE. Sometimes like a bilked bookseller, with a meagre terrified +countenance, that looks as if he had written for himself, or were +resolved to turn author, and bring the rest of his brethren into the same +condition. And lastly, in the form of a worn-out punk, with verses in +her hand, which her vanity had preferred to settlements, without a whole +tatter to her tail, but as ragged as one of the muses; or as if she were +carrying her linen to the paper-mill, to be converted into folio books of +warning to all young maids, not to prefer poetry to good sense, or lying +in the arms of a needy wit, before the embraces of a wealthy fool. + + + +SCENE II. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY. + +SCAN. What, Jeremy holding forth? + +VAL. The rogue has (with all the wit he could muster up) been declaiming +against wit. + +SCAN. Ay? Why, then, I’m afraid Jeremy has wit: for wherever it is, +it’s always contriving its own ruin. + +JERE. Why, so I have been telling my master, sir: Mr. Scandal, for +heaven’s sake, sir, try if you can dissuade him from turning poet. + +SCAN. Poet! He shall turn soldier first, and rather depend upon the +outside of his head than the lining. Why, what the devil, has not your +poverty made you enemies enough? Must you needs shew your wit to get +more? + +JERE. Ay, more indeed: for who cares for anybody that has more wit than +himself? + +SCAN. Jeremy speaks like an oracle. Don’t you see how worthless great +men and dull rich rogues avoid a witty man of small fortune? Why, he +looks like a writ of enquiry into their titles and estates, and seems +commissioned by heaven to seize hte better half. + +VAL. Therefore I would rail in my writings, and be revenged. + +SCAN. Rail? At whom? The whole world? Impotent and vain! Who would +die a martyr to sense in a country where the religion is folly? You may +stand at bay for a while; but when the full cry is against you, you +shan’t have fair play for your life. If you can’t be fairly run down by +the hounds, you will be treacherously shot by the huntsmen. No, turn +pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer, parson, be chaplain to an atheist, or +stallion to an old woman, anything but poet. A modern poet is worse, +more servile, timorous, and fawning, than any I have named: without you +could retrieve the ancient honours of the name, recall the stage of +Athens, and be allowed the force of open honest satire. + +VAL. You are as inveterate against our poets as if your character had +been lately exposed upon the stage. Nay, I am not violently bent upon +the trade. [_One knocks_.] Jeremy, see who’s there. [JER. _goes to the +door_.] But tell me what you would have me do? What do the world say of +me, and my forced confinement? + +SCAN. The world behaves itself as it uses to do on such occasions; some +pity you, and condemn your father; others excuse him, and blame you; only +the ladies are merciful, and wish you well, since love and pleasurable +expense have been your greatest faults. + +VAL. How now? + +JERE. Nothing new, sir; I have despatched some half a dozen duns with as +much dexterity as a hungry judge does causes at dinner-time. + +VAL. What answer have you given ’em? + +SCAN. Patience, I suppose, the old receipt. + +JERE. No, faith, sir; I have put ’em off so long with patience and +forbearance, and other fair words, that I was forced now to tell ’em in +plain downright English— + +VAL. What? + +JERE. That they should be paid. + +VAL. When? + +JERE. To-morrow. + +VAL. And how the devil do you mean to keep your word? + +JERE. Keep it? Not at all; it has been so very much stretched that I +reckon it will break of course by to-morrow, and nobody be surprised at +the matter. [_Knocking_.] Again! Sir, if you don’t like my +negotiation, will you be pleased to answer these yourself? + +VAL. See who they are. + + + +SCENE III. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL. + +VAL. By this, Scandal, you may see what it is to be great; secretaries +of state, presidents of the council, and generals of an army lead just +such a life as I do; have just such crowds of visitants in a morning, all +soliciting of past promises; which are but a civiller sort of duns, that +lay claim to voluntary debts. + +SCAN. And you, like a true great man, having engaged their attendance, +and promised more than ever you intended to perform, are more perplexed +to find evasions than you would be to invent the honest means of keeping +your word, and gratifying your creditors. + +VAL. Scandal, learn to spare your friends, and do not provoke your +enemies; this liberty of your tongue will one day bring a confinement on +your body, my friend. + + + +SCENE IV. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY. + +JERE. O sir, there’s Trapland the scrivener, with two suspicious fellows +like lawful pads, that would knock a man down with pocket-tipstaves. And +there’s your father’s steward, and the nurse with one of your children +from Twitnam. + +VAL. Pox on her, could she find no other time to fling my sins in my +face? Here, give her this, [_gives money_] and bid her trouble me no +more; a thoughtless two-handed whore, she knows my condition well enough, +and might have overlaid the child a fortnight ago, if she had had any +forecast in her. + +SCAN. What, is it bouncing Margery, with my godson? + +JERE. Yes, sir. + +SCAN. My blessing to the boy, with this token [_gives money_] of my +love. And d’ye hear, bid Margery put more flocks in her bed, shift twice +a week, and not work so hard, that she may not smell so vigorously. I +shall take the air shortly. + +VAL. Scandal, don’t spoil my boy’s milk. Bid Trapland come in. If I +can give that Cerberus a sop, I shall be at rest for one day. + + + +SCENE V. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL, TRAPLAND, JEREMY. + +VAL. Oh, Mr. Trapland! My old friend! Welcome. Jeremy, a chair +quickly: a bottle of sack and a toast—fly—a chair first. + +TRAP. A good morning to you, Mr. Valentine, and to you, Mr. Scandal. + +SCAN. The morning’s a very good morning, if you don’t spoil it. + +VAL. Come, sit you down, you know his way. + +TRAP. [_sits_.] There is a debt, Mr. Valentine, of £1500 of pretty long +standing— + +VAL. I cannot talk about business with a thirsty palate. Sirrah, the +sack. + +TRAP. And I desire to know what course you have taken for the payment? + +VAL. Faith and troth, I am heartily glad to see you. My service to you. +Fill, fill to honest Mr. Trapland—fuller. + +TRAP. Hold, sweetheart: this is not to our business. My service to you, +Mr. Scandal. [_Drinks_.] I have forborne as long— + +VAL. T’other glass, and then we’ll talk. Fill, Jeremy. + +TRAP. No more, in truth. I have forborne, I say— + +VAL. Sirrah, fill when I bid you. And how does your handsome daughter? +Come, a good husband to her. [_Drinks_.] + +TRAP. Thank you. I have been out of this money— + +VAL. Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink? [_They drink_.] + +TRAP. And, in short, I can be put off no longer. + +VAL. I was much obliged to you for your supply. It did me signal +service in my necessity. But you delight in doing good. Scandal, drink +to me, my friend Trapland’s health. An honester man lives not, nor one +more ready to serve his friend in distress: though I say it to his face. +Come, fill each man his glass. + +SCAN. What, I know Trapland has been a whoremaster, and loves a wench +still. You never knew a whoremaster that was not an honest fellow. + +TRAP. Fie, Mr. Scandal, you never knew— + +SCAN. What don’t I know? I know the buxom black widow in the Poultry. +£800 a year jointure, and £20,000 in money. Aha! old Trap. + +VAL. Say you so, i’faith? Come, we’ll remember the widow. I know +whereabouts you are; come, to the widow— + +TRAP. No more, indeed. + +VAL. What, the widow’s health; give it him—off with it. [_They drink_.] +A lovely girl, i’faith, black sparkling eyes, soft pouting ruby lips! +Better sealing there than a bond for a million, ha? + +TRAP. No, no, there’s no such thing; we’d better mind our business. +You’re a wag. + +VAL. No, faith, we’ll mind the widow’s business: fill again. Pretty +round heaving breasts, a Barbary shape, and a jut with her bum would stir +an anchoret: and the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man could but fasten his +eyes to her feet as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep under her +petticoats, ah! Mr. Trapland? + +TRAP. Verily, give me a glass. You’re a wag,—and here’s to the widow. +[_Drinks_.] + +SCAN. He begins to chuckle; ply him close, or he’ll relapse into a dun. + + + +SCENE VI. + + + [_To them_] OFFICER. + +OFF. By your leave, gentlemen: Mr. Trapland, if we must do our office, +tell us. We have half a dozen gentlemen to arrest in Pall Mall and +Covent Garden; and if we don’t make haste the chairmen will be abroad, +and block up the chocolate-houses, and then our labour’s lost. + +TRAP. Udso that’s true: Mr. Valentine, I love mirth, but business must +be done. Are you ready to— + +JERE. Sir, your father’s steward says he comes to make proposals +concerning your debts. + +VAL. Bid him come in: Mr. Trapland, send away your officer; you shall +have an answer presently. + +TRAP. Mr. Snap, stay within call. + + + +SCENE VII. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL, TRAPLAND, JEREMY, + STEWARD _who whispers_ VALENTINE. + +SCAN. Here’s a dog now, a traitor in his wine: sirrah, refund the +sack.—Jeremy, fetch him some warm water, or I’ll rip up his stomach, and +go the shortest way to his conscience. + +TRAP. Mr. Scandal, you are uncivil; I did not value your sack; but you +cannot expect it again when I have drunk it. + +SCAN. And how do you expect to have your money again when a gentleman +has spent it? + +VAL. You need say no more, I understand the conditions; they are very +hard, but my necessity is very pressing: I agree to ’em. Take Mr. +Trapland with you, and let him draw the writing. Mr. Trapland, you know +this man: he shall satisfy you. + +TRAP. Sincerely, I am loth to be thus pressing, but my necessity— + +VAL. No apology, good Mr. Scrivener, you shall be paid. + +TRAP. I hope you forgive me; my business requires— + + + +SCENE VIII. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL. + +SCAN. He begs pardon like a hangman at an execution. + +VAL. But I have got a reprieve. + +SCAN. I am surprised; what, does your father relent? + +VAL. No; he has sent me the hardest conditions in the world. You have +heard of a booby brother of mine that was sent to sea three years ago? +This brother, my father hears, is landed; whereupon he very +affectionately sends me word; if I will make a deed of conveyance of my +right to his estate, after his death, to my younger brother, he will +immediately furnish me with four thousand pounds to pay my debts and make +my fortune. This was once proposed before, and I refused it; but the +present impatience of my creditors for their money, and my own impatience +of confinement, and absence from Angelica, force me to consent. + +SCAN. A very desperate demonstration of your love to Angelica; and I +think she has never given you any assurance of hers. + +VAL. You know her temper; she never gave me any great reason either for +hope or despair. + +SCAN. Women of her airy temper, as they seldom think before they act, so +they rarely give us any light to guess at what they mean. But you have +little reason to believe that a woman of this age, who has had an +indifference for you in your prosperity, will fall in love with your +ill-fortune; besides, Angelica has a great fortune of her own; and great +fortunes either expect another great fortune, or a fool. + + + +SCENE IX. + + + [_To them_] JEREMY. + +JERE. More misfortunes, sir. + +VAL. What, another dun? + +JERE. No, sir, but Mr. Tattle is come to wait upon you. + +VAL. Well, I can’t help it, you must bring him up; he knows I don’t go +abroad. + + + +SCENE X. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL. + +SCAN. Pox on him, I’ll be gone. + +VAL. No, prithee stay: Tattle and you should never be asunder; you are +light and shadow, and show one another; he is perfectly thy reverse both +in humour and understanding; and as you set up for defamation, he is a +mender of reputations. + +SCAN. A mender of reputations! Ay, just as he is a keeper of secrets, +another virtue that he sets up for in the same manner. For the rogue +will speak aloud in the posture of a whisper, and deny a woman’s name +while he gives you the marks of her person. He will forswear receiving a +letter from her, and at the same time show you her hand in the +superscription: and yet perhaps he has counterfeited the hand too, and +sworn to a truth; but he hopes not to be believed, and refuses the +reputation of a lady’s favour, as a Doctor says no to a Bishopric only +that it may be granted him. In short, he is public professor of secrecy, +and makes proclamation that he holds private intelligence.—He’s here. + + + +SCENE XI. + + + [_To them_] TATTLE. + +TATT. Valentine, good morrow; Scandal, I am yours:—that is, when you +speak well of me. + +SCAN. That is, when I am yours; for while I am my own, or anybody’s +else, that will never happen. + +TATT. How inhuman! + +VAL. Why Tattle, you need not be much concerned at anything that he +says: for to converse with Scandal, is to play at losing loadum; you must +lose a good name to him before you can win it for yourself. + +TATT. But how barbarous that is, and how unfortunate for him, that the +world shall think the better of any person for his calumniation! I thank +heaven, it has always been a part of my character to handle the +reputations of others very tenderly indeed. + +SCAN. Ay, such rotten reputations as you have to deal with are to be +handled tenderly indeed. + +TATT. Nay, but why rotten? Why should you say rotten, when you know not +the persons of whom you speak? How cruel that is! + +SCAN. Not know ’em? Why, thou never had’st to do with anybody that did +not stink to all the town. + +TATT. Ha, ha, ha; nay, now you make a jest of it indeed. For there is +nothing more known than that nobody knows anything of that nature of me. +As I hope to be saved, Valentine, I never exposed a woman, since I knew +what woman was. + +VAL. And yet you have conversed with several. + +TATT. To be free with you, I have. I don’t care if I own that. Nay +more (I’m going to say a bold word now) I never could meddle with a woman +that had to do with anybody else. + +SCAN. How? + +VAL. Nay faith, I’m apt to believe him. Except her husband, Tattle. + +TATT. Oh, that— + +SCAN. What think you of that noble commoner, Mrs. Drab? + +TATT. Pooh, I know Madam Drab has made her brags in three or four +places, that I said this and that, and writ to her, and did I know not +what—but, upon my reputation, she did me wrong—well, well, that was +malice—but I know the bottom of it. She was bribed to that by one we all +know—a man too. Only to bring me into disgrace with a certain woman of +quality— + +SCAN. Whom we all know. + +TATT. No matter for that. Yes, yes, everybody knows. No doubt on’t, +everybody knows my secrets. But I soon satisfied the lady of my +innocence; for I told her: Madam, says I, there are some persons who make +it their business to tell stories, and say this and that of one and +t’other, and everything in the world; and, says I, if your grace— + +SCAN. Grace! + +TATT. O Lord, what have I said? My unlucky tongue! + +VAL. Ha, ha, ha. + +SCAN. Why, Tattle, thou hast more impudence than one can in reason +expect: I shall have an esteem for thee, well, and, ha, ha, ha, well, go +on, and what did you say to her grace? + +VAL. I confess this is something extraordinary. + +TATT. Not a word, as I hope to be saved; an errant _lapsus linguæ_. +Come, let’s talk of something else. + +VAL. Well, but how did you acquit yourself? + +TATT. Pooh, pooh, nothing at all; I only rallied with you—a woman of +ordinary rank was a little jealous of me, and I told her something or +other, faith I know not what.—Come, let’s talk of something else. [_Hums +a song_.] + +SCAN. Hang him, let him alone, he has a mind we should enquire. + +TATT. Valentine, I supped last night with your mistress, and her uncle, +old Foresight: I think your father lies at Foresight’s. + +VAL. Yes. + +TATT. Upon my soul, Angelica’s a fine woman. And so is Mrs. Foresight, +and her sister, Mrs. Frail. + +SCAN. Yes, Mrs. Frail is a very fine woman, we all know her. + +TATT. Oh, that is not fair. + +SCAN. What? + +TATT. To tell. + +SCAN. To tell what? Why, what do you know of Mrs. Frail? + +TATT. Who, I? Upon honour I don’t know whether she be man or woman, but +by the smoothness of her chin and roundness of her hips. + +SCAN. No? + +TATT. No. + +SCAN. She says otherwise. + +TATT. Impossible! + +SCAN. Yes, faith. Ask Valentine else. + +TATT. Why then, as I hope to be saved, I believe a woman only obliges a +man to secrecy that she may have the pleasure of telling herself. + +SCAN. No doubt on’t. Well, but has she done you wrong, or no? You have +had her? Ha? + +TATT. Though I have more honour than to tell first, I have more manners +than to contradict what a lady has declared. + +SCAN. Well, you own it? + +TATT. I am strangely surprised! Yes, yes, I can’t deny’t if she taxes +me with it. + +SCAN. She’ll be here by and by, she sees Valentine every morning. + +TATT. How? + +VAL. She does me the favour, I mean, of a visit sometimes. I did not +think she had granted more to anybody. + +SCAN. Nor I, faith. But Tattle does not use to bely a lady; it is +contrary to his character. How one may be deceived in a woman, +Valentine? + +TATT. Nay, what do you mean, gentlemen? + +SCAN. I’m resolved I’ll ask her. + +TATT. O barbarous! Why did you not tell me? + +SCAN. No; you told us. + +TATT. And bid me ask Valentine? + +VAL. What did I say? I hope you won’t bring me to confess an answer +when you never asked me the question? + +TATT. But, gentlemen, this is the most inhuman proceeding— + +VAL. Nay, if you have known Scandal thus long, and cannot avoid such a +palpable decoy as this was, the ladies have a fine time whose reputations +are in your keeping. + + + +SCENE XII. + + + [_To them_] JEREMY. + +JERE. Sir, Mrs. Frail has sent to know if you are stirring. + +VAL. Show her up when she comes. + + + +SCENE XIII. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL, TATTLE. + +TATT. I’ll be gone. + +VAL. You’ll meet her. + +TATT. Is there not a back way? + +VAL. If there were, you have more discretion than to give Scandal such +an advantage. Why, your running away will prove all that he can tell +her. + +TATT. Scandal, you will not be so ungenerous. Oh, I shall lose my +reputation of secrecy for ever. I shall never be received but upon +public days, and my visits will never be admitted beyond a drawing-room. +I shall never see a bed-chamber again, never be locked in a closet, nor +run behind a screen, or under a table: never be distinguished among the +waiting-women by the name of trusty Mr. Tattle more. You will not be so +cruel? + +VAL. Scandal, have pity on him; he’ll yield to any conditions. + +TATT. Any, any terms. + +SCAN. Come, then, sacrifice half a dozen women of good reputation to me +presently. Come, where are you familiar? And see that they are women of +quality, too—the first quality. + +TATT. ’Tis very hard. Won’t a baronet’s lady pass? + +SCAN. No, nothing under a right honourable. + +TATT. Oh, inhuman! You don’t expect their names? + +SCAN. No, their titles shall serve. + +TATT. Alas, that’s the same thing. Pray spare me their titles. I’ll +describe their persons. + +SCAN. Well, begin then; but take notice, if you are so ill a painter +that I cannot know the person by your picture of her, you must be +condemned, like other bad painters, to write the name at the bottom. + +TATT. Well, first then— + + + +SCENE XIV. + + + [_To them_] MRS. FRAIL. + +TATT. Oh, unfortunate! She’s come already; will you have patience till +another time? I’ll double the number. + +SCAN. Well, on that condition. Take heed you don’t fail me. + +MRS. FRAIL. I shall get a fine reputation by coming to see fellows in a +morning. Scandal, you devil, are you here too? Oh, Mr. Tattle, +everything is safe with you, we know. + +SCAN. Tattle— + +TATT. Mum. O madam, you do me too much honour. + +VAL. Well, Lady Galloper, how does Angelica? + +MRS. FRAIL. Angelica? Manners! + +VAL. What, you will allow an absent lover— + +MRS. FRAIL. No, I’ll allow a lover present with his mistress to be +particular; but otherwise, I think his passion ought to give place to his +manners. + +VAL. But what if he has more passion than manners? + +MRS. FRAIL. Then let him marry and reform. + +VAL. Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his passion, but it very +rarely mends a man’s manners. + +MRS. FRAIL. You are the most mistaken in the world; there is no creature +perfectly civil but a husband. For in a little time he grows only rude +to his wife, and that is the highest good breeding, for it begets his +civility to other people. Well, I’ll tell you news; but I suppose you +hear your brother Benjamin is landed? And my brother Foresight’s +daughter is come out of the country: I assure you, there’s a match talked +of by the old people. Well, if he be but as great a sea-beast as she is +a land-monster, we shall have a most amphibious breed. The progeny will +be all otters. He has been bred at sea, and she has never been out of +the country. + +VAL. Pox take ’em, their conjunction bodes me no good, I’m sure. + +MRS. FRAIL. Now you talk of conjunction, my brother Foresight has cast +both their nativities, and prognosticates an admiral and an eminent +justice of the peace to be the issue male of their two bodies; ’tis the +most superstitious old fool! He would have persuaded me that this was an +unlucky day, and would not let me come abroad. But I invented a dream, +and sent him to Artimedorus for interpretation, and so stole out to see +you. Well, and what will you give me now? Come, I must have something. + +VAL. Step into the next room, and I’ll give you something. + +SCAN. Ay, we’ll all give you something. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, what will you all give me? + +VAL. Mine’s a secret. + +MRS. FRAIL. I thought you would give me something that would be a +trouble to you to keep. + +VAL. And Scandal shall give you a good name. + +MRS. FRAIL. That’s more than he has for himself. And what will you give +me, Mr. Tattle? + +TATT. I? My soul, madam. + +MRS. FRAIL. Pooh! No, I thank you, I have enough to do to take care of +my own. Well, but I’ll come and see you one of these mornings. I hear +you have a great many pictures. + +TATT. I have a pretty good collection, at your service, some originals. + +SCAN. Hang him, he has nothing but the Seasons and the Twelve +Cæsars—paltry copies—and the Five Senses, as ill-represented as they are +in himself, and he himself is the only original you will see there. + +MRS. FRAIL. Ay, but I hear he has a closet of beauties. + +SCAN. Yes; all that have done him favours, if you will believe him. + +MRS. FRAIL. Ay, let me see those, Mr. Tattle. + +TATT. Oh, madam, those are sacred to love and contemplation. No man but +the painter and myself was ever blest with the sight. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, but a woman— + +TATT. Nor woman, till she consented to have her picture there too—for +then she’s obliged to keep the secret. + +SCAN. No, no; come to me if you’d see pictures. + +MRS. FRAIL. You? + +SCAN. Yes, faith; I can shew you your own picture, and most of your +acquaintance to the life, and as like as at Kneller’s. + +MRS. FRAIL. O lying creature! Valentine, does not he lie? I can’t +believe a word he says. + +VAL. No indeed, he speaks truth now. For as Tattle has pictures of all +that have granted him favours, he has the pictures of all that have +refused him: if satires, descriptions, characters, and lampoons are +pictures. + +SCAN. Yes; mine are most in black and white. And yet there are some set +out in their true colours, both men and women. I can shew you pride, +folly, affectation, wantonness, inconstancy, covetousness, dissimulation, +malice and ignorance, all in one piece. Then I can shew you lying, +foppery, vanity, cowardice, bragging, lechery, impotence, and ugliness in +another piece; and yet one of these is a celebrated beauty, and t’other a +professed beau. I have paintings too, some pleasant enough. + +MRS. FRAIL. Come, let’s hear ’em. + +SCAN. Why, I have a beau in a _bagnio_, cupping for a complexion, and +sweating for a shape. + +MRS. FRAIL. So. + +SCAN. Then I have a lady burning brandy in a cellar with a hackney +coachman. + +MRS. FRAIL. O devil! Well, but that story is not true. + +SCAN. I have some hieroglyphics too; I have a lawyer with a hundred +hands, two heads, and but one face; a divine with two faces, and one +head; and I have a soldier with his brains in his belly, and his heart +where his head should be. + +MRS. FRAIL. And no head? + +SCAN. No head. + +MRS. FRAIL. Pooh, this is all invention. Have you never a poet? + +SCAN. Yes, I have a poet weighing words, and selling praise for praise, +and a critic picking his pocket. I have another large piece too, +representing a school, where there are huge proportioned critics, with +long wigs, laced coats, Steinkirk cravats, and terrible faces; with +cat-calls in their hands, and horn-books about their necks. I have many +more of this kind, very well painted, as you shall see. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, I’ll come, if it be but to disprove you. + + + +SCENE XIV. + + + [_To them_] JEREMY. + +JERE. Sir, here’s the steward again from your father. + +VAL. I’ll come to him—will you give me leave? I’ll wait on you again +presently. + +MRS. FRAIL. No; I’ll be gone. Come, who squires me to the Exchange? I +must call my sister Foresight there. + +SCAN. I will: I have a mind to your sister. + +MRS. FRAIL. Civil! + +TATT. I will: because I have a tendre for your ladyship. + +MRS. FRAIL. That’s somewhat the better reason, to my opinion. + +SCAN. Well, if Tattle entertains you, I have the better opportunity to +engage your sister. + +VAL. Tell Angelica I am about making hard conditions to come abroad, and +be at liberty to see her. + +SCAN. I’ll give an account of you and your proceedings. If indiscretion +be a sign of love, you are the most a lover of anybody that I know: you +fancy that parting with your estate will help you to your mistress. In +my mind he is a thoughtless adventurer + + Who hopes to purchase wealth by selling land; + Or win a mistress with a losing hand. + + + + +ACT II.—SCENE I. + + + _A room in_ FORESIGHT’S _house_. + + FORESIGHT _and_ SERVANT. + +FORE. Hey day! What, are all the women of my family abroad? Is not my +wife come home? Nor my sister, nor my daughter? + +SERV. No, sir. + +FORE. Mercy on us, what can be the meaning of it? Sure the moon is in +all her fortitudes. Is my niece Angelica at home? + +SERV. Yes, sir. + +FORE. I believe you lie, sir. + +SERV. Sir? + +FORE. I say you lie, sir. It is impossible that anything should be as I +would have it; for I was born, sir, when the crab was ascending, and all +my affairs go backward. + +SERV. I can’t tell indeed, sir. + +FORE. No, I know you can’t, sir: but I can tell, and foretell, sir. + + + +SCENE II. + + + [_To them_] NURSE. + +FORE. Nurse, where’s your young mistress? + +NURSE. Wee’st heart, I know not, they’re none of ’em come home yet. +Poor child, I warrant she’s fond o’ seeing the town. Marry, pray heaven +they ha’ given her any dinner. Good lack-a-day, ha, ha, ha, Oh, strange! +I’ll vow and swear now, ha, ha, ha, marry, and did you ever see the like! + +FORE. Why, how now, what’s the matter? + +NURSE. Pray heaven send your worship good luck, marry, and amen with all +my heart, for you have put on one stocking with the wrong side outward. + +FORE. Ha, how? Faith and troth I’m glad of it; and so I have: that may +be good luck in troth, in troth it may, very good luck. Nay, I have had +some omens: I got out of bed backwards too this morning, without +premeditation; pretty good that too; but then I stumbled coming down +stairs, and met a weasel; bad omens those: some bad, some good, our lives +are chequered. Mirth and sorrow, want and plenty, night and day, make up +our time. But in troth I am pleased at my stocking; very well pleased at +my stocking. Oh, here’s my niece! Sirrah, go tell Sir Sampson Legend +I’ll wait on him if he’s at leisure:—’tis now three o’clock, a very good +hour for business: Mercury governs this hour. + + + +SCENE III. + + + ANGELICA, FORESIGHT, NURSE. + +ANG. Is it not a good hour for pleasure too, uncle? Pray lend me your +coach; mine’s out of order. + +FORE. What, would you be gadding too? Sure, all females are mad to-day. +It is of evil portent, and bodes mischief to the master of a family. I +remember an old prophecy written by Messahalah the Arabian, and thus +translated by a reverend Buckinghamshire bard:— + + ‘When housewives all the house forsake, + And leave goodman to brew and bake, + Withouten guile, then be it said, + That house doth stand upon its head; + And when the head is set in grond, + Ne marl, if it be fruitful fond.’ + +Fruitful, the head fruitful, that bodes horns; the fruit of the head is +horns. Dear niece, stay at home—for by the head of the house is meant +the husband; the prophecy needs no explanation. + +ANG. Well, but I can neither make you a cuckold, uncle, by going abroad, +nor secure you from being one by staying at home. + +FORE. Yes, yes; while there’s one woman left, the prophecy is not in +full force. + +ANG. But my inclinations are in force; I have a mind to go abroad, and +if you won’t lend me your coach, I’ll take a hackney or a chair, and +leave you to erect a scheme, and find who’s in conjunction with your +wife. Why don’t you keep her at home, if you’re jealous of her when +she’s abroad? You know my aunt is a little retrograde (as you call it) +in her nature. Uncle, I’m afraid you are not lord of the ascendant, ha, +ha, ha! + +FORE. Well, Jill-flirt, you are very pert, and always ridiculing that +celestial science. + +ANG. Nay, uncle, don’t be angry—if you are, I’ll reap up all your false +prophecies, ridiculous dreams, and idle divinations. I’ll swear you are +a nuisance to the neighbourhood. What a bustle did you keep against the +last invisible eclipse, laying in provision as ’twere for a siege. What +a world of fire and candle, matches and tinder-boxes did you purchase! +One would have thought we were ever after to live under ground, or at +least making a voyage to Greenland, to inhabit there all the dark season. + +FORE. Why, you malapert slut— + +ANG. Will you lend me your coach, or I’ll go on—nay, I’ll declare how +you prophesied popery was coming only because the butler had mislaid some +of the apostle spoons, and thought they were lost. Away went religion +and spoon-meat together. Indeed, uncle, I’ll indite you for a wizard. + +FORE. How, hussy! Was there ever such a provoking minx? + +NURSE. O merciful father, how she talks! + +ANG. Yes, I can make oath of your unlawful midnight practices, you and +the old nurse there— + +NURSE. Marry, heaven defend! I at midnight practices? O Lord, what’s +here to do? I in unlawful doings with my master’s worship—why, did you +ever hear the like now? Sir, did ever I do anything of your midnight +concerns but warm your bed, and tuck you up, and set the candle and your +tobacco-box and your urinal by you, and now and then rub the soles of +your feet? O Lord, I! + +ANG. Yes, I saw you together through the key-hole of the closet one +night, like Saul and the witch of Endor, turning the sieve and shears, +and pricking your thumbs, to write poor innocent servants’ names in +blood, about a little nutmeg grater which she had forgot in the +caudle-cup. Nay, I know something worse, if I would speak of it. + +FORE. I defy you, hussy; but I’ll remember this, I’ll be revenged on +you, cockatrice. I’ll hamper you. You have your fortune in your own +hands, but I’ll find a way to make your lover, your prodigal spendthrift +gallant, Valentine, pay for all, I will. + +ANG. Will you? I care not, but all shall out then. Look to it, nurse: +I can bring witness that you have a great unnatural teat under your left +arm, and he another; and that you suckle a young devil in the shape of a +tabby-cat, by turns, I can. + +NURSE. A teat, a teat—I an unnatural teat! Oh, the false, slanderous +thing; feel, feel here, if I have anything but like another Christian. +[_Crying_.] + +FORE. I will have patience, since it is the will of the stars I should +be thus tormented. This is the effect of the malicious conjunctions and +oppositions in the third house of my nativity; there the curse of kindred +was foretold. But I will have my doors locked up;—I’ll punish you: not a +man shall enter my house. + +ANG. Do, uncle, lock ’em up quickly before my aunt come home. You’ll +have a letter for alimony to-morrow morning. But let me be gone first, +and then let no mankind come near the house, but converse with spirits +and the celestial signs, the bull and the ram and the goat. Bless me! +There are a great many horned beasts among the twelve signs, uncle. But +cuckolds go to heaven. + +FORE. But there’s but one virgin among the twelve signs, spitfire, but +one virgin. + +ANG. Nor there had not been that one, if she had had to do with anything +but astrologers, uncle. That makes my aunt go abroad. + +FORE. How, how? Is that the reason? Come, you know something; tell me +and I’ll forgive you. Do, good niece. Come, you shall have my coach and +horses—faith and troth you shall. Does my wife complain? Come, I know +women tell one another. She is young and sanguine, has a wanton hazel +eye, and was born under Gemini, which may incline her to society. She +has a mole upon her lip, with a moist palm, and an open liberality on the +mount of Venus. + +ANG. Ha, ha, ha! + +FORE. Do you laugh? Well, gentlewoman, I’ll—but come, be a good girl, +don’t perplex your poor uncle, tell me—won’t you speak? Odd, I’ll— + + + +SCENE IV. + + + [_To them_] SERVANT. + +SERV. Sir Sampson is coming down to wait upon you. + +ANG. Good-bye, uncle—call me a chair. I’ll find out my aunt, and tell +her she must not come home. + +FORE. I’m so perplexed and vexed, I’m not fit to receive him; I shall +scarce recover myself before the hour be past. Go nurse, tell Sir +Sampson I’m ready to wait on him. + +NURSE. Yes, sir, + +FORE. Well—why, if I was born to be a cuckold, there’s no more to be +said—he’s here already. + + + +SCENE V. + + + FORESIGHT, _and_ SIR SAMPSON LEGEND _with a paper_. + +SIR SAMP. Nor no more to be done, old boy; that’s plain—here ’tis, I +have it in my hand, old Ptolomey, I’ll make the ungracious prodigal know +who begat him; I will, old Nostrodamus. What, I warrant my son thought +nothing belonged to a father but forgiveness and affection; no authority, +no correction, no arbitrary power; nothing to be done, but for him to +offend and me to pardon. I warrant you, if he danced till doomsday he +thought I was to pay the piper. Well, but here it is under black and +white, _signatum_, _sigillatum_, and _deliberatum_; that as soon as my +son Benjamin is arrived, he’s to make over to him his right of +inheritance. Where’s my daughter that is to be?—Hah! old Merlin! body o’ +me, I’m so glad I’m revenged on this undutiful rogue. + +FORE. Odso, let me see; let me see the paper. Ay, faith and troth, here +’tis, if it will but hold. I wish things were done, and the conveyance +made. When was this signed, what hour? Odso, you should have consulted +me for the time. Well, but we’ll make haste— + +SIR SAMP. Haste, ay, ay; haste enough. My son Ben will be in town +to-night. I have ordered my lawyer to draw up writings of settlement and +jointure—all shall be done to-night. No matter for the time; prithee, +brother Foresight, leave superstition. Pox o’ the time; there’s no time +but the time present, there’s no more to be said of what’s past, and all +that is to come will happen. If the sun shine by day, and the stars by +night, why, we shall know one another’s faces without the help of a +candle, and that’s all the stars are good for. + +FORE. How, how? Sir Sampson, that all? Give me leave to contradict +you, and tell you you are ignorant. + +SIR SAMP. I tell you I am wise; and _sapiens dominabitur astris_; +there’s Latin for you to prove it, and an argument to confound your +Ephemeris.—Ignorant! I tell you, I have travelled old Fircu, and know +the globe. I have seen the antipodes, where the sun rises at midnight, +and sets at noon-day. + +FORE. But I tell you, I have travelled, and travelled in the celestial +spheres, know the signs and the planets, and their houses. Can judge of +motions direct and retrograde, of sextiles, quadrates, trines and +oppositions, fiery-trigons and aquatical-trigons. Know whether life +shall be long or short, happy or unhappy, whether diseases are curable or +incurable. If journeys shall be prosperous, undertakings successful, or +goods stolen recovered; I know— + +SIR SAMP. I know the length of the Emperor of China’s foot; have kissed +the Great Mogul’s slippers, and rid a-hunting upon an elephant with a +Cham of Tartary. Body o’ me, I have made a cuckold of a king, and the +present majesty of Bantam is the issue of these loins. + +FORE. I know when travellers lie or speak truth, when they don’t know it +themselves. + +SIR SAMP. I have known an astrologer made a cuckold in the twinkling of +a star; and seen a conjurer that could not keep the devil out of his +wife’s circle. + +FORE. What, does he twit me with my wife too? I must be better informed +of this. [_Aside_.] Do you mean my wife, Sir Sampson? Though you made +a cuckold of the king of Bantam, yet by the body of the sun— + +SIR SAMP. By the horns of the moon, you would say, brother Capricorn. + +FORE. Capricorn in your teeth, thou modern Mandeville; Ferdinand Mendez +Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude. Take +back your paper of inheritance; send your son to sea again. I’ll wed my +daughter to an Egyptian mummy, e’er she shall incorporate with a +contemner of sciences, and a defamer of virtue. + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I have gone too far; I must not provoke honest +Albumazar:—an Egyptian mummy is an illustrious creature, my trusty +hieroglyphic; and may have significations of futurity about him; odsbud, +I would my son were an Egyptian mummy for thy sake. What, thou art not +angry for a jest, my good Haly? I reverence the sun, moon and stars with +all my heart. What, I’ll make thee a present of a mummy: now I think +on’t, body o’ me, I have a shoulder of an Egyptian king that I purloined +from one of the pyramids, powdered with hieroglyphics, thou shalt have it +brought home to thy house, and make an entertainment for all the +philomaths, and students in physic and astrology in and about London. + +FORE. But what do you know of my wife, Sir Sampson? + +SIR SAMP. Thy wife is a constellation of virtues; she’s the moon, and +thou art the man in the moon. Nay, she is more illustrious than the +moon; for she has her chastity without her inconstancy: ’sbud I was but +in jest. + + + +SCENE VI. + + + [_To them_] JEREMY. + +SIR SAMP. How now, who sent for you? Ha! What would you have? + +FORE. Nay, if you were but in jest—who’s that fellow? I don’t like his +physiognomy. + +SIR SAMP. My son, sir; what son, sir? My son Benjamin, hoh? + +JERE. No, sir, Mr. Valentine, my master; ’tis the first time he has been +abroad since his confinement, and he comes to pay his duty to you. + +SIR SAMP. Well, sir. + + + +SCENE VII. + + + FORESIGHT, SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, JEREMY. + +JERE. He is here, sir. + +VAL. Your blessing, sir. + +SIR SAMP. You’ve had it already, sir; I think I sent it you to-day in a +bill of four thousand pound: a great deal of money, brother Foresight. + +FORE. Ay, indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a young man; I +wonder what he can do with it! + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, so do I. Hark ye, Valentine, if there be too +much, refund the superfluity; dost hear, boy? + +VAL. Superfluity, sir? It will scarce pay my debts. I hope you will +have more indulgence than to oblige me to those hard conditions which my +necessity signed to. + +SIR SAMP. Sir, how, I beseech you, what were you pleased to intimate, +concerning indulgence? + +VAL. Why, sir, that you would not go to the extremity of the conditions, +but release me at least from some part. + +SIR SAMP. Oh, sir, I understand you—that’s all, ha? + +VAL. Yes, sir, all that I presume to ask. But what you, out of fatherly +fondness, will be pleased to add, shall be doubly welcome. + +SIR SAMP. No doubt of it, sweet sir; but your filial piety, and my +fatherly fondness would fit like two tallies. Here’s a rogue, brother +Foresight, makes a bargain under hand and seal in the morning, and would +be released from it in the afternoon; here’s a rogue, dog, here’s +conscience and honesty; this is your wit now, this is the morality of +your wits! You are a wit, and have been a beau, and may be a—why sirrah, +is it not here under hand and seal—can you deny it? + +VAL. Sir, I don’t deny it. + +SIR SAMP. Sirrah, you’ll be hanged; I shall live to see you go up +Holborn Hill. Has he not a rogue’s face? Speak brother, you understand +physiognomy, a hanging look to me—of all my boys the most unlike me; he +has a damned Tyburn face, without the benefit o’ the clergy. + +FORE. Hum—truly I don’t care to discourage a young man,—he has a violent +death in his face; but I hope no danger of hanging. + +VAL. Sir, is this usage for your son?—For that old weather-headed fool, +I know how to laugh at him; but you, sir— + +SIR SAMP. You, sir; and you, sir: why, who are you, sir? + +VAL. Your son, sir. + +SIR SAMP. That’s more than I know, sir, and I believe not. + +VAL. Faith, I hope not. + +SIR SAMP. What, would you have your mother a whore? Did you ever hear +the like? Did you ever hear the like? Body o’ me— + +VAL. I would have an excuse for your barbarity and unnatural usage. + +SIR SAMP. Excuse! Impudence! Why, sirrah, mayn’t I do what I please? +Are not you my slave? Did not I beget you? And might not I have chosen +whether I would have begot you or no? ’Oons, who are you? Whence came +you? What brought you into the world? How came you here, sir? Here, to +stand here, upon those two legs, and look erect with that audacious face, +ha? Answer me that! Did you come a volunteer into the world? Or did I, +with the lawful authority of a parent, press you to the service? + +VAL. I know no more why I came than you do why you called me. But here +I am, and if you don’t mean to provide for me, I desire you would leave +me as you found me. + +SIR SAMP. With all my heart: come, uncase, strip, and go naked out of +the world as you came into ’t. + +VAL. My clothes are soon put off. But you must also divest me of +reason, thought, passions, inclinations, affections, appetites, senses, +and the huge train of attendants that you begot along with me. + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, what a manyheaded monster have I propagated! + +VAL. I am of myself, a plain, easy, simple creature, and to be kept at +small expense; but the retinue that you gave me are craving and +invincible; they are so many devils that you have raised, and will have +employment. + +SIR SAMP. ’Oons, what had I to do to get children,—can’t a private man +be born without all these followers? Why, nothing under an emperor +should be born with appetites. Why, at this rate, a fellow that has but +a groat in his pocket may have a stomach capable of a ten shilling +ordinary. + +JERE. Nay, that’s as clear as the sun; I’ll make oath of it before any +justice in Middlesex. + +SIR SAMP. Here’s a cormorant too. ’S’heart this fellow was not born +with you? I did not beget him, did I? + +JERE. By the provision that’s made for me, you might have begot me too. +Nay, and to tell your worship another truth, I believe you did, for I +find I was born with those same whoreson appetites too, that my master +speaks of. + +SIR SAMP. Why, look you there, now. I’ll maintain it, that by the rule +of right reason, this fellow ought to have been born without a palate. +’S’heart, what should he do with a distinguishing taste? I warrant now +he’d rather eat a pheasant, than a piece of poor John; and smell, now, +why I warrant he can smell, and loves perfumes above a stink. Why +there’s it; and music, don’t you love music, scoundrel? + +JERE. Yes; I have a reasonable good ear, sir, as to jigs and country +dances, and the like; I don’t much matter your solos or sonatas, they +give me the spleen. + +SIR SAMP. The spleen, ha, ha, ha; a pox confound you—solos or sonatas? +’Oons, whose son are you? How were you engendered, muckworm? + +JERE. I am by my father, the son of a chair-man; my mother sold oysters +in winter, and cucumbers in summer; and I came upstairs into the world; +for I was born in a cellar. + +FORE. By your looks, you should go upstairs out of the world too, +friend. + +SIR SAMP. And if this rogue were anatomized now, and dissected, he has +his vessels of digestion and concoction, and so forth, large enough for +the inside of a cardinal, this son of a cucumber.—These things are +unaccountable and unreasonable. Body o’ me, why was not I a bear, that +my cubs might have lived upon sucking their paws? Nature has been +provident only to bears and spiders; the one has its nutriment in his own +hands; and t’other spins his habitation out of his own entrails. + +VAL. Fortune was provident enough to supply all the necessities of my +nature, if I had my right of inheritance. + +SIR SAMP. Again! ’Oons, han’t you four thousand pounds? If I had it +again, I would not give thee a groat.—What, would’st thou have me turn +pelican, and feed thee out of my own vitals? S’heart, live by your wits: +you were always fond of the wits, now let’s see, if you have wit enough +to keep yourself. Your brother will be in town to-night or to-morrow +morning, and then look you perform covenants, and so your friend and +servant:—come, brother Foresight. + + + +SCENE VIII. + + + VALENTINE, JEREMY. + +JERE. I told you what your visit would come to. + +VAL. ’Tis as much as I expected. I did not come to see him, I came to +see Angelica: but since she was gone abroad, it was easily turned another +way, and at least looked well on my side. What’s here? Mrs. Foresight +and Mrs. Frail, they are earnest. I’ll avoid ’em. Come this way, and go +and enquire when Angelica will return. + + + +SCENE IX. + + + MRS. FORESIGHT _and_ MRS. FRAIL. + +MRS. FRAIL. What have you to do to watch me? ’S’life I’ll do what I +please. + +MRS. FORE. You will? + +MRS. FRAIL. Yes, marry will I. A great piece of business to go to +Covent Garden Square in a hackney coach, and take a turn with one’s +friend. + +MRS. FORE. Nay, two or three turns, I’ll take my oath. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, what if I took twenty—I warrant if you had been there, +it had been only innocent recreation. Lord, where’s the comfort of this +life if we can’t have the happiness of conversing where we like? + +MRS. FORE. But can’t you converse at home? I own it, I think there’s no +happiness like conversing with an agreeable man; I don’t quarrel at that, +nor I don’t think but your conversation was very innocent; but the place +is public, and to be seen with a man in a hackney coach is scandalous. +What if anybody else should have seen you alight, as I did? How can +anybody be happy while they’re in perpetual fear of being seen and +censured? Besides, it would not only reflect upon you, sister, but me. + +MRS. FRAIL. Pooh, here’s a clutter: why should it reflect upon you? I +don’t doubt but you have thought yourself happy in a hackney coach before +now. If I had gone to Knight’s Bridge, or to Chelsea, or to Spring +Garden, or Barn Elms with a man alone, something might have been said. + +MRS. FORE. Why, was I ever in any of those places? What do you mean, +sister? + +MRS. FRAIL. Was I? What do you mean? + +MRS. FORE. You have been at a worse place. + +MRS. FRAIL. I at a worse place, and with a man! + +MRS. FORE. I suppose you would not go alone to the World’s End. + +MRS. FRAIL. The World’s End! What, do you mean to banter me? + +MRS. FORE. Poor innocent! You don’t know that there’s a place called +the World’s End? I’ll swear you can keep your countenance purely: you’d +make an admirable player. + +MRS. FRAIL. I’ll swear you have a great deal of confidence, and in my +mind too much for the stage. + +MRS. FORE. Very well, that will appear who has most; you never were at +the World’s End? + +MRS. FRAIL. No. + +MRS. FORE. You deny it positively to my face? + +MRS. FRAIL. Your face, what’s your face? + +MRS. FORE. No matter for that, it’s as good a face as yours. + +MRS. FRAIL. Not by a dozen years’ wearing. But I do deny it positively +to your face, then. + +MRS. FORE. I’ll allow you now to find fault with my face; for I’ll swear +your impudence has put me out of countenance. But look you here now, +where did you lose this gold bodkin? Oh, sister, sister! + +MRS. FRAIL. My bodkin! + +MRS. FORE. Nay, ’tis yours, look at it. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, if you go to that, where did you find this bodkin? +Oh, sister, sister! Sister every way. + +MRS. FORE. Oh, devil on’t, that I could not discover her without +betraying myself. [_Aside_.] + +MRS. FRAIL. I have heard gentlemen say, sister, that one should take +great care, when one makes a thrust in fencing, not to lie open oneself. + +MRS. FORE. It’s very true, sister. Well, since all’s out, and as you +say, since we are both wounded, let us do what is often done in duels, +take care of one another, and grow better friends than before. + +MRS. FRAIL. With all my heart: ours are but slight flesh wounds, and if +we keep ’em from air, not at all dangerous. Well, give me your hand in +token of sisterly secrecy and affection. + +MRS. FORE. Here ’tis, with all my heart. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, as an earnest of friendship and confidence, I’ll +acquaint you with a design that I have. To tell truth, and speak openly +one to another, I’m afraid the world have observed us more than we have +observed one another. You have a rich husband, and are provided for. I +am at a loss, and have no great stock either of fortune or reputation, +and therefore must look sharply about me. Sir Sampson has a son that is +expected to-night, and by the account I have heard of his education, can +be no conjurer. The estate you know is to be made over to him. Now if I +could wheedle him, sister, ha? You understand me? + +MRS. FORE. I do, and will help you to the utmost of my power. And I can +tell you one thing that falls out luckily enough; my awkward +daughter-in-law, who you know is designed to be his wife, is grown fond +of Mr. Tattle; now if we can improve that, and make her have an aversion +for the booby, it may go a great way towards his liking you. Here they +come together; and let us contrive some way or other to leave ’em +together. + + + +SCENE X. + + + [_To them_] TATTLE _and_ MISS PRUE. + +MISS. Mother, mother, mother, look you here! + +MRS. FORE. Fie, fie, Miss, how you bawl! Besides, I have told you, you +must not call me mother. + +MISS. What must I call you then, are you not my father’s wife? + +MRS. FORE. Madam; you must say madam. By my soul, I shall fancy myself +old indeed to have this great girl call me mother. Well, but Miss, what +are you so overjoyed at? + +MISS. Look you here, madam, then, what Mr. Tattle has given me. Look +you here, cousin, here’s a snuff-box; nay, there’s snuff in’t. Here, +will you have any? Oh, good! How sweet it is. Mr. Tattle is all over +sweet, his peruke is sweet, and his gloves are sweet, and his +handkerchief is sweet, pure sweet, sweeter than roses. Smell him, +mother—madam, I mean. He gave me this ring for a kiss. + +TATT. O fie, Miss, you must not kiss and tell. + +MISS. Yes; I may tell my mother. And he says he’ll give me something to +make me smell so. Oh, pray lend me your handkerchief. Smell, cousin; he +says he’ll give me something that will make my smocks smell this way. Is +not it pure? It’s better than lavender, mun. I’m resolved I won’t let +nurse put any more lavender among my smocks—ha, cousin? + +MRS. FRAIL. Fie, Miss; amongst your linen, you must say. You must never +say smock. + +MISS. Why, it is not bawdy, is it, cousin? + +TATT. Oh, madam; you are too severe upon Miss; you must not find fault +with her pretty simplicity: it becomes her strangely. Pretty Miss, don’t +let ’em persuade you out of your innocency. + +MRS. FORE. Oh, demm you toad. I wish you don’t persuade her out of her +innocency. + +TATT. Who, I, madam? O Lord, how can your ladyship have such a thought? +Sure, you don’t know me. + +MRS. FRAIL. Ah devil, sly devil. He’s as close, sister, as a confessor. +He thinks we don’t observe him. + +MRS. FORE. A cunning cur, how soon he could find out a fresh, harmless +creature; and left us, sister, presently. + +TATT. Upon reputation + +MRS. FORE. They’re all so, sister, these men. They love to have the +spoiling of a young thing, they are as fond of it, as of being first in +the fashion, or of seeing a new play the first day. I warrant it would +break Mr. Tattle’s heart to think that anybody else should be beforehand +with him. + +TATT. O Lord, I swear I would not for the world— + +MRS. FRAIL. O hang you; who’ll believe you? You’d be hanged before +you’d confess. We know you—she’s very pretty! Lord, what pure red and +white!—she looks so wholesome; ne’er stir: I don’t know, but I fancy, if +I were a man— + +MISS. How you love to jeer one, cousin. + +MRS. FORE. Hark’ee, sister, by my soul the girl is spoiled already. +D’ee think she’ll ever endure a great lubberly tarpaulin? Gad, I warrant +you she won’t let him come near her after Mr. Tattle. + +MRS. FRAIL. O my soul, I’m afraid not—eh!—filthy creature, that smells +all of pitch and tar. Devil take you, you confounded toad—why did you +see her before she was married? + +MRS. FORE. Nay, why did we let him—my husband will hang us. He’ll think +we brought ’em acquainted. + +MRS. FRAIL. Come, faith, let us be gone. If my brother Foresight should +find us with them, he’d think so, sure enough. + +MRS. FORE. So he would—but then leaving them together is as bad: and +he’s such a sly devil, he’ll never miss an opportunity. + +MRS. FRAIL. I don’t care; I won’t be seen in’t. + +MRS. FORE. Well, if you should, Mr. Tattle, you’ll have a world to +answer for; remember I wash my hands of it. I’m thoroughly innocent. + + + +SCENE XI. + + + TATTLE, MISS PRUE. + +MISS. What makes ’em go away, Mr. Tattle? What do they mean, do you +know? + +TATT. Yes my dear; I think I can guess, but hang me if I know the reason +of it. + +MISS. Come, must not we go too? + +TATT. No, no, they don’t mean that. + +MISS. No! What then? What shall you and I do together? + +TATT. I must make love to you, pretty Miss; will you let me make love to +you? + +MISS. Yes, if you please. + +TATT. Frank, i’Gad, at least. What a pox does Mrs. Foresight mean by +this civility? Is it to make a fool of me? Or does she leave us +together out of good morality, and do as she would be done by?—Gad, I’ll +understand it so. [_Aside_.] + +MISS. Well; and how will you make love to me—come, I long to have you +begin,—must I make love too? You must tell me how. + +TATT. You must let me speak, Miss, you must not speak first; I must ask +you questions, and you must answer. + +MISS. What, is it like the catechism? Come then, ask me. + +TATT. D’ye think you can love me? + +MISS. Yes. + +TATT. Pooh, pox, you must not say yes already; I shan’t care a farthing +for you then in a twinkling. + +MISS. What must I say then? + +TATT. Why you must say no, or you believe not, or you can’t tell— + +MISS. Why, must I tell a lie then? + +TATT. Yes, if you’d be well bred. All well bred persons lie.—Besides, +you are a woman, you must never speak what you think: your words must +contradict your thoughts; but your actions may contradict your words. So +when I ask you if you can love me, you must say no, but you must love me +too. If I tell you you are handsome, you must deny it, and say I flatter +you. But you must think yourself more charming than I speak you: and +like me, for the beauty which I say you have, as much as if I had it +myself. If I ask you to kiss me, you must be angry, but you must not +refuse me. If I ask you for more, you must be more angry,—but more +complying; and as soon as ever I make you say you’ll cry out, you must be +sure to hold your tongue. + +MISS. O Lord, I swear this is pure. I like it better than our +old-fashioned country way of speaking one’s mind;—and must not you lie +too? + +TATT. Hum—yes—but you must believe I speak truth. + +MISS. O Gemini! Well, I always had a great mind to tell lies; but they +frighted me, and said it was a sin. + +TATT. Well, my pretty creature; will you make me happy by giving me a +kiss? + +MISS. No, indeed; I’m angry at you. [_Runs and kisses him_.] + +TATT. Hold, hold, that’s pretty well, but you should not have given it +me, but have suffered me to have taken it. + +MISS. Well, we’ll do it again. + +TATT. With all my heart.—Now then, my little angel. [_Kisses her_.] + +MISS. Pish. + +TATT. That’s right,—again, my charmer. [_Kisses again_.] + +MISS. O fie, nay, now I can’t abide you. + +TATT. Admirable! That was as well as if you had been born and bred in +Covent Garden. And won’t you shew me, pretty miss, where your +bed-chamber is? + +MISS. No, indeed won’t I; but I’ll run there, and hide myself from you +behind the curtains. + +TATT. I’ll follow you. + +MISS. Ah, but I’ll hold the door with both hands, and be angry;—and you +shall push me down before you come in. + +TATT. No, I’ll come in first, and push you down afterwards. + +MISS. Will you? Then I’ll be more angry and more complying. + +TATT. Then I’ll make you cry out. + +MISS. Oh, but you shan’t, for I’ll hold my tongue. + +TATT. O my dear apt scholar! + +MISS. Well, now I’ll run and make more haste than you. + +TATT. You shall not fly so fast, as I’ll pursue. + + + + +ACT III.—SCENE I. + + + NURSE _alone_. + +NURSE. Miss, Miss, Miss Prue! Mercy on me, marry and amen. Why, what’s +become of the child? Why Miss, Miss Foresight! Sure she has locked +herself up in her chamber, and gone to sleep, or to prayers: Miss, +Miss,—I hear her.—Come to your father, child; open the door. Open the +door, Miss. I hear you cry husht. O Lord, who’s there? [_peeps_] +What’s here to do? O the Father! A man with her! Why, miss, I say; +God’s my life, here’s fine doings towards—O Lord, we’re all undone. O +you young harlotry [_knocks_]. Od’s my life, won’t you open the door? +I’ll come in the back way. + + + +SCENE II. + + + TATTLE, MISS PRUE. + +MISS. O Lord, she’s coming, and she’ll tell my father; what shall I do +now? + +TATT. Pox take her; if she had stayed two minutes longer, I should have +wished for her coming. + +MISS. O dear, what shall I say? Tell me, Mr. Tattle, tell me a lie. + +TATT. There’s no occasion for a lie; I could never tell a lie to no +purpose. But since we have done nothing, we must say nothing, I think. +I hear her,—I’ll leave you together, and come off as you can. [_Thrusts +her in_, _and shuts the door_.] + + + +SCENE III. + + + TATTLE, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, ANGELICA. + +ANG. You can’t accuse me of inconstancy; I never told you that I loved +you. + +VAL. But I can accuse you of uncertainty, for not telling me whether you +did or not. + +ANG. You mistake indifference for uncertainty; I never had concern +enough to ask myself the question. + +SCAN. Nor good-nature enough to answer him that did ask you; I’ll say +that for you, madam. + +ANG. What, are you setting up for good-nature? + +SCAN. Only for the affectation of it, as the women do for ill-nature. + +ANG. Persuade your friend that it is all affectation. + +SCAN. I shall receive no benefit from the opinion; for I know no +effectual difference between continued affectation and reality. + +TATT. [_coming up_]. Scandal, are you in private discourse? Anything +of secrecy? [_Aside to_ SCANDAL.] + +SCAN. Yes, but I dare trust you; we were talking of Angelica’s love to +Valentine. You won’t speak of it. + +TATT. No, no, not a syllable. I know that’s a secret, for it’s +whispered everywhere. + +SCAN. Ha, ha, ha! + +ANG. What is, Mr. Tattle? I heard you say something was whispered +everywhere. + +SCAN. Your love of Valentine. + +ANG. How! + +TATT. No, madam, his love for your ladyship. Gad take me, I beg your +pardon,—for I never heard a word of your ladyship’s passion till this +instant. + +ANG. My passion! And who told you of my passion, pray sir? + +SCAN. Why, is the devil in you? Did not I tell it you for a secret? + +TATT. Gadso; but I thought she might have been trusted with her own +affairs. + +SCAN. Is that your discretion? Trust a woman with herself? + +TATT. You say true, I beg your pardon. I’ll bring all off. It was +impossible, madam, for me to imagine that a person of your ladyship’s wit +and gallantry could have so long received the passionate addresses of the +accomplished Valentine, and yet remain insensible; therefore you will +pardon me, if, from a just weight of his merit, with your ladyship’s good +judgment, I formed the balance of a reciprocal affection. + +VAL. O the devil, what damned costive poet has given thee this lesson of +fustian to get by rote? + +ANG. I dare swear you wrong him, it is his own. And Mr. Tattle only +judges of the success of others, from the effects of his own merit. For +certainly Mr. Tattle was never denied anything in his life. + +TATT. O Lord! Yes, indeed, madam, several times. + +ANG. I swear I don’t think ’tis possible. + +TATT. Yes, I vow and swear I have; Lord, madam, I’m the most unfortunate +man in the world, and the most cruelly used by the ladies. + +ANG. Nay, now you’re ungrateful. + +TATT. No, I hope not, ’tis as much ingratitude to own some favours as to +conceal others. + +VAL. There, now it’s out. + +ANG. I don’t understand you now. I thought you had never asked anything +but what a lady might modestly grant, and you confess. + +SCAN. So faith, your business is done here; now you may go brag +somewhere else. + +TATT. Brag! O heavens! Why, did I name anybody? + +ANG. No; I suppose that is not in your power; but you would if you +could, no doubt on’t. + +TATT. Not in my power, madam! What, does your ladyship mean that I have +no woman’s reputation in my power? + +SCAN. ’Oons, why, you won’t own it, will you? [_Aside_.] + +TATT. Faith, madam, you’re in the right; no more I have, as I hope to be +saved; I never had it in my power to say anything to a lady’s prejudice +in my life. For as I was telling you, madam, I have been the most +unsuccessful creature living, in things of that nature; and never had the +good fortune to be trusted once with a lady’s secret, not once. + +ANG. No? + +VAL. Not once, I dare answer for him. + +SCAN. And I’ll answer for him; for I’m sure if he had, he would have +told me; I find, madam, you don’t know Mr. Tattle. + +TATT. No indeed, madam, you don’t know me at all, I find. For sure my +intimate friends would have known— + +ANG. Then it seems you would have told, if you had been trusted. + +TATT. O pox, Scandal, that was too far put. Never have told +particulars, madam. Perhaps I might have talked as of a third person; or +have introduced an amour of my own, in conversation, by way of novel; but +never have explained particulars. + +ANG. But whence comes the reputation of Mr. Tattle’s secrecy, if he was +never trusted? + +SCAN. Why, thence it arises—the thing is proverbially spoken; but may be +applied to him—as if we should say in general terms, he only is secret +who never was trusted; a satirical proverb upon our sex. There’s another +upon yours—as she is chaste, who was never asked the question. That’s +all. + +VAL. A couple of very civil proverbs, truly. ’Tis hard to tell whether +the lady or Mr. Tattle be the more obliged to you. For you found her +virtue upon the backwardness of the men; and his secrecy upon the +mistrust of the women. + +TATT. Gad, it’s very true, madam, I think we are obliged to acquit +ourselves. And for my part—but your ladyship is to speak first. + +ANG. Am I? Well, I freely confess I have resisted a great deal of +temptation. + +TATT. And i’Gad, I have given some temptation that has not been +resisted. + +VAL. Good. + +ANG. I cite Valentine here, to declare to the court, how fruitless he +has found his endeavours, and to confess all his solicitations and my +denials. + +VAL. I am ready to plead not guilty for you; and guilty for myself. + +SCAN. So, why this is fair, here’s demonstration with a witness. + +TATT. Well, my witnesses are not present. But I confess I have had +favours from persons. But as the favours are numberless, so the persons +are nameless. + +SCAN. Pooh, this proves nothing. + +TATT. No? I can show letters, lockets, pictures, and rings; and if +there be occasion for witnesses, I can summon the maids at the +chocolate-houses, all the porters at Pall Mall and Covent Garden, the +door-keepers at the Playhouse, the drawers at Locket’s, Pontack’s, the +Rummer, Spring Garden, my own landlady and _valet de chambre_; all who +shall make oath that I receive more letters than the Secretary’s office, +and that I have more vizor-masks to enquire for me, than ever went to see +the Hermaphrodite, or the Naked Prince. And it is notorious that in a +country church once, an enquiry being made who I was, it was answered, I +was the famous Tattle, who had ruined so many women. + +VAL. It was there, I suppose, you got the nickname of the Great Turk. + +TATT. True; I was called Turk-Tattle all over the parish. The next +Sunday all the old women kept their daughters at home, and the parson had +not half his congregation. He would have brought me into the spiritual +court, but I was revenged upon him, for he had a handsome daughter whom I +initiated into the science. But I repented it afterwards, for it was +talked of in town. And a lady of quality that shall be nameless, in a +raging fit of jealousy, came down in her coach and six horses, and +exposed herself upon my account; Gad, I was sorry for it with all my +heart. You know whom I mean—you know where we raffled— + +SCAN. Mum, Tattle. + +VAL. ’Sdeath, are not you ashamed? + +ANG. O barbarous! I never heard so insolent a piece of vanity. Fie, +Mr. Tattle; I’ll swear I could not have believed it. Is this your +secrecy? + +TATT. Gadso, the heat of my story carried me beyond my discretion, as +the heat of the lady’s passion hurried her beyond her reputation. But I +hope you don’t know whom I mean; for there was a great many ladies +raffled. Pox on’t, now could I bite off my tongue. + +SCAN. No, don’t; for then you’ll tell us no more. Come, I’ll recommend +a song to you upon the hint of my two proverbs, and I see one in the next +room that will sing it. [_Goes to the door_.] + +TATT. For heaven’s sake, if you do guess, say nothing; Gad, I’m very +unfortunate. + +SCAN. Pray sing the first song in the last new play. + + SONG. + Set by Mr. John Eccles. + + I. + + A nymph and a swain to Apollo once prayed, + The swain had been jilted, the nymph been betrayed: + Their intent was to try if his oracle knew + E’er a nymph that was chaste, or a swain that was true. + + II. + + Apollo was mute, and had like t’have been posed, + But sagely at length he this secret disclosed: + He alone won’t betray in whom none will confide, + And the nymph may be chaste that has never been tried. + + + +SCENE IV. + + + [_To them_] SIR SAMPSON, MRS. FRAIL, MISS PRUE, _and_ SERVANT. + +SIR SAMP. Is Ben come? Odso, my son Ben come? Odd, I’m glad on’t. +Where is he? I long to see him. Now, Mrs. Frail, you shall see my son +Ben. Body o’ me, he’s the hopes of my family. I han’t seen him these +three years—I warrant he’s grown. Call him in, bid him make haste. I’m +ready to cry for joy. + +MRS. FRAIL. Now Miss, you shall see your husband. + +MISS. Pish, he shall be none of my husband. [_Aside to Frail_.] + +MRS. FRAIL. Hush. Well he shan’t; leave that to me. I’ll beckon Mr. +Tattle to us. + +ANG. Won’t you stay and see your brother? + +VAL. We are the twin stars, and cannot shine in one sphere; when he +rises I must set. Besides, if I should stay, I don’t know but my father +in good nature may press me to the immediate signing the deed of +conveyance of my estate; and I’ll defer it as long as I can. Well, +you’ll come to a resolution. + +ANG. I can’t. Resolution must come to me, or I shall never have one. + +SCAN. Come, Valentine, I’ll go with you; I’ve something in my head to +communicate to you. + + + +SCENE V. + + + ANGELICA, SIR SAMPSON, TATTLE, MRS. FRAIL, MISS PRUE. + +SIR SAMP. What, is my son Valentine gone? What, is he sneaked off, and +would not see his brother? There’s an unnatural whelp! There’s an +ill-natured dog! What, were you here too, madam, and could not keep him? +Could neither love, nor duty, nor natural affection oblige him? Odsbud, +madam, have no more to say to him, he is not worth your consideration. +The rogue has not a drachm of generous love about him—all interest, all +interest; he’s an undone scoundrel, and courts your estate: body o’ me, +he does not care a doit for your person. + +ANG. I’m pretty even with him, Sir Sampson; for if ever I could have +liked anything in him, it should have been his estate too; but since +that’s gone, the bait’s off, and the naked hook appears. + +SIR SAMP. Odsbud, well spoken, and you are a wiser woman than I thought +you were, for most young women now-a-days are to be tempted with a naked +hook. + +ANG. If I marry, Sir Sampson, I’m for a good estate with any man, and +for any man with a good estate; therefore, if I were obliged to make a +choice, I declare I’d rather have you than your son. + +SIR SAMP. Faith and troth, you’re a wise woman, and I’m glad to hear you +say so; I was afraid you were in love with the reprobate. Odd, I was +sorry for you with all my heart. Hang him, mongrel, cast him off; you +shall see the rogue show himself, and make love to some desponding Cadua +of fourscore for sustenance. Odd, I love to see a young spendthrift +forced to cling to an old woman for support, like ivy round a dead oak; +faith I do, I love to see ’em hug and cotton together, like down upon a +thistle. + + + +SCENE VI. + + + [_To them_] BEN LEGEND _and_ SERVANT. + +BEN. Where’s father? + +SERV. There, sir, his back’s toward you. + +SIR SAMP. My son Ben! Bless thee, my dear body. Body o’ me, thou art +heartily welcome. + +BEN. Thank you, father, and I’m glad to see you. + +SIR SAMP. Odsbud, and I’m glad to see thee; kiss me, boy, kiss me again +and again, dear Ben. [_Kisses him_.] + +BEN. So, so, enough, father, Mess, I’d rather kiss these gentlewomen. + +SIR SAMP. And so thou shalt. Mrs. Angelica, my son Ben. + +BEN. Forsooth, if you please. [_Salutes her_.] Nay, mistress, I’m not +for dropping anchor here; about ship, i’faith. [_Kisses Frail_.] Nay, +and you too, my little cock-boat—so [_Kisses Miss_]. + +TATT. Sir, you’re welcome ashore. + +BEN. Thank you, thank you, friend. + +SIR SAMP. Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, since I saw thee. + +BEN. Ay, ay, been! Been far enough, an’ that be all. Well, father, and +how do all at home? How does brother Dick, and brother Val? + +SIR SAMP. Dick—body o’ me—Dick has been dead these two years. I writ +you word when you were at Leghorn. + +BEN. Mess, that’s true; marry! I had forgot. Dick’s dead, as you say. +Well, and how? I have a many questions to ask you. Well, you ben’t +married again, father, be you? + +SIR SAMP. No; I intend you shall marry, Ben; I would not marry for thy +sake. + +BEN. Nay, what does that signify? An’ you marry again—why then, I’ll go +to sea again, so there’s one for t’other, an’ that be all. Pray don’t +let me be your hindrance—e’en marry a God’s name, an the wind sit that +way. As for my part, mayhap I have no mind to marry. + +FRAIL. That would be pity—such a handsome young gentleman. + +BEN. Handsome! he, he, he! nay, forsooth, an you be for joking, I’ll +joke with you, for I love my jest, an’ the ship were sinking, as we sayn +at sea. But I’ll tell you why I don’t much stand towards matrimony. I +love to roam about from port to port, and from land to land; I could +never abide to be port-bound, as we call it. Now, a man that is married +has, as it were, d’ye see, his feet in the bilboes, and mayhap mayn’t get +them out again when he would. + +SIR SAMP. Ben’s a wag. + +BEN. A man that is married, d’ye see, is no more like another man than a +galley-slave is like one of us free sailors; he is chained to an oar all +his life, and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the bargain. + +SIR SAMP. A very wag—Ben’s a very wag; only a little rough, he wants a +little polishing. + +MRS. FRAIL. Not at all; I like his humour mightily: it’s plain and +honest—I should like such a humour in a husband extremely. + +BEN. Say’n you so, forsooth? Marry, and I should like such a handsome +gentlewoman for a bed-fellow hugely. How say you, mistress, would you +like going to sea? Mess, you’re a tight vessel, an well rigged, an you +were but as well manned. + +MRS. FRAIL. I should not doubt that if you were master of me. + +BEN. But I’ll tell you one thing, an you come to sea in a high wind, or +that lady—you may’nt carry so much sail o’ your head—top and top gallant, +by the mess. + +MRS. FRAIL. No, why so? + +BEN. Why, an you do, you may run the risk to be overset, and then you’ll +carry your keels above water, he, he, he! + +ANG. I swear, Mr. Benjamin is the veriest wag in nature—an absolute +sea-wit. + +SIR SAMP. Nay, Ben has parts, but as I told you before, they want a +little polishing. You must not take anything ill, madam. + +BEN. No, I hope the gentlewoman is not angry; I mean all in good part, +for if I give a jest, I’ll take a jest, and so forsooth you may be as +free with me. + +ANG. I thank you, sir, I am not at all offended. But methinks, Sir +Sampson, you should leave him alone with his mistress. Mr. Tattle, we +must not hinder lovers. + +TATT. Well, Miss, I have your promise. [_Aside to Miss_.] + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, madam, you say true. Look you, Ben, this is your +mistress. Come, Miss, you must not be shame-faced; we’ll leave you +together. + +MISS. I can’t abide to be left alone; mayn’t my cousin stay with me? + +SIR SAMP. No, no. Come, let’s away. + +BEN. Look you, father, mayhap the young woman mayn’t take a liking to +me. + +SIR SAMP. I warrant thee, boy: come, come, we’ll be gone; I’ll venture +that. + + + +SCENE VII. + + + BEN, _and_ MISS PRUE. + +BEN. Come mistress, will you please to sit down? for an you stand a +stern a that’n, we shall never grapple together. Come, I’ll haul a +chair; there, an you please to sit, I’ll sit by you. + +MISS. You need not sit so near one, if you have anything to say, I can +hear you farther off, I an’t deaf. + +BEN. Why that’s true, as you say, nor I an’t dumb, I can be heard as far +as another,—I’ll heave off, to please you. [_Sits farther off_.] An we +were a league asunder, I’d undertake to hold discourse with you, an +’twere not a main high wind indeed, and full in my teeth. Look you, +forsooth, I am, as it were, bound for the land of matrimony; ’tis a +voyage, d’ye see, that was none of my seeking. I was commanded by +father, and if you like of it, mayhap I may steer into your harbour. How +say you, mistress? The short of the thing is, that if you like me, and I +like you, we may chance to swing in a hammock together. + +MISS. I don’t know what to say to you, nor I don’t care to speak with +you at all. + +BEN. No? I’m sorry for that. But pray why are you so scornful? + +MISS. As long as one must not speak one’s mind, one had better not speak +at all, I think, and truly I won’t tell a lie for the matter. + +BEN. Nay, you say true in that, it’s but a folly to lie: for to speak +one thing, and to think just the contrary way is, as it were, to look one +way, and to row another. Now, for my part, d’ye see, I’m for carrying +things above board, I’m not for keeping anything under hatches,—so that +if you ben’t as willing as I, say so a God’s name: there’s no harm done; +mayhap you may be shame-faced; some maidens thof they love a man well +enough, yet they don’t care to tell’n so to’s face. If that’s the case, +why, silence gives consent. + +MISS. But I’m sure it is not so, for I’ll speak sooner than you should +believe that; and I’ll speak truth, though one should always tell a lie +to a man; and I don’t care, let my father do what he will; I’m too big to +be whipt, so I’ll tell you plainly, I don’t like you, nor love you at +all, nor never will, that’s more: so there’s your answer for you; and +don’t trouble me no more, you ugly thing. + +BEN. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give good words, however. +I spoke you fair, d’ye see, and civil. As for your love or your liking, +I don’t value it of a rope’s end; and mayhap I like you as little as you +do me: what I said was in obedience to father. Gad, I fear a whipping no +more than you do. But I tell you one thing, if you should give such +language at sea, you’d have a cat o’ nine tails laid cross your +shoulders. Flesh! who are you? You heard t’other handsome young woman +speak civilly to me of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, +gad, I don’t think you are any more to compare to her than a can of +small-beer to a bowl of punch. + +MISS. Well, and there’s a handsome gentleman, and a fine gentleman, and +a sweet gentleman, that was here that loves me, and I love him; and if he +sees you speak to me any more, he’ll thrash your jacket for you, he will, +you great sea-calf. + +BEN. What, do you mean that fair-weather spark that was here just now? +Will he thrash my jacket? Let’n,—let’n. But an he comes near me, mayhap +I may giv’n a salt eel for’s supper, for all that. What does father mean +to leave me alone as soon as I come home with such a dirty dowdy? +Sea-calf? I an’t calf enough to lick your chalked face, you cheese-curd +you:—marry thee? Oons, I’ll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon +selling contrary winds and wrecked vessels. + +MISS. I won’t be called names, nor I won’t be abused thus, so I won’t. +If I were a man [_cries_]—you durst not talk at his rate. No, you durst +not, you stinking tar-barrel. + + + +SCENE VIII. + + + [_To them_] MRS. FORESIGHT _and_ MRS. FRAIL. + +MRS. FORE. They have quarrelled, just as we could wish. + +BEN. Tar-barrel? Let your sweetheart there call me so, if he’ll take +your part, your Tom Essence, and I’ll say something to him; gad, I’ll +lace his musk-doublet for him, I’ll make him stink: he shall smell more +like a weasel than a civet-cat, afore I ha’ done with ’en. + +MRS. FORE. Bless me, what’s the matter, Miss? What, does she cry? Mr. +Benjamin, what have you done to her? + +BEN. Let her cry: the more she cries the less she’ll—she has been +gathering foul weather in her mouth, and now it rains out at her eyes. + +MRS. FORE. Come, Miss, come along with me, and tell me, poor child. + +MRS. FRAIL. Lord, what shall we do? There’s my brother Foresight and +Sir Sampson coming. Sister, do you take Miss down into the parlour, and +I’ll carry Mr. Benjamin into my chamber, for they must not know that they +are fallen out. Come, sir, will you venture yourself with me? [_Looking +kindly on him_.] + +BEN. Venture, mess, and that I will, though ’twere to sea in a storm. + + + +SCENE IX. + + + SIR SAMPSON _and_ FORESIGHT. + +SIR SAMP. I left ’em together here; what, are they gone? Ben’s a brisk +boy: he has got her into a corner; father’s own son, faith, he’ll touzle +her, and mouzle her. The rogue’s sharp set, coming from sea; if he +should not stay for saving grace, old Foresight, but fall to without the +help of a parson, ha? Odd, if he should I could not be angry with him; +’twould be but like me, a chip of the old block. Ha! thou’rt +melancholic, old Prognostication; as melancholic as if thou hadst spilt +the salt, or pared thy nails on a Sunday. Come, cheer up, look about +thee: look up, old stargazer. Now is he poring upon the ground for a +crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, with the head towards him. + +FORE. Sir Sampson, we’ll have the wedding to-morrow morning. + +SIR SAMP. With all my heart. + +FORE. At ten a’clock, punctually at ten. + +SIR SAMP. To a minute, to a second; thou shalt set thy watch, and the +bridegroom shall observe its motions; they shall be married to a minute, +go to bed to a minute; and when the alarm strikes, they shall keep time +like the figures of St. Dunstan’s clock, and _consummatum est_ shall ring +all over the parish. + + + +SCENE X. + + + [_To them_] SCANDAL. + +SCAN. Sir Sampson, sad news. + +FORE. Bless us! + +SIR SAMP. Why, what’s the matter? + +SCAN. Can’t you guess at what ought to afflict you and him, and all of +us, more than anything else? + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I don’t know any universal grievance, but a new +tax, or the loss of the Canary fleet. Unless popery should be landed in +the West, or the French fleet were at anchor at Blackwall. + +SCAN. No. Undoubtedly, Mr. Foresight knew all this, and might have +prevented it. + +FORE. ’Tis no earthquake! + +SCAN. No, not yet; nor whirlwind. But we don’t know what it may come +to. But it has had a consequence already that touches us all. + +SIR SAMP. Why, body o’ me, out with’t. + +SCAN. Something has appeared to your son Valentine. He’s gone to bed +upon’t, and very ill. He speaks little, yet he says he has a world to +say. Asks for his father and the wise Foresight; talks of Raymond Lully, +and the ghost of Lilly. He has secrets to impart, I suppose, to you two. +I can get nothing out of him but sighs. He desires he may see you in the +morning, but would not be disturbed to-night, because he has some +business to do in a dream. + +SIR SAMP. Hoity toity, what have I to do with his dreams or his +divination? Body o’ me, this is a trick to defer signing the conveyance. +I warrant the devil will tell him in a dream that he must not part with +his estate. But I’ll bring him a parson to tell him that the devil’s a +liar:—or if that won’t do, I’ll bring a lawyer that shall out-lie the +devil. And so I’ll try whether my blackguard or his shall get the better +of the day. + + + +SCENE XI. + + + SCANDAL, FORESIGHT. + +SCAN. Alas, Mr. Foresight, I’m afraid all is not right. You are a wise +man, and a conscientious man, a searcher into obscurity and futurity, and +if you commit an error, it is with a great deal of consideration, and +discretion, and caution— + +FORE. Ah, good Mr. Scandal— + +SCAN. Nay, nay, ’tis manifest; I do not flatter you. But Sir Sampson is +hasty, very hasty. I’m afraid he is not scrupulous enough, Mr. +Foresight. He has been wicked, and heav’n grant he may mean well in his +affair with you. But my mind gives me, these things cannot be wholly +insignificant. You are wise, and should not be over-reached, methinks +you should not— + +FORE. Alas, Mr. Scandal,—_humanum est errare_. + +SCAN. You say true, man will err; mere man will err—but you are +something more. There have been wise men; but they were such as you, men +who consulted the stars, and were observers of omens. Solomon was wise, +but how?—by his judgment in astrology. So says Pineda in his third book +and eighth chapter— + +FORE. You are learned, Mr. Scandal. + +SCAN. A trifler—but a lover of art. And the Wise Men of the East owed +their instruction to a star, which is rightly observed by Gregory the +Great in favour of astrology. And Albertus Magnus makes it the most +valuable science, because, says he, it teaches us to consider the +causation of causes, in the causes of things. + +FORE. I protest I honour you, Mr. Scandal. I did not think you had been +read in these matters. Few young men are inclined— + +SCAN. I thank my stars that have inclined me. But I fear this marriage +and making over this estate, this transferring of a rightful inheritance, +will bring judgments upon us. I prophesy it, and I would not have the +fate of Cassandra not to be believed. Valentine is disturbed; what can +be the cause of that? And Sir Sampson is hurried on by an unusual +violence. I fear he does not act wholly from himself; methinks he does +not look as he used to do. + +FORE. He was always of an impetuous nature. But as to this marriage, I +have consulted the stars, and all appearances are prosperous— + +SCAN. Come, come, Mr. Foresight, let not the prospect of worldly lucre +carry you beyond your judgment, nor against your conscience. You are not +satisfied that you act justly. + +FORE. How? + +SCAN. You are not satisfied, I say. I am loth to discourage you, but it +is palpable that you are not satisfied. + +FORE. How does it appear, Mr. Scandal? I think I am very well +satisfied. + +SCAN. Either you suffer yourself to deceive yourself, or you do not know +yourself. + +FORE. Pray explain yourself. + +SCAN. Do you sleep well o’ nights? + +FORE. Very well. + +SCAN. Are you certain? You do not look so. + +FORE. I am in health, I think. + +SCAN. So was Valentine this morning; and looked just so. + +FORE. How? Am I altered any way? I don’t perceive it. + +SCAN. That may be, but your beard is longer than it was two hours ago. + +FORE. Indeed! Bless me! + + + +SCENE XII. + + + [_To them_] MRS. FORESIGHT. + +MRS. FORE. Husband, will you go to bed? It’s ten a’clock. Mr. Scandal, +your servant. + +SCAN. Pox on her, she has interrupted my design—but I must work her into +the project. You keep early hours, madam. + +MRS. FORE. Mr. Foresight is punctual; we sit up after him. + +FORE. My dear, pray lend me your glass, your little looking-glass. + +SCAN. Pray lend it him, madam. I’ll tell you the reason. + +[_She gives him the glass_: SCANDAL _and she whisper_.] My passion for +you is grown so violent, that I am no longer master of myself. I was +interrupted in the morning, when you had charity enough to give me your +attention, and I had hopes of finding another opportunity of explaining +myself to you, but was disappointed all this day; and the uneasiness that +has attended me ever since brings me now hither at this unseasonable +hour. + +MRS. FORE. Was there ever such impudence, to make love to me before my +husband’s face? I’ll swear I’ll tell him. + +SCAN. Do. I’ll die a martyr rather than disclaim my passion. But come +a little farther this way, and I’ll tell you what project I had to get +him out of the way; that I might have an opportunity of waiting upon you. +[_Whisper_. FORESIGHT _looking in the glass_.] + +FORE. I do not see any revolution here; methinks I look with a serene +and benign aspect—pale, a little pale—but the roses of these cheeks have +been gathered many years;—ha! I do not like that sudden flushing. Gone +already! hem, hem, hem! faintish. My heart is pretty good; yet it beats; +and my pulses, ha!—I have none—mercy on me—hum. Yes, here they +are—gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, hey! Whither will +they hurry me? Now they’re gone again. And now I’m faint again, and +pale again, and hem! and my hem! breath, hem! grows short; hem! hem! he, +he, hem! + +SCAN. It takes: pursue it in the name of love and pleasure. + +MRS. FORE. How do you do, Mr. Foresight! + +FORE. Hum, not so well as I thought I was. Lend me your hand. + +SCAN. Look you there now. Your lady says your sleep has been unquiet of +late. + +FORE. Very likely. + +MRS. FORE. Oh, mighty restless, but I was afraid to tell him so. He has +been subject to talking and starting. + +SCAN. And did not use to be so? + +MRS. FORE. Never, never, till within these three nights; I cannot say +that he has once broken my rest since we have been married. + +FORE. I will go to bed. + +SCAN. Do so, Mr. Foresight, and say your prayers. He looks better than +he did. + +MRS. FORE. Nurse, nurse! + +FORE. Do you think so, Mr. Scandal? + +SCAN. Yes, yes. I hope this will be gone by morning, taking it in time. + +FORE. I hope so. + + + +SCENE XIII. + + + [_To them_] NURSE. + +MRS. FORE. Nurse; your master is not well; put him to bed. + +SCAN. I hope you will be able to see Valentine in the morning. You had +best take a little diacodion and cowslip-water, and lie upon your back: +maybe you may dream. + +FORE. I thank you, Mr. Scandal, I will. Nurse, let me have a +watch-light, and lay the Crumbs of Comfort by me. + +NURSE. Yes, sir. + +FORE. And—hem, hem! I am very faint. + +SCAN. No, no, you look much better. + +FORE. Do I? And, d’ye hear, bring me, let me see—within a quarter of +twelve, hem—he, hem!—just upon the turning of the tide, bring me the +urinal; and I hope, neither the lord of my ascendant, nor the moon will +be combust; and then I may do well. + +SCAN. I hope so. Leave that to me; I will erect a scheme; and I hope I +shall find both Sol and Venus in the sixth house. + +FORE. I thank you, Mr. Scandal, indeed that would be a great comfort to +me. Hem, hem! good night. + + + +SCENE XIV. + + + SCANDAL, MRS. FORESIGHT. + +SCAN. Good night, good Mr. Foresight; and I hope Mars and Venus will be +in conjunction;—while your wife and I are together. + +MRS. FORE. Well; and what use do you hope to make of this project? You +don’t think that you are ever like to succeed in your design upon me? + +SCAN. Yes, faith I do; I have a better opinion both of you and myself +than to despair. + +MRS. FORE. Did you ever hear such a toad? Hark’ee, devil: do you think +any woman honest? + +SCAN. Yes, several, very honest; they’ll cheat a little at cards, +sometimes, but that’s nothing. + +MRS. FORE. Pshaw! but virtuous, I mean? + +SCAN. Yes, faith, I believe some women are virtuous too; but ’tis as I +believe some men are valiant, through fear. For why should a man court +danger or a woman shun pleasure? + +MRS. FORE. Oh, monstrous! What are conscience and honour? + +SCAN. Why, honour is a public enemy, and conscience a domestic thief; +and he that would secure his pleasure must pay a tribute to one and go +halves with t’other. As for honour, that you have secured, for you have +purchased a perpetual opportunity for pleasure. + +MRS. FORE. An opportunity for pleasure? + +SCAN. Ay, your husband, a husband is an opportunity for pleasure: so you +have taken care of honour, and ’tis the least I can do to take care of +conscience. + +MRS. FORE. And so you think we are free for one another? + +SCAN. Yes, faith I think so; I love to speak my mind. + +MRS. FORE. Why, then, I’ll speak my mind. Now as to this affair between +you and me. Here you make love to me; why, I’ll confess it does not +displease me. Your person is well enough, and your understanding is not +amiss. + +SCAN. I have no great opinion of myself, but I think I’m neither +deformed nor a fool. + +MRS. FORE. But you have a villainous character: you are a libertine in +speech, as well as practice. + +SCAN. Come, I know what you would say: you think it more dangerous to be +seen in conversation with me than to allow some other men the last +favour; you mistake: the liberty I take in talking is purely affected for +the service of your sex. He that first cries out stop thief is often he +that has stol’n the treasure. I am a juggler, that act by confederacy; +and if you please, we’ll put a trick upon the world. + +MRS. FORE. Ay; but you are such an universal juggler, that I’m afraid +you have a great many confederates. + +SCAN. Faith, I’m sound. + +MRS. FORE. Oh, fie—I’ll swear you’re impudent. + +SCAN. I’ll swear you’re handsome. + +MRS. FORE. Pish, you’d tell me so, though you did not think so. + +SCAN. And you’d think so, though I should not tell you so. And now I +think we know one another pretty well. + +MRS. FORE. O Lord, who’s here? + + + +SCENE XV. + + + [_To them_] MRS. FRAIL _and_ BEN. + +BEN. Mess, I love to speak my mind. Father has nothing to do with me. +Nay, I can’t say that neither; he has something to do with me. But what +does that signify? If so be that I ben’t minded to be steered by him; +’tis as thof he should strive against wind and tide. + +MRS. FRAIL. Ay, but, my dear, we must keep it secret till the estate be +settled; for you know, marrying without an estate is like sailing in a +ship without ballast. + +BEN. He, he, he; why, that’s true; just so for all the world it is +indeed, as like as two cable ropes. + +MRS. FRAIL. And though I have a good portion, you know one would not +venture all in one bottom. + +BEN. Why, that’s true again; for mayhap one bottom may spring a leak. +You have hit it indeed: mess, you’ve nicked the channel. + +MRS. FRAIL. Well, but if you should forsake me after all, you’d break my +heart. + +BEN. Break your heart? I’d rather the _Mary-gold_ should break her +cable in a storm, as well as I love her. Flesh, you don’t think I’m +false-hearted, like a landman. A sailor will be honest, thof mayhap he +has never a penny of money in his pocket. Mayhap I may not have so fair +a face as a citizen or a courtier; but, for all that, I’ve as good blood +in my veins, and a heart as sound as a biscuit. + +MRS. FRAIL. And will you love me always? + +BEN. Nay, an I love once, I’ll stick like pitch; I’ll tell you that. +Come, I’ll sing you a song of a sailor. + +MRS. FRAIL. Hold, there’s my sister, I’ll call her to hear it. + +MRS. FORE. Well; I won’t go to bed to my husband to-night, because I’ll +retire to my own chamber, and think of what you have said. + +SCAN. Well; you’ll give me leave to wait upon you to your chamber door, +and leave you my last instructions? + +MRS. FORE. Hold, here’s my sister coming towards us. + +MRS. FRAIL. If it won’t interrupt you I’ll entertain you with a song. + +BEN. The song was made upon one of our ship’s-crew’s wife. Our +boatswain made the song. Mayhap you may know her, sir. Before she was +married she was called buxom Joan of Deptford. + +SCAN. I have heard of her. + +BEN. [_Sings_]:— + + BALLAD. + Set by MR. JOHN ECCLES. + + I. + + A soldier and a sailor, + A tinker and a tailor, + Had once a doubtful strife, sir, + To make a maid a wife, sir, + Whose name was buxom Joan. + For now the time was ended, + When she no more intended + To lick her lips at men, sir, + And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, + And lie o’ nights alone. + + II. + + The soldier swore like thunder, + He loved her more than plunder, + And shewed her many a scar, sir, + That he had brought from far, sir, + With fighting for her sake. + The tailor thought to please her + With offering her his measure. + The tinker, too, with mettle + Said he could mend her kettle, + And stop up ev’ry leak. + + III. + + But while these three were prating, + The sailor slyly waiting, + Thought if it came about, sir, + That they should all fall out, sir, + He then might play his part. + And just e’en as he meant, sir, + To loggerheads they went, sir, + And then he let fly at her + A shot ’twixt wind and water, + That won this fair maid’s heart. + +BEN. If some of our crew that came to see me are not gone, you shall see +that we sailors can dance sometimes as well as other folks. +[_Whistles_.] I warrant that brings ’em, an they be within hearing. +[_Enter seamen_]. Oh, here they be—and fiddles along with ’em. Come, +my lads, let’s have a round, and I’ll make one. [_Dance_.] + +BEN. We’re merry folks, we sailors: we han’t much to care for. Thus we +live at sea; eat biscuit, and drink flip, put on a clean shirt once a +quarter; come home and lie with our landladies once a year, get rid of a +little money, and then put off with the next fair wind. How d’ye like +us? + +MRS. FRAIL. Oh, you are the happiest, merriest men alive. + +MRS. FORE. We’re beholden to Mr. Benjamin for this entertainment. I +believe it’s late. + +BEN. Why, forsooth, an you think so, you had best go to bed. For my +part, I mean to toss a can, and remember my sweet-heart, afore I turn in; +mayhap I may dream of her. + +MRS. FORE. Mr. Scandal, you had best go to bed and dream too. + +SCAN. Why, faith, I have a good lively imagination, and can dream as +much to the purpose as another, if I set about it. But dreaming is the +poor retreat of a lazy, hopeless, and imperfect lover; ’tis the last +glimpse of love to worn-out sinners, and the faint dawning of a bliss to +wishing girls and growing boys. + + There’s nought but willing, waking love, that can + Make blest the ripened maid and finished man. + + + + +ACT IV.—SCENE I. + + + _Valentine’s lodging_. + + SCANDAL _and_ JEREMY. + +SCAN. Well, is your master ready? does he look madly and talk madly? + +JERE. Yes, sir; you need make no great doubt of that. He that was so +near turning poet yesterday morning can’t be much to seek in playing the +madman to-day. + +SCAN. Would he have Angelica acquainted with the reason of his design? + +JERE. No, sir, not yet. He has a mind to try whether his playing the +madman won’t make her play the fool, and fall in love with him; or at +least own that she has loved him all this while and concealed it. + +SCAN. I saw her take coach just now with her maid, and think I heard her +bid the coachman drive hither. + +JERE. Like enough, sir, for I told her maid this morning, my master was +run stark mad only for love of her mistress.—I hear a coach stop; if it +should be she, sir, I believe he would not see her, till he hears how she +takes it. + +SCAN. Well, I’ll try her:—’tis she—here she comes. + + + +SCENE II. + + + [_To them_] ANGELICA _with_ JENNY. + +ANG. Mr. Scandal, I suppose you don’t think it a novelty to see a woman +visit a man at his own lodgings in a morning? + +SCAN. Not upon a kind occasion, madam. But when a lady comes +tyrannically to insult a ruined lover, and make manifest the cruel +triumphs of her beauty, the barbarity of it something surprises me. + +ANG. I don’t like raillery from a serious face. Pray tell me what is +the matter? + +JERE. No strange matter, madam; my master’s mad, that’s all. I suppose +your ladyship has thought him so a great while. + +ANG. How d’ye mean, mad? + +JERE. Why, faith, madam, he’s mad for want of his wits, just as he was +poor for want of money; his head is e’en as light as his pockets, and +anybody that has a mind to a bad bargain can’t do better than to beg him +for his estate. + +ANG. If you speak truth, your endeavouring at wit is very unseasonable. + +SCAN. She’s concerned, and loves him. [_Aside_.] + +ANG. Mr. Scandal, you can’t think me guilty of so much inhumanity as not +to be concerned for a man I must own myself obliged to? Pray tell me +truth. + +SCAN. Faith, madam, I wish telling a lie would mend the matter. But +this is no new effect of an unsuccessful passion. + +ANG. [_Aside_.] I know not what to think. Yet I should be vexed to +have a trick put upon me. May I not see him? + +SCAN. I’m afraid the physician is not willing you should see him yet. +Jeremy, go in and enquire. + + + +SCENE III. + + + SCANDAL, ANGELICA, JENNY. + +ANG. Ha! I saw him wink and smile. I fancy ’tis a trick—I’ll try.—I +would disguise to all the world a failing which I must own to you: I fear +my happiness depends upon the recovery of Valentine. Therefore I conjure +you, as you are his friend, and as you have compassion upon one fearful +of affliction, to tell me what I am to hope for—I cannot speak—but you +may tell me, tell me, for you know what I would ask? + +SCAN. So, this is pretty plain. Be not too much concerned, madam; I +hope his condition is not desperate. An acknowledgment of love from you, +perhaps, may work a cure, as the fear of your aversion occasioned his +distemper. + +ANG. [_Aside_.] Say you so; nay, then, I’m convinced. And if I don’t +play trick for trick, may I never taste the pleasure of +revenge.—Acknowledgment of love! I find you have mistaken my compassion, +and think me guilty of a weakness I am a stranger to. But I have too +much sincerity to deceive you, and too much charity to suffer him to be +deluded with vain hopes. Good nature and humanity oblige me to be +concerned for him; but to love is neither in my power nor inclination, +and if he can’t be cured without I suck the poison from his wounds, I’m +afraid he won’t recover his senses till I lose mine. + +SCAN. Hey, brave woman, i’faith—won’t you see him, then, if he desire +it? + +ANG. What signify a madman’s desires? Besides, ’twould make me +uneasy:—if I don’t see him, perhaps my concern for him may lessen. If I +forget him, ’tis no more than he has done by himself; and now the +surprise is over, methinks I am not half so sorry as I was. + +SCAN. So, faith, good nature works apace; you were confessing just now +an obligation to his love. + +ANG. But I have considered that passions are unreasonable and +involuntary; if he loves, he can’t help it; and if I don’t love, I can’t +help it; no more than he can help his being a man, or I my being a woman: +or no more than I can help my want of inclination to stay longer here. +Come, Jenny. + + + +SCENE IV. + + + SCANDAL, JEREMY. + +SCAN. Humh! An admirable composition, faith, this same womankind. + +JERE. What, is she gone, sir? + +SCAN. Gone? Why, she was never here, nor anywhere else; nor I don’t +know her if I see her, nor you neither. + +JERE. Good lack! What’s the matter now? Are any more of us to be mad? +Why, sir, my master longs to see her, and is almost mad in good earnest +with the joyful news of her being here. + +SCAN. We are all under a mistake. Ask no questions, for I can’t resolve +you; but I’ll inform your master. In the meantime, if our project +succeed no better with his father than it does with his mistress, he may +descend from his exaltation of madness into the road of common sense, and +be content only to be made a fool with other reasonable people. I hear +Sir Sampson. You know your cue; I’ll to your master. + + + +SCENE V. + + + JEREMY, SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, _with a_ LAWYER. + +SIR SAMP. D’ye see, Mr. Buckram, here’s the paper signed with his own +hand. + +BUCK. Good, sir. And the conveyance is ready drawn in this box, if he +be ready to sign and seal. + +SIR SAMP. Ready, body o’ me? He must be ready. His sham-sickness +shan’t excuse him. Oh, here’s his scoundrel. Sirrah, where’s your +master? + +JERE. Ah sir, he’s quite gone. + +SIR SAMP. Gone! What, he is not dead? + +JERE. No, sir, not dead. + +SIR SAMP. What, is he gone out of town, run away, ha? has he tricked me? +Speak, varlet. + +JERE. No, no, sir, he’s safe enough, sir, an he were but as sound, poor +gentleman. He is indeed here, sir, and not here, sir. + +SIR SAMP. Hey day, rascal, do you banter me? Sirrah, d’ye banter me? +Speak, sirrah, where is he? for I will find him. + +JERE. Would you could, sir, for he has lost himself. Indeed, sir, I +have a’most broke my heart about him—I can’t refrain tears when I think +of him, sir: I’m as melancholy for him as a passing-bell, sir, or a horse +in a pound. + +SIR SAMP. A pox confound your similitudes, sir. Speak to be understood, +and tell me in plain terms what the matter is with him, or I’ll crack +your fool’s skull. + +JERE. Ah, you’ve hit it, sir; that’s the matter with him, sir: his +skull’s cracked, poor gentleman; he’s stark mad, sir. + +SIR SAMP. Mad! + +BUCK. What, is he _non compos_? + +JERE. Quite _non compos_, sir. + +BUCK. Why, then, all’s obliterated, Sir Sampson, if he be _non compos +mentis_; his act and deed will be of no effect, it is not good in law. + +SIR SAMP. Oons, I won’t believe it; let me see him, sir. Mad—I’ll make +him find his senses. + +JERE. Mr. Scandal is with him, sir; I’ll knock at the door. + +[_Goes to the scene_, _which opens_.] + + + +SCENE VI. + + +SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY, _and_ LAWYER. VALENTINE _upon a + couch disorderly dressed_. + +SIR SAMP. How now, what’s here to do? + +VAL. Ha! Who’s that? [_Starting_.] + +SCAN. For heav’n’s sake softly, sir, and gently; don’t provoke him. + +VAL. Answer me: who is that, and that? + +SIR SAMP. Gads bobs, does he not know me? Is he mischievous? I’ll +speak gently. Val, Val, dost thou not know me, boy? Not know thy own +father, Val? I am thy own father, and this is honest Brief Buckram, the +lawyer. + +VAL. It may be so—I did not know you—the world is full. There are +people that we do know, and people that we do not know, and yet the sun +shines upon all alike. There are fathers that have many children, and +there are children that have many fathers. ’Tis strange! But I am +Truth, and come to give the world the lie. + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I know not what to say to him. + +VAL. Why does that lawyer wear black? Does he carry his conscience +withoutside? Lawyer what art thou? Dost thou know me? + +BUCK. O Lord, what must I say? Yes, sir, + +VAL. Thou liest, for I am Truth. ’Tis hard I cannot get a livelihood +amongst you. I have been sworn out of Westminster Hall the first day of +every term—let me see—no matter how long. But I’ll tell you one thing: +it’s a question that would puzzle an arithmetician, if you should ask +him, whether the Bible saves more souls in Westminster Abbey, or damns +more in Westminster Hall. For my part, I am Truth, and can’t tell; I +have very few acquaintance. + +SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, he talks sensibly in his madness. Has he no +intervals? + +JERE. Very short, sir. + +BUCK. Sir, I can do you no service while he’s in this condition. Here’s +your paper, sir—he may do me a mischief if I stay. The conveyance is +ready, sir, if he recover his senses. + + + +SCENE VII. + + + SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY. + +SIR SAMP. Hold, hold, don’t you go yet. + +SCAN. You’d better let him go, sir, and send for him if there be +occasion; for I fancy his presence provokes him more. + +VAL. Is the lawyer gone? ’Tis well, then we may drink about without +going together by the ears—heigh ho! What a’clock is’t? My father here! +Your blessing, sir. + +SIR SAMP. He recovers—bless thee, Val; how dost thou do, boy? + +VAL. Thank you, sir, pretty well. I have been a little out of order, +Won’t you please to sit, sir? + +SIR SAMP. Ay, boy. Come, thou shalt sit down by me. + +VAL. Sir, ’tis my duty to wait. + +SIR SAMP. No, no; come, come, sit thee down, honest Val. How dost thou +do? Let me feel thy pulse. Oh, pretty well now, Val. Body o’ me, I was +sorry to see thee indisposed; but I’m glad thou art better, honest Val. + +VAL. I thank you, sir. + +SCAN. Miracle! The monster grows loving. [_Aside_.] + +SIR SAMP. Let me feel thy hand again, Val. It does not shake; I believe +thou canst write, Val. Ha, boy? thou canst write thy name, Val. Jeremy, +step and overtake Mr. Buckram, bid him make haste back with the +conveyance; quick, quick. [_In whisper to_ JEREMY.] + + + +SCENE VIII. + + + SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL. + +SCAN. That ever I should suspect such a heathen of any remorse! +[_Aside_.] + +SIR SAMP. Dost thou know this paper, Val? I know thou’rt honest, and +wilt perform articles. [_Shows him the paper_, _but holds it out of his +reach_.] + +VAL. Pray let me see it, sir. You hold it so far off that I can’t tell +whether I know it or no. + +SIR SAMP. See it, boy? Ay, ay; why, thou dost see it—’tis thy own hand, +Vally. Why, let me see, I can read it as plain as can be. Look you +here. [_Reads_.] _The condition of this obligation_—Look you, as plain +as can be, so it begins—and then at the bottom—_As witness my hand_, +VALENTINE LEGEND, in great letters. Why, ’tis as plain as the nose in +one’s face. What, are my eyes better than thine? I believe I can read +it farther off yet; let me see. [_Stretches his arm as far as he can_.] + +VAL. Will you please to let me hold it, sir? + +SIR SAMP. Let thee hold it, sayest thou? Ay, with all my heart. What +matter is it who holds it? What need anybody hold it? I’ll put it up in +my pocket, Val, and then nobody need hold it. [_Puts the paper in his +pocket_.] There, Val; it’s safe enough, boy. But thou shalt have it as +soon as thou hast set thy hand to another paper, little Val. + + + +SCENE IX. + + + [_To them_] JEREMY _with_ BUCKRAM. + +VAL. What, is my bad genius here again! Oh no, ’tis the lawyer with an +itching palm; and he’s come to be scratched. My nails are not long +enough. Let me have a pair of red-hot tongs quickly, quickly, and you +shall see me act St. Dunstan, and lead the devil by the nose. + +BUCK. O Lord, let me begone: I’ll not venture myself with a madman. + + + +SCENE X. + + + SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY. + +VAL. Ha, ha, ha; you need not run so fast, honesty will not overtake +you. Ha, ha, ha, the rogue found me out to be _in forma pauperis_ +presently. + +SIR SAMP. Oons! What a vexation is here! I know not what to do, or +say, nor which way to go. + +VAL. Who’s that that’s out of his way? I am Truth, and can set him +right. Harkee, friend, the straight road is the worst way you can go. +He that follows his nose always, will very often be led into a stink. +_Probatum est_. But what are you for? religion or politics? There’s a +couple of topics for you, no more like one another than oil and vinegar; +and yet those two, beaten together by a state-cook, make sauce for the +whole nation. + +SIR SAMP. What the devil had I to do, ever to beget sons? Why did I +ever marry? + +VAL. Because thou wert a monster, old boy! The two greatest monsters in +the world are a man and a woman! What’s thy opinion? + +SIR SAMP. Why, my opinion is, that those two monsters joined together, +make yet a greater, that’s a man and his wife. + +VAL. Aha! Old True-penny, say’st thou so? Thou hast nicked it. But +it’s wonderful strange, Jeremy. + +JERE. What is, sir? + +VAL. That gray hairs should cover a green head—and I make a fool of my +father. What’s here! _Erra Pater_: or a bearded sibyl? If Prophecy +comes, Truth must give place. + + + +SCENE XI. + + + SIR SAMPSON, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MISS FORESIGHT, MRS. FRAIL. + +FORE. What says he? What, did he prophesy? Ha, Sir Sampson, bless us! +How are we? + +SIR SAMP. Are we? A pox o’ your prognostication. Why, we are fools as +we use to be. Oons, that you could not foresee that the moon would +predominate, and my son be mad. Where’s your oppositions, your trines, +and your quadrates? What did your Cardan and your Ptolemy tell you? +Your Messahalah and your Longomontanus, your harmony of chiromancy with +astrology. Ah! pox on’t, that I that know the world and men and manners, +that don’t believe a syllable in the sky and stars, and sun and almanacs +and trash, should be directed by a dreamer, an omen-hunter, and defer +business in expectation of a lucky hour, when, body o’ me, there never +was a lucky hour after the first opportunity. + + + +SCENE XII. + + + SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MRS. FORESIGHT, MRS. FRAIL. + +FORE. Ah, Sir Sampson, heav’n help your head. This is none of your +lucky hour; _Nemo omnibus horis sapit_. What, is he gone, and in +contempt of science? Ill stars and unconvertible ignorance attend him. + +SCAN. You must excuse his passion, Mr. Foresight, for he has been +heartily vexed. His son is _non compos mentis_, and thereby incapable of +making any conveyance in law; so that all his measures are disappointed. + +FORE. Ha! say you so? + +MRS. FRAIL. What, has my sea-lover lost his anchor of hope, then? +[_Aside to_ MRS. FORESIGHT.] + +MRS. FORE. O sister, what will you do with him? + +MRS. FRAIL. Do with him? Send him to sea again in the next foul +weather. He’s used to an inconstant element, and won’t be surprised to +see the tide turned. + +FORE. Wherein was I mistaken, not to foresee this? [_Considers_.] + +SCAN. Madam, you and I can tell him something else that he did not +foresee, and more particularly relating to his own fortune. [_Aside to_ +MRS. FORESIGHT.] + +MRS. FORE. What do you mean? I don’t understand you. + +SCAN. Hush, softly,—the pleasures of last night, my dear, too +considerable to be forgot so soon. + +MRS. FORE. Last night! And what would your impudence infer from last +night? Last night was like the night before, I think. + +SCAN. ’Sdeath, do you make no difference between me and your husband? + +MRS. FORE. Not much,—he’s superstitious, and you are mad, in my opinion. + +SCAN. You make me mad. You are not serious. Pray recollect yourself. + +MRS. FORE. Oh yes, now I remember, you were very impertinent and +impudent,—and would have come to bed to me. + +SCAN. And did not? + +MRS. FORE. Did not! With that face can you ask the question? + +SCAN. This I have heard of before, but never believed. I have been +told, she had that admirable quality of forgetting to a man’s face in the +morning that she had lain with him all night, and denying that she had +done favours with more impudence than she could grant ’em. Madam, I’m +your humble servant, and honour you.—You look pretty well, Mr. Foresight: +how did you rest last night? + +FORE. Truly, Mr. Scandal, I was so taken up with broken dreams and +distracted visions that I remember little. + +SCAN. ’Twas a very forgetting night. But would you not talk with +Valentine? Perhaps you may understand him; I’m apt to believe there is +something mysterious in his discourses, and sometimes rather think him +inspired than mad. + +FORE. You speak with singular good judgment, Mr. Scandal, truly. I am +inclining to your Turkish opinion in this matter, and do reverence a man +whom the vulgar think mad. Let us go to him. + +MRS. FRAIL. Sister, do you stay with them; I’ll find out my lover, and +give him his discharge, and come to you. O’ my conscience, here he +comes. + + + +SCENE XIII. + + + MRS. FRAIL, BEN. + +BEN. All mad, I think. Flesh, I believe all the calentures of the sea +are come ashore, for my part. + +MRS. FRAIL. Mr. Benjamin in choler! + +BEN. No, I’m pleased well enough, now I have found you. Mess, I have +had such a hurricane upon your account yonder. + +MRS. FRAIL. My account; pray what’s the matter? + +BEN. Why, father came and found me squabbling with yon chitty-faced +thing as he would have me marry, so he asked what was the matter. He +asked in a surly sort of a way—it seems brother Val is gone mad, and so +that put’n into a passion; but what did I know that? what’s that to +me?—so he asked in a surly sort of manner, and gad I answered ’n as +surlily. What thof he be my father, I an’t bound prentice to ’n; so +faith I told ’n in plain terms, if I were minded to marry, I’d marry to +please myself, not him. And for the young woman that he provided for me, +I thought it more fitting for her to learn her sampler and make dirt-pies +than to look after a husband; for my part I was none of her man. I had +another voyage to make, let him take it as he will. + +MRS. FRAIL. So, then, you intend to go to sea again? + +BEN. Nay, nay, my mind run upon you, but I would not tell him so much. +So he said he’d make my heart ache; and if so be that he could get a +woman to his mind, he’d marry himself. Gad, says I, an you play the fool +and marry at these years, there’s more danger of your head’s aching than +my heart. He was woundy angry when I gave’n that wipe. He hadn’t a word +to say, and so I left’n, and the green girl together; mayhap the bee may +bite, and he’ll marry her himself, with all my heart. + +MRS. FRAIL. And were you this undutiful and graceless wretch to your +father? + +BEN. Then why was he graceless first? If I am undutiful and graceless, +why did he beget me so? I did not get myself. + +MRS. FRAIL. O impiety! How have I been mistaken! What an inhuman, +merciless creature have I set my heart upon? Oh, I am happy to have +discovered the shelves and quicksands that lurk beneath that faithless, +smiling face. + +BEN. Hey toss! What’s the matter now? Why, you ben’t angry, be you? + +MRS. FRAIL. Oh, see me no more,—for thou wert born amongst rocks, +suckled by whales, cradled in a tempest, and whistled to by winds; and +thou art come forth with fins and scales, and three rows of teeth, a most +outrageous fish of prey. + +BEN. O Lord, O Lord, she’s mad, poor young woman: love has turned her +senses, her brain is quite overset. Well-a-day, how shall I do to set +her to rights? + +MRS. FRAIL. No, no, I am not mad, monster; I am wise enough to find you +out. Hadst thou the impudence to aspire at being a husband with that +stubborn and disobedient temper? You that know not how to submit to a +father, presume to have a sufficient stock of duty to undergo a wife? I +should have been finely fobbed indeed, very finely fobbed. + +BEN. Harkee, forsooth; if so be that you are in your right senses, d’ye +see, for ought as I perceive I’m like to be finely fobbed,—if I have got +anger here upon your account, and you are tacked about already. What +d’ye mean, after all your fair speeches, and stroking my cheeks, and +kissing and hugging, what would you sheer off so? Would you, and leave +me aground? + +MRS. FRAIL. No, I’ll leave you adrift, and go which way you will. + +BEN. What, are you false-hearted, then? + +MRS. FRAIL. Only the wind’s changed. + +BEN. More shame for you,—the wind’s changed? It’s an ill wind blows +nobody good,—mayhap I have a good riddance on you, if these be your +tricks. What, did you mean all this while to make a fool of me? + +MRS. FRAIL. Any fool but a husband. + +BEN. Husband! Gad, I would not be your husband if you would have me, +now I know your mind: thof you had your weight in gold and jewels, and +thof I loved you never so well. + +MRS. FRAIL. Why, can’st thou love, Porpuss? + +BEN. No matter what I can do; don’t call names. I don’t love you so +well as to bear that, whatever I did. I’m glad you show yourself, +mistress. Let them marry you as don’t know you. Gad, I know you too +well, by sad experience; I believe he that marries you will go to sea in +a hen-pecked frigate—I believe that, young woman—and mayhap may come to +an anchor at Cuckolds-Point; so there’s a dash for you, take it as you +will: mayhap you may holla after me when I won’t come to. + +MRS. FRAIL. Ha, ha, ha, no doubt on’t.—_My true love is gone to sea_. +[_Sings_] + + + +SCENE XIV. + + + MRS. FRAIL, MRS. FORESIGHT. + +MRS. FRAIL. O sister, had you come a minute sooner, you would have seen +the resolution of a lover:—honest Tar and I are parted;—and with the same +indifference that we met. O’ my life I am half vexed at the +insensibility of a brute that I despised. + +MRS. FORE. What then, he bore it most heroically? + +MRS. FRAIL. Most tyrannically; for you see he has got the start of me, +and I, the poor forsaken maid, am left complaining on the shore. But +I’ll tell you a hint that he has given me: Sir Sampson is enraged, and +talks desperately of committing matrimony himself. If he has a mind to +throw himself away, he can’t do it more effectually than upon me, if we +could bring it about. + +MRS. FORE. Oh, hang him, old fox, he’s too cunning; besides, he hates +both you and me. But I have a project in my head for you, and I have +gone a good way towards it. I have almost made a bargain with Jeremy, +Valentine’s man, to sell his master to us. + +MRS. FRAIL. Sell him? How? + +MRS. FORE. Valentine raves upon Angelica, and took me for her, and +Jeremy says will take anybody for her that he imposes on him. Now, I +have promised him mountains, if in one of his mad fits he will bring you +to him in her stead, and get you married together and put to bed +together; and after consummation, girl, there’s no revoking. And if he +should recover his senses, he’ll be glad at least to make you a good +settlement. Here they come: stand aside a little, and tell me how you +like the design. + + + +SCENE XV. + + + MRS. FORESIGHT, MRS. FRAIL, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, _and_ JEREMY. + +SCAN. And have you given your master a hint of their plot upon him? +[_To_ JEREMY.] + +JERE. Yes, sir; he says he’ll favour it, and mistake her for Angelica. + +SCAN. It may make us sport. + +FORE. Mercy on us! + +VAL. Husht—interrupt me not—I’ll whisper prediction to thee, and thou +shalt prophesy. I am Truth, and can teach thy tongue a new trick. I +have told thee what’s past,—now I’ll tell what’s to come. Dost thou know +what will happen to-morrow?—Answer me not—for I will tell thee. +To-morrow, knaves will thrive through craft, and fools through fortune, +and honesty will go as it did, frost-nipt in a summer suit. Ask me +questions concerning to-morrow. + +SCAN. Ask him, Mr. Foresight. + +FORE. Pray what will be done at court? + +VAL. Scandal will tell you. I am Truth; I never come there. + +FORE. In the city? + +VAL. Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches at the usual hours. Yet +you will see such zealous faces behind counters, as if religion were to +be sold in every shop. Oh, things will go methodically in the city: the +clocks will strike twelve at noon, and the horned herd buzz in the +exchange at two. Wives and husbands will drive distinct trades, and care +and pleasure separately occupy the family. Coffee-houses will be full of +smoke and stratagem. And the cropt prentice, that sweeps his master’s +shop in the morning, may ten to one dirty his sheets before night. But +there are two things that you will see very strange: which are wanton +wives with their legs at liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains about +their necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go further. You look +suspiciously. Are you a husband? + +FORE. I am married. + +VAL. Poor creature! Is your wife of Covent Garden parish? + +FORE. No; St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. + +VAL. Alas, poor man; his eyes are sunk, and his hands shrivelled; his +legs dwindled, and his back bowed: pray, pray, for a metamorphosis. +Change thy shape and shake off age; get thee Medea’s kettle and be boiled +anew; come forth with lab’ring callous hands, a chine of steel, and Atlas +shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty chairmen, and make +thee pedestals to stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. Ha, +ha, ha! That a man should have a stomach to a wedding supper, when the +pigeons ought rather to be laid to his feet, ha, ha, ha! + +FORE. His frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal. + +SCAN. I believe it is a spring tide. + +FORE. Very likely, truly. You understand these matters. Mr. Scandal, I +shall be very glad to confer with you about these things which he has +uttered. His sayings are very mysterious and hieroglyphical. + +VAL. Oh, why would Angelica be absent from my eyes so long? + +JERE. She’s here, sir. + +MRS. FORE. Now, sister. + +MRS. FRAIL. O Lord, what must I say? + +SCAN. Humour him, madam, by all means. + +VAL. Where is she? Oh, I see her—she comes, like riches, health, and +liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, and abandoned wretch. Oh, +welcome, welcome. + +MRS. FRAIL. How d’ye, sir? Can I serve you? + +VAL. Harkee; I have a secret to tell you: Endymion and the moon shall +meet us upon Mount Latmos, and we’ll be married in the dead of night. +But say not a word. Hymen shall put his torch into a dark lanthorn, that +it may be secret; and Juno shall give her peacock poppy-water, that he +may fold his ogling tail, and Argus’s hundred eyes be shut, ha! Nobody +shall know but Jeremy. + +MRS. FRAIL. No, no, we’ll keep it secret, it shall be done presently. + +VAL. The sooner the better. Jeremy, come hither—closer—that none may +overhear us. Jeremy, I can tell you news: Angelica is turned nun, and I +am turning friar, and yet we’ll marry one another in spite of the pope. +Get me a cowl and beads, that I may play my part,—for she’ll meet me two +hours hence in black and white, and a long veil to cover the project, and +we won’t see one another’s faces, till we have done something to be +ashamed of; and then we’ll blush once for all. + + + +SCENE XVI. + + + [_To them_] TATTLE _and_ ANGELICA. + +JERE. I’ll take care, and— + +VAL. Whisper. + +ANG. Nay, Mr. Tattle, if you make love to me, you spoil my design, for I +intend to make you my confidant. + +TATT. But, madam, to throw away your person—such a person!—and such a +fortune on a madman! + +ANG. I never loved him till he was mad; but don’t tell anybody so. + +SCAN. How’s this! Tattle making love to Angelica! + +TATT. Tell, madam? Alas, you don’t know me. I have much ado to tell +your ladyship how long I have been in love with you—but encouraged by the +impossibility of Valentine’s making any more addresses to you, I have +ventured to declare the very inmost passion of my heart. O madam, look +upon us both. There you see the ruins of a poor decayed creature—here, a +complete and lively figure, with youth and health, and all his five +senses in perfection, madam, and to all this, the most passionate lover— + +ANG. O fie, for shame, hold your tongue. A passionate lover, and five +senses in perfection! When you are as mad as Valentine, I’ll believe you +love me, and the maddest shall take me. + +VAL. It is enough. Ha! Who’s here? + +FRAIL. O Lord, her coming will spoil all. [_To_ JEREMY.] + +JERE. No, no, madam, he won’t know her; if he should, I can persuade +him. + +VAL. Scandal, who are these? Foreigners? If they are, I’ll tell you +what I think,—get away all the company but Angelica, that I may discover +my design to her. [_Whisper_.] + +SCAN. I will—I have discovered something of Tattle that is of a piece +with Mrs. Frail. He courts Angelica; if we could contrive to couple ’em +together.—Hark’ee—[_Whisper_.] + +MRS. FORE. He won’t know you, cousin; he knows nobody. + +FORE. But he knows more than anybody. O niece, he knows things past and +to come, and all the profound secrets of time. + +TATT. Look you, Mr. Foresight, it is not my way to make many words of +matters, and so I shan’t say much,—but in short, d’ye see, I will hold +you a hundred pounds now, that I know more secrets than he. + +FORE. How! I cannot read that knowledge in your face, Mr. Tattle. +Pray, what do you know? + +TATT. Why, d’ye think I’ll tell you, sir? Read it in my face? No, sir, +’tis written in my heart; and safer there, sir, than letters writ in +juice of lemon, for no fire can fetch it out. I am no blab, sir. + +VAL. Acquaint Jeremy with it, he may easily bring it about. They are +welcome, and I’ll tell ’em so myself. [_To_ SCANDAL.] What, do you look +strange upon me? Then I must be plain. [_Coming up to them_.] I am +Truth, and hate an old acquaintance with a new face. [SCANDAL _goes +aside with_ JEREMY.] + +TATT. Do you know me, Valentine? + +VAL. You? Who are you? No, I hope not. + +TATT. I am Jack Tattle, your friend. + +VAL. My friend, what to do? I am no married man, and thou canst not lie +with my wife. I am very poor, and thou canst not borrow money of me. +Then what employment have I for a friend? + +TATT. Ha! a good open speaker, and not to be trusted with a secret. + +ANG. Do you know me, Valentine? + +VAL. Oh, very well. + +ANG. Who am I? + +VAL. You’re a woman. One to whom heav’n gave beauty, when it grafted +roses on a briar. You are the reflection of heav’n in a pond, and he +that leaps at you is sunk. You are all white, a sheet of lovely, +spotless paper, when you first are born; but you are to be scrawled and +blotted by every goose’s quill. I know you; for I loved a woman, and +loved her so long, that I found out a strange thing: I found out what a +woman was good for. + +TATT. Ay, prithee, what’s that? + +VAL. Why, to keep a secret. + +TATT. O Lord! + +VAL. Oh, exceeding good to keep a secret; for though she should tell, +yet she is not to be believed. + +TATT. Hah! good again, faith. + +VAL. I would have music. Sing me the song that I like. + + SONG + Set by MR. FINGER. + + I tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve, + And could again begin to love and live, + To you I should my earliest off’ring give; + I know my eyes would lead my heart to you, + And I should all my vows and oaths renew, + But to be plain, I never would be true. + + II. + + For by our weak and weary truth, I find, + Love hates to centre in a point assign’d? + But runs with joy the circle of the mind. + Then never let us chain what should be free, + But for relief of either sex agree, + Since women love to change, and so do we. + +No more, for I am melancholy. [_Walks musing_.] + +JERE. I’ll do’t, sir. [_To_ SCANDAL.] + +SCAN. Mr. Foresight, we had best leave him. He may grow outrageous, and +do mischief. + +FORE. I will be directed by you. + +JERE. [_To_ MRS. FRAIL.] You’ll meet, madam? I’ll take care everything +shall be ready. + +MRS. FRAIL. Thou shalt do what thou wilt; in short, I will deny thee +nothing. + +TATT. Madam, shall I wait upon you? [_To_ ANGELICA.] + +ANG. No, I’ll stay with him; Mr. Scandal will protect me. Aunt, Mr. +Tattle desires you would give him leave to wait on you. + +TATT. Pox on’t, there’s no coming off, now she has said that. Madam, +will you do me the honour? + +MRS. FORE. Mr. Tattle might have used less ceremony. + + + +SCENE XVII. + + + ANGELICA, VALENTINE, SCANDAL. + +SCAN. Jeremy, follow Tattle. + +ANG. Mr. Scandal, I only stay till my maid comes, and because I had a +mind to be rid of Mr. Tattle. + +SCAN. Madam, I am very glad that I overheard a better reason which you +gave to Mr. Tattle; for his impertinence forced you to acknowledge a +kindness for Valentine, which you denied to all his sufferings and my +solicitations. So I’ll leave him to make use of the discovery, and your +ladyship to the free confession of your inclinations. + +ANG. O heav’ns! You won’t leave me alone with a madman? + +SCAN. No, madam; I only leave a madman to his remedy. + + + +SCENE XVIII. + + + ANGELICA, VALENTINE. + +VAL. Madam, you need not be very much afraid, for I fancy I begin to +come to myself. + +ANG. Ay, but if I don’t fit you, I’ll be hanged. [_Aside_.] + +VAL. You see what disguises love makes us put on. Gods have been in +counterfeited shapes for the same reason; and the divine part of me, my +mind, has worn this mask of madness and this motley livery, only as the +slave of love and menial creature of your beauty. + +ANG. Mercy on me, how he talks! Poor Valentine! + +VAL. Nay, faith, now let us understand one another, hypocrisy apart. +The comedy draws toward an end, and let us think of leaving acting and be +ourselves; and since you have loved me, you must own I have at length +deserved you should confess it. + +ANG. [_Sighs_.] I would I had loved you—for heav’n knows I pity you, +and could I have foreseen the bad effects, I would have striven; but +that’s too late. [_Sighs_.] + +VAL. What sad effects?—what’s too late? My seeming madness has deceived +my father, and procured me time to think of means to reconcile me to him, +and preserve the right of my inheritance to his estate; which otherwise, +by articles, I must this morning have resigned. And this I had informed +you of to-day, but you were gone before I knew you had been here. + +ANG. How! I thought your love of me had caused this transport in your +soul; which, it seems, you only counterfeited, for mercenary ends and +sordid interest. + +VAL. Nay, now you do me wrong; for if any interest was considered it was +yours, since I thought I wanted more than love to make me worthy of you. + +ANG. Then you thought me mercenary. But how am I deluded by this +interval of sense to reason with a madman? + +VAL. Oh, ’tis barbarous to misunderstand me longer. + + + +SCENE XIX. + + + [_To them_] JEREMY. + +ANG. Oh, here’s a reasonable creature—sure he will not have the +impudence to persevere. Come, Jeremy, acknowledge your trick, and +confess your master’s madness counterfeit. + +JERE. Counterfeit, madam! I’ll maintain him to be as absolutely and +substantially mad as any freeholder in Bethlehem; nay, he’s as mad as any +projector, fanatic, chymist, lover, or poet in Europe. + +VAL. Sirrah, you be; I am not mad. + +ANG. Ha, ha, ha! you see he denies it. + +JERE. O Lord, madam, did you ever know any madman mad enough to own it? + +VAL. Sot, can’t you apprehend? + +ANG. Why, he talked very sensibly just now. + +JERE. Yes, madam; he has intervals. But you see he begins to look wild +again now. + +VAL. Why, you thick-skulled rascal, I tell you the farce is done, and I +will be mad no longer. [_Beats him_.] + +ANG. Ha, ha, ha! is he mad or no, Jeremy? + +JERE. Partly, I think,—for he does not know his own mind two hours. I’m +sure I left him just now in the humour to be mad, and I think I have not +found him very quiet at this present. Who’s there? [_One knocks_.] + +VAL. Go see, you sot.—I’m very glad that I can move your mirth though +not your compassion. + +ANG. I did not think you had apprehension enough to be exceptions. But +madmen show themselves most by over-pretending to a sound understanding, +as drunken men do by over-acting sobriety. I was half inclining to +believe you, till I accidently touched upon your tender part: but now you +have restored me to my former opinion and compassion. + +JERE. Sir, your father has sent to know if you are any better yet. Will +you please to be mad, sir, or how? + +VAL. Stupidity! You know the penalty of all I’m worth must pay for the +confession of my senses; I’m mad, and will be mad to everybody but this +lady. + +JERE. So—just the very backside of truth,—but lying is a figure in +speech that interlards the greatest part of my conversation. Madam, your +ladyship’s woman. + + + +SCENE XX. + + + VALENTINE, ANGELICA, JENNY. + +ANG. Well, have you been there?—Come hither. + +JENNY. Yes, madam; Sir Sampson will wait upon you presently. [_Aside +to_ ANGELICA.] + +VAL. You are not leaving me in this uncertainty? + +ANG. Would anything but a madman complain of uncertainty? Uncertainty +and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, and +the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase. +Never let us know one another better, for the pleasure of a masquerade is +done when we come to show our faces; but I’ll tell you two things before +I leave you: I am not the fool you take me for; and you are mad and don’t +know it. + + + +SCENE XXI. + + + VALENTINE, JEREMY. + +VAL. From a riddle you can expect nothing but a riddle. There’s my +instruction and the moral of my lesson. + +JERE. What, is the lady gone again, sir? I hope you understood one +another before she went? + +VAL. Understood! She is harder to be understood than a piece of +Egyptian antiquity or an Irish manuscript: you may pore till you spoil +your eyes and not improve your knowledge. + +JERE. I have heard ’em say, sir, they read hard Hebrew books backwards; +maybe you begin to read at the wrong end. + +VAL. They say so of a witch’s prayer, and dreams and Dutch almanacs are +to be understood by contraries. But there’s regularity and method in +that; she is a medal without a reverse or inscription, for indifference +has both sides alike. Yet, while she does not seem to hate me, I will +pursue her, and know her if it be possible, in spite of the opinion of my +satirical friend, Scandal, who says— + + That women are like tricks by sleight of hand, + Which, to admire, we should not understand. + + + + +ACT V.—SCENE I. + + + _A room in Foresight’s house_. + + ANGELICA _and_ JENNY. + +ANG. Where is Sir Sampson? Did you not tell me he would be here before +me? + +JENNY. He’s at the great glass in the dining-room, madam, setting his +cravat and wig. + +ANG. How! I’m glad on’t. If he has a mind I should like him, it’s a +sign he likes me; and that’s more than half my design. + +JENNY. I hear him, madam. + +ANG. Leave me; and, d’ye hear, if Valentine should come, or send, I am +not to be spoken with. + + + +SCENE II. + + + ANGELICA, SIR SAMPSON. + +SIR SAMP. I have not been honoured with the commands of a fair lady a +great while,—odd, madam, you have revived me,—not since I was +five-and-thirty. + +ANG. Why, you have no great reason to complain, Sir Sampson, that is not +long ago. + +SIR SAMP. Zooks, but it is, madam, a very great while: to a man that +admires a fine woman as much as I do. + +ANG. You’re an absolute courtier, Sir Sampson. + +SIR SAMP. Not at all, madam,—odsbud, you wrong me,—I am not so old +neither, to be a bare courtier, only a man of words. Odd, I have warm +blood about me yet, and can serve a lady any way. Come, come, let me +tell you, you women think a man old too soon, faith and troth you do. +Come, don’t despise fifty; odd, fifty, in a hale constitution, is no such +contemptible age. + +ANG. Fifty a contemptible age! Not at all; a very fashionable age, I +think. I assure you, I know very considerable beaus that set a good face +upon fifty. Fifty! I have seen fifty in a side box by candle-light +out-blossom five-and-twenty. + +SIR SAMP. Outsides, outsides; a pize take ’em, mere outsides. Hang your +side-box beaus; no, I’m none of those, none of your forced trees, that +pretend to blossom in the fall, and bud when they should bring forth +fruit: I am of a long-lived race, and inherit vigour; none of my +ancestors married till fifty, yet they begot sons and daughters till +fourscore: I am of your patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your +antedeluvian families, fellows that the flood could not wash away. Well, +madam, what are your commands? Has any young rogue affronted you, and +shall I cut his throat? Or— + +ANG. No, Sir Sampson, I have no quarrel upon my hands. I have more +occasion for your conduct than your courage at this time. To tell you +the truth, I’m weary of living single and want a husband. + +SIR SAMP. Odsbud, and ’tis pity you should. Odd, would she would like +me, then I should hamper my young rogues. Odd, would she would; faith +and troth she’s devilish handsome. [_Aside_.] Madam, you deserve a good +husband, and ’twere pity you should be thrown away upon any of these +young idle rogues about the town. Odd, there’s ne’er a young fellow +worth hanging—that is a very young fellow. Pize on ’em, they never think +beforehand of anything; and if they commit matrimony, ’tis as they commit +murder, out of a frolic, and are ready to hang themselves, or to be +hanged by the law, the next morning. Odso, have a care, madam. + +ANG. Therefore I ask your advice, Sir Sampson. I have fortune enough to +make any man easy that I can like: if there were such a thing as a young +agreeable man, with a reasonable stock of good nature and sense—for I +would neither have an absolute wit nor a fool. + +SIR SAMP. Odd, you are hard to please, madam: to find a young fellow +that is neither a wit in his own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, +is a very hard task. But, faith and troth, you speak very discreetly; +for I hate both a wit and a fool. + +ANG. She that marries a fool, Sir Sampson, forfeits the reputation of +her honesty or understanding; and she that marries a very witty man is a +slave to the severity and insolent conduct of her husband. I should like +a man of wit for a lover, because I would have such an one in my power; +but I would no more be his wife than his enemy. For his malice is not a +more terrible consequence of his aversion than his jealousy is of his +love. + +SIR SAMP. None of old Foresight’s sibyls ever uttered such a truth. +Odsbud, you have won my heart; I hate a wit: I had a son that was spoiled +among ’em, a good hopeful lad, till he learned to be a wit; and might +have risen in the state. But, a pox on’t, his wit run him out of his +money, and now his poverty has run him out of his wits. + +ANG. Sir Sampson, as your friend, I must tell you you are very much +abused in that matter: he’s no more mad than you are. + +SIR SAMP. How, madam! Would I could prove it. + +ANG. I can tell you how that may be done. But it is a thing that would +make me appear to be too much concerned in your affairs. + +SIR SAMP. Odsbud, I believe she likes me. [_Aside_.] Ah, madam, all my +affairs are scarce worthy to be laid at your feet; and I wish, madam, +they were in a better posture, that I might make a more becoming offer to +a lady of your incomparable beauty and merit. If I had Peru in one hand, +and Mexico in t’other, and the Eastern Empire under my feet, it would +make me only a more glorious victim to be offered at the shrine of your +beauty. + +ANG. Bless me, Sir Sampson, what’s the matter? + +SIR SAMP. Odd, madam, I love you. And if you would take my advice in a +husband— + +ANG. Hold, hold, Sir Sampson. I asked your advice for a husband, and +you are giving me your consent. I was indeed thinking to propose +something like it in jest, to satisfy you about Valentine: for if a match +were seemingly carried on between you and me, it would oblige him to +throw off his disguise of madness, in apprehension of losing me: for you +know he has long pretended a passion for me. + +SIR SAMP. Gadzooks, a most ingenious contrivance—if we were to go +through with it. But why must the match only be seemingly carried on? +Odd, let it be a real contract. + +ANG. Oh, fie, Sir Sampson, what would the world say? + +SIR SAMP. Say? They would say you were a wise woman and I a happy man. +Odd, madam, I’ll love you as long as I live, and leave you a good +jointure when I die. + +ANG. Ay; but that is not in your power, Sir Sampson: for when Valentine +confesses himself in his senses, he must make over his inheritance to his +younger brother. + +SIR SAMP. Odd, you’re cunning, a wary baggage! Faith and troth, I like +you the better. But, I warrant you, I have a proviso in the obligation +in favour of myself. Body o’ me, I have a trick to turn the settlement +upon the issue male of our two bodies begotten. Odsbud, let us find +children and I’ll find an estate! + +ANG. Will you? Well, do you find the estate and leave t’other to me. + +SIR SAMP. O rogue! But I’ll trust you. And will you consent? Is it a +match then? + +ANG. Let me consult my lawyer concerning this obligation, and if I find +what you propose practicable, I’ll give you my answer. + +SIR SAMP. With all my heart: come in with me, and I’ll lend you the +bond. You shall consult your lawyer, and I’ll consult a parson. +Odzooks, I’m a young man—odzooks, I’m a young man, and I’ll make it +appear,—odd, you’re devilish handsome. Faith and troth, you’re very +handsome, and I’m very young and very lusty. Odsbud, hussy, you know how +to choose, and so do I. Odd, I think we are very well met. Give me your +hand, odd, let me kiss it; ’tis as warm and as soft—as what? Odd, as +t’other hand—give me t’other hand, and I’ll mumble ’em and kiss ’em till +they melt in my mouth. + +ANG. Hold, Sir Sampson. You’re profuse of your vigour before your time. +You’ll spend your estate before you come to it. + +SIR SAMP. No, no, only give you a rent-roll of my possessions. Ah, +baggage, I warrant you for little Sampson. Odd, Sampson’s a very good +name for an able fellow: your Sampsons were strong dogs from the +beginning. + +ANG. Have a care and don’t over-act your part. If you remember, +Sampson, the strongest of the name, pulled an old house over his head at +last. + +SIR SAMP. Say you so, hussy? Come, let’s go then; odd, I long to be +pulling too; come away. Odso, here’s somebody coming. + + + +SCENE III. + + + TATTLE, JEREMY. + +TATT. Is not that she gone out just now? + +JERE. Ay, sir; she’s just going to the place of appointment. Ah, sir, +if you are not very faithful and close in this business, you’ll certainly +be the death of a person that has a most extraordinary passion for your +honour’s service. + +TATT. Ay, who’s that? + +JERE. Even my unworthy self, sir. Sir, I have had an appetite to be fed +with your commands a great while; and now, sir, my former master having +much troubled the fountain of his understanding, it is a very plausible +occasion for me to quench my thirst at the spring of your bounty. I +thought I could not recommend myself better to you, sir, than by the +delivery of a great beauty and fortune into your arms, whom I have heard +you sigh for. + +TATT. I’ll make thy fortune; say no more. Thou art a pretty fellow, and +canst carry a message to a lady, in a pretty soft kind of phrase, and +with a good persuading accent. + +JERE. Sir, I have the seeds of rhetoric and oratory in my head: I have +been at Cambridge. + +TATT. Ay; ’tis well enough for a servant to be bred at an university: +but the education is a little too pedantic for a gentleman. I hope you +are secret in your nature: private, close, ha? + +JERE. Oh, sir, for that, sir, ’tis my chief talent: I’m as secret as the +head of Nilus. + +TATT. Ay? Who’s he, though? A privy counsellor? + +JERE. O ignorance! [_Aside_.] A cunning Egyptian, sir, that with his +arms would overrun the country, yet nobody could ever find out his +head-quarters. + +TATT. Close dog! A good whoremaster, I warrant him:—the time draws +nigh, Jeremy. Angelica will be veiled like a nun, and I must be hooded +like a friar, ha, Jeremy? + +JERE. Ay, sir; hooded like a hawk, to seize at first sight upon the +quarry. It is the whim of my master’s madness to be so dressed, and she +is so in love with him she’ll comply with anything to please him. Poor +lady, I’m sure she’ll have reason to pray for me, when she finds what a +happy exchange she has made, between a madman and so accomplished a +gentleman. + +TATT. Ay, faith, so she will, Jeremy: you’re a good friend to her, poor +creature. I swear I do it hardly so much in consideration of myself as +compassion to her. + +JERE. ’Tis an act of charity, sir, to save a fine woman with thirty +thousand pound from throwing herself away. + +TATT. So ’tis, faith; I might have saved several others in my time, but, +i’gad, I could never find in my heart to marry anybody before. + +JERE. Well, sir, I’ll go and tell her my master’s coming, and meet you +in half a quarter of an hour with your disguise at your own lodgings. +You must talk a little madly: she won’t distinguish the tone of your +voice. + +TATT. No, no; let me alone for a counterfeit. I’ll be ready for you. + + + +SCENE IV. + + + TATTLE, MISS PRUE. + +MISS. O Mr. Tattle, are you here? I’m glad I have found you; I have +been looking up and down for you like anything, till I’m as tired as +anything in the world. + +TATT. Oh, pox, how shall I get rid of this foolish girl? [_Aside_.] + +MISS. Oh, I have pure news, I can tell you, pure news. I must not marry +the seaman now—my father says so. Why won’t you be my husband? You say +you love me, and you won’t be my husband. And I know you may be my +husband now, if you please. + +TATT. Oh, fie, miss; who told you so, child? + +MISS. Why, my father. I told him that you loved me. + +TATT. Oh, fie, miss; why did you do so? And who told you so, child? + +MISS. Who? Why, you did; did not you? + +TATT. Oh, pox, that was yesterday, miss, that was a great while ago, +child. I have been asleep since; slept a whole night, and did not so +much as dream of the matter. + +MISS. Pshaw—oh, but I dreamt that it was so, though. + +TATT. Ay, but your father will tell you that dreams come by contraries, +child. Oh, fie; what, we must not love one another now. Pshaw, that +would be a foolish thing indeed. Fie, fie, you’re a woman now, and must +think of a new man every morning and forget him every night. No, no, to +marry is to be a child again, and play with the same rattle always. Oh, +fie, marrying is a paw thing. + +MISS. Well, but don’t you love me as well as you did last night then? + +TATT. No, no, child, you would not have me. + +MISS. No? Yes, but I would, though. + +TATT. Pshaw, but I tell you you would not. You forget you’re a woman +and don’t know your own mind. + +MISS. But here’s my father, and he knows my mind. + + + +SCENE V. + + + [_To them_] FORESIGHT. + +FORE. O Mr. Tattle, your servant, you are a close man; but methinks your +love to my daughter was a secret I might have been trusted with. Or had +you a mind to try if I could discover it by my art? Hum, ha! I think +there is something in your physiognomy that has a resemblance of her; and +the girl is like me. + +TATT. And so you would infer that you and I are alike? What does the +old prig mean? I’ll banter him, and laugh at him, and leave him. +[_Aside_.] I fancy you have a wrong notion of faces. + +FORE. How? What? A wrong notion? How so? + +TATT. In the way of art: I have some taking features, not obvious to +vulgar eyes, that are indications of a sudden turn of good fortune in the +lottery of wives, and promise a great beauty and great fortune reserved +alone for me, by a private intrigue of destiny, kept secret from the +piercing eye of perspicuity, from all astrologers, and the stars +themselves. + +FORE. How! I will make it appear that what you say is impossible. + +TATT. Sir, I beg your pardon, I’m in haste— + +FORE. For what? + +TATT. To be married, sir, married. + +FORE. Ay, but pray take me along with you, sir— + +TATT. No, sir; ’tis to be done privately. I never make confidants. + +FORE. Well, but my consent, I mean. You won’t marry my daughter without +my consent? + +TATT. Who? I, sir? I’m an absolute stranger to you and your daughter, +sir. + +FORE. Hey day! What time of the moon is this? + +TATT. Very true, sir, and desire to continue so. I have no more love +for your daughter than I have likeness of you, and I have a secret in my +heart which you would be glad to know and shan’t know, and yet you shall +know it, too, and be sorry for’t afterwards. I’d have you to know, sir, +that I am as knowing as the stars, and as secret as the night. And I’m +going to be married just now, yet did not know of it half an hour ago; +and the lady stays for me, and does not know of it yet. There’s a +mystery for you: I know you love to untie difficulties. Or, if you can’t +solve this, stay here a quarter of an hour, and I’ll come and explain it +to you. + + + +SCENE VI. + + + FORESIGHT, MISS PRUE. + +MISS. O father, why will you let him go? Won’t you make him to be my +husband? + +FORE. Mercy on us, what do these lunacies portend? Alas! he’s mad, +child, stark wild. + +MISS. What, and must not I have e’er a husband, then? What, must I go +to bed to nurse again, and be a child as long as she’s an old woman? +Indeed but I won’t. For now my mind is set upon a man, I will have a man +some way or other. Oh, methinks I’m sick when I think of a man; and if I +can’t have one, I would go to sleep all my life: for when I’m awake it +makes me wish and long, and I don’t know for what. And I’d rather be +always asleep than sick with thinking. + +FORE. Oh, fearful! I think the girl’s influenced too. Hussy, you shall +have a rod. + +MISS. A fiddle of a rod, I’ll have a husband; and if you won’t get me +one, I’ll get one for myself. I’ll marry our Robin the butler; he says +he loves me, and he’s a handsome man, and shall be my husband: I warrant +he’ll be my husband, and thank me too, for he told me so. + + + +SCENE VII. + + + [_To them_] SCANDAL, MRS. FORESIGHT, _and_ NURSE. + +FORE. Did he so? I’ll dispatch him for’t presently. Rogue! O nurse, +come hither. + +NURSE. What is your worship’s pleasure? + +FORE. Here, take your young mistress and lock her up presently, till +farther orders from me. Not a word, Hussy; do what I bid you, no reply, +away. And bid Robin make ready to give an account of his plate and +linen, d’ye hear: begone when I bid you. + +MRS. FORE. What’s the matter, husband? + +FORE. ’Tis not convenient to tell you now. Mr. Scandal, heav’n keep us +all in our senses—I fear there is a contagious frenzy abroad. How does +Valentine? + +SCAN. Oh, I hope he will do well again. I have a message from him to +your niece Angelica. + +FORE. I think she has not returned since she went abroad with Sir +Sampson. Nurse, why are you not gone? + + + +SCENE VIII. + + + FORESIGHT, SCANDAL, MRS. FORESIGHT, BEN. + +MRS. FORE. Here’s Mr. Benjamin, he can tell us if his father be come +home. + +BEN. Who? Father? Ay, he’s come home with a vengeance. + +MRS. FORE. Why, what’s the matter? + +BEN. Matter! Why, he’s mad. + +FORE. Mercy on us, I was afraid of this. And there’s the handsome young +woman, she, as they say, brother Val went mad for, she’s mad too, I +think. + +FORE. Oh, my poor niece, my poor niece, is she gone too? Well, I shall +run mad next. + +MRS. FORE. Well, but how mad? How d’ye mean? + +BEN. Nay, I’ll give you leave to guess. I’ll undertake to make a voyage +to Antegoa—no, hold; I mayn’t say so, neither. But I’ll sail as far as +Leghorn and back again before you shall guess at the matter, and do +nothing else. Mess, you may take in all the points of the compass, and +not hit right. + +MRS. FORE. Your experiment will take up a little too much time. + +BEN. Why, then, I’ll tell you; there’s a new wedding upon the stocks, +and they two are a-going to be married to rights. + +SCAN. Who? + +BEN. Why, father and—the young woman. I can’t hit of her name. + +SCAN. Angelica? + +BEN. Ay, the same. + +MRS. FORE. Sir Sampson and Angelica? Impossible! + +BEN. That may be—but I’m sure it is as I tell you. + +SCAN. ’Sdeath, it’s a jest. I can’t believe it. + +BEN. Look you, friend, it’s nothing to me whether you believe it or no. +What I say is true, d’ye see, they are married, or just going to be +married, I know not which. + +FORE. Well, but they are not mad, that is, not lunatic? + +BEN. I don’t know what you may call madness. But she’s mad for a +husband, and he’s horn mad, I think, or they’d ne’er make a match +together. Here they come. + + + +SCENE IX. + + + [_To them_] SIR SAMPSON, ANGELICA, BUCKRAM. + +SIR SAMP. Where is this old soothsayer, this uncle of mine elect? Aha, +old Foresight, Uncle Foresight, wish me joy, Uncle Foresight, double joy, +both as uncle and astrologer; here’s a conjunction that was not foretold +in all your Ephemeris. The brightest star in the blue firmament—_is shot +from above_, _in a jelly of love_, and so forth; and I’m lord of the +ascendant. Odd, you’re an old fellow, Foresight; uncle, I mean, a very +old fellow, Uncle Foresight: and yet you shall live to dance at my +wedding; faith and troth, you shall. Odd, we’ll have the music of the +sphere’s for thee, old Lilly, that we will, and thou shalt lead up a +dance in Via Lactea. + +FORE. I’m thunderstruck! You are not married to my niece? + +SIR SAMP. Not absolutely married, uncle; but very near it, within a kiss +of the matter, as you see. [_Kisses_ ANGELICA.] + +ANG. ’Tis very true, indeed, uncle. I hope you’ll be my father, and +give me. + +SIR SAMP. That he shall, or I’ll burn his globes. Body o’ me, he shall +be thy father, I’ll make him thy father, and thou shalt make me a father, +and I’ll make thee a mother, and we’ll beget sons and daughters enough to +put the weekly bills out of countenance. + +SCAN. Death and hell! Where’s Valentine? + + + +SCENE X. + + + SIR SAMPSON, ANGELICA, FORESIGHT, MRS. FORESIGHT, BEN, BUCKRAM. + +MRS. FORE. This is so surprising. + +SIR SAMP. How! What does my aunt say? Surprising, aunt? Not at all +for a young couple to make a match in winter: not at all. It’s a plot to +undermine cold weather, and destroy that usurper of a bed called a +warming-pan. + +MRS. FORE. I’m glad to hear you have so much fire in you, Sir Sampson. + +BEN. Mess, I fear his fire’s little better than tinder; mayhap it will +only serve to light up a match for somebody else. The young woman’s a +handsome young woman, I can’t deny it: but, father, if I might be your +pilot in this case, you should not marry her. It’s just the same thing +as if so be you should sail so far as the Straits without provision. + +SIR SAMP. Who gave you authority to speak, sirrah? To your element, +fish, be mute, fish, and to sea, rule your helm, sirrah, don’t direct me. + +BEN. Well, well, take you care of your own helm, or you mayn’t keep your +new vessel steady. + +SIR SAMP. Why, you impudent tarpaulin! Sirrah, do you bring your +forecastle jests upon your father? But I shall be even with you, I won’t +give you a groat. Mr. Buckram, is the conveyance so worded that nothing +can possibly descend to this scoundrel? I would not so much as have him +have the prospect of an estate, though there were no way to come to it, +but by the North-East Passage. + +BUCK. Sir, it is drawn according to your directions; there is not the +least cranny of the law unstopt. + +BEN. Lawyer, I believe there’s many a cranny and leak unstopt in your +conscience. If so be that one had a pump to your bosom, I believe we +should discover a foul hold. They say a witch will sail in a sieve: but +I believe the devil would not venture aboard o’ your conscience. And +that’s for you. + +SIR SAMP. Hold your tongue, sirrah. How now, who’s here? + + + +SCENE XI. + + + [_To them_] TATTLE _and_ MRS. FRAIL. + +MRS. FRAIL. O sister, the most unlucky accident. + +MRS. FORE. What’s the matter? + +TATT. Oh, the two most unfortunate poor creatures in the world we are. + +FORE. Bless us! How so? + +MRS. FRAIL. Ah, Mr. Tattle and I, poor Mr. Tattle and I are—I can’t +speak it out. + +TATT. Nor I. But poor Mrs. Frail and I are— + +MRS. FRAIL. Married. + +MRS. FORE. Married! How? + +TATT. Suddenly—before we knew where we were—that villain Jeremy, by the +help of disguises, tricked us into one another. + +FORE. Why, you told me just now you went hence in haste to be married. + +ANG. But I believe Mr. Tattle meant the favour to me: I thank him. + +TATT. I did, as I hope to be saved, madam; my intentions were good. But +this is the most cruel thing, to marry one does not know how, nor why, +nor wherefore. The devil take me if ever I was so much concerned at +anything in my life. + +ANG. ’Tis very unhappy, if you don’t care for one another. + +TATT. The least in the world—that is for my part: I speak for myself. +Gad, I never had the least thought of serious kindness.—I never liked +anybody less in my life. Poor woman! Gad, I’m sorry for her too, for I +have no reason to hate her neither; but I believe I shall lead her a +damned sort of a life. + +MRS. FORE. He’s better than no husband at all—though he’s a coxcomb. +[_To_ FRAIL.] + +MRS. FRAIL [_to her_]. Ay, ay, it’s well it’s no worse.—Nay, for my part +I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things; nothing but his being my +husband could have made me like him less. + +TATT. Look you there, I thought as much. Pox on’t, I wish we could keep +it secret; why, I don’t believe any of this company would speak of it. + +MRS. FRAIL. But, my dear, that’s impossible: the parson and that rogue +Jeremy will publish it. + +TATT. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say. + +ANG. Oh, you’ll agree very well in a little time; custom will make it +easy to you. + +TATT. Easy! Pox on’t, I don’t believe I shall sleep to-night. + +SIR SAMP. Sleep, quotha! No; why, you would not sleep o’ your +wedding-night? I’m an older fellow than you, and don’t mean to sleep. + +BEN. Why, there’s another match now, as thof a couple of privateers were +looking for a prize and should fall foul of one another. I’m sorry for +the young man with all my heart. Look you, friend, if I may advise you, +when she’s going—for that you must expect, I have experience of her—when +she’s going, let her go. For no matrimony is tough enough to hold her; +and if she can’t drag her anchor along with her, she’ll break her cable, +I can tell you that. Who’s here? The madman? + + + +SCENE _the Last_. + + + VALENTINE, SCANDAL, SIR SAMPSON, ANGELICA, FORESIGHT, MRS. FORESIGHT, + TATTLE, MRS. FRAIL, BEN, JEREMY, BUCKRAM. + +VAL. No; here’s the fool, and if occasion be, I’ll give it under my +hand. + +SIR SAMP. How now? + +VAL. Sir, I’m come to acknowledge my errors, and ask your pardon. + +SIR SAMP. What, have you found your senses at last then? In good time, +sir. + +VAL. You were abused, sir: I never was distracted. + +FORE. How! Not mad! Mr. Scandal— + +SCAN. No, really, sir. I’m his witness; it was all counterfeit. + +VAL. I thought I had reasons—but it was a poor contrivance, the effect +has shown it such. + +SIR SAMP. Contrivance! What, to cheat me? to cheat your father? +Sirrah, could you hope to prosper? + +VAL. Indeed, I thought, sir, when the father endeavoured to undo the +son, it was a reasonable return of nature. + +SIR SAMP. Very good, sir. Mr. Buckram, are you ready? Come, sir, will +you sign and seal? + +VAL. If you please, sir; but first I would ask this lady one question. + +SIR SAMP. Sir, you must ask me leave first. That lady? No, sir, you +shall ask that lady no questions till you have asked her blessing, sir: +that lady is to be my wife. + +VAL. I have heard as much, sir; but I would have it from her own mouth. + +SIR SAMP. That’s as much as to say I lie, sir, and you don’t believe +what I say. + +VAL. Pardon me, sir. But I reflect that I very lately counterfeited +madness; I don’t know but the frolic may go round. + +SIR SAMP. Come, chuck, satisfy him, answer him. Come, come, Mr. +Buckram, the pen and ink. + +BUCK. Here it is, sir, with the deed; all is ready. [VALENTINE _goes +to_ ANGELICA.] + +ANG. ’Tis true, you have a great while pretended love to me; nay, what +if you were sincere? Still you must pardon me if I think my own +inclinations have a better right to dispose of my person than yours. + +SIR SAMP. Are you answered now, sir? + +VAL. Yes, sir. + +SIR SAMP. Where’s your plot, sir? and your contrivance now, sir? Will +you sign, sir? Come, will you sign and seal? + +VAL. With all my heart, sir. + +SCAN. ’Sdeath, you are not mad indeed, to ruin yourself? + +VAL. I have been disappointed of my only hope, and he that loses hope +may part with anything. I never valued fortune but as it was subservient +to my pleasure, and my only pleasure was to please this lady. I have +made many vain attempts, and find at last that nothing but my ruin can +effect it; which, for that reason, I will sign to—give me the paper. + +ANG. Generous Valentine! [_Aside_.] + +BUCK. Here is the deed, sir. + +VAL. But where is the bond by which I am obliged to sign this? + +BUCK. Sir Sampson, you have it. + +ANG. No, I have it, and I’ll use it as I would everything that is an +enemy to Valentine. [_Tears the paper_.] + +SIR SAMP. How now? + +VAL. Ha! + +ANG. Had I the world to give you, it could not make me worthy of so +generous and faithful a passion. Here’s my hand:—my heart was always +yours, and struggled very hard to make this utmost trial of your virtue. +[_To_ VALENTINE.] + +VAL. Between pleasure and amazement I am lost. But on my knees I take +the blessing. + +SIR SAMP. Oons, what is the meaning of this? + +BEN. Mess, here’s the wind changed again. Father, you and I may make a +voyage together now. + +ANG. Well, Sir Sampson, since I have played you a trick, I’ll advise you +how you may avoid such another. Learn to be a good father, or you’ll +never get a second wife. I always loved your son, and hated your +unforgiving nature. I was resolved to try him to the utmost; I have +tried you too, and know you both. You have not more faults than he has +virtues, and ’tis hardly more pleasure to me that I can make him and +myself happy than that I can punish you. + +VAL. If my happiness could receive addition, this kind surprise would +make it double. + +SIR SAMP. Oons, you’re a crocodile. + +FORE. Really, Sir Sampson, this is a sudden eclipse. + +SIR SAMP. You’re an illiterate old fool, and I’m another. + +TATT. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of a wife, I can spare +him mine.—Oh, are you there, sir? I’m indebted to you for my happiness. +[_To_ JEREMY.] + +JERE. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons: ’twas an errant mistake. You +see, sir, my master was never mad, nor anything like it. Then how could +it be otherwise? + +VAL. Tattle, I thank you; you would have interposed between me and +heaven, but Providence laid purgatory in your way. You have but justice. + +SCAN. I hear the fiddles that Sir Sampson provided for his own wedding; +methinks ’tis pity they should not be employed when the match is so much +mended. Valentine, though it be morning, we may have a dance. + +VAL. Anything, my friend, everything that looks like joy and transport. + +SCAN. Call ’em, Jeremy. + +ANG. I have done dissembling now, Valentine; and if that coldness which +I have always worn before you should turn to an extreme fondness, you +must not suspect it. + +VAL. I’ll prevent that suspicion: for I intend to dote to that +immoderate degree that your fondness shall never distinguish itself +enough to be taken notice of. If ever you seem to love too much, it must +be only when I can’t love enough. + +ANG. Have a care of promises; you know you are apt to run more in debt +than you are able to pay. + +VAL. Therefore I yield my body as your prisoner, and make your best +on’t. + +SCAN. The music stays for you. [_Dance_.] + +SCAN. Well, madam, you have done exemplary justice in punishing an +inhuman father and rewarding a faithful lover. But there is a third good +work which I, in particular, must thank you for: I was an infidel to your +sex, and you have converted me. For now I am convinced that all women +are not like fortune, blind in bestowing favours, either on those who do +not merit or who do not want ’em. + +ANG. ’Tis an unreasonable accusation that you lay upon our sex: you tax +us with injustice, only to cover your own want of merit. You would all +have the reward of love, but few have the constancy to stay till it +becomes your due. Men are generally hypocrites and infidels: they +pretend to worship, but have neither zeal nor faith. How few, like +Valentine, would persevere even to martyrdom, and sacrifice their +interest to their constancy! In admiring me, you misplace the novelty. + + The miracle to-day is, that we find + A lover true; not that a woman’s kind. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE FOR LOVE*** + + +******* This file should be named 1244-0.txt or 1244-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/2/4/1244 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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