 Act one of The Old Bachelor by William Congreve. To the right honourable Charles, Lord Clifford of Lanesborough, etc. My Lord, it is with a great deal of pleasure that I lay hold on this first occasion which the accidents of my life have given me of writing to your Lordship. For, since at the same time I write to all the world, it will be a means of publishing what I would have everybody know, the respect and duty which I owe and pay to you. I have so much inclination to be yours that I need no other engagement. But the particular ties by which I am bound to your Lordship and family have put it out of my power to make you any compliment, since all offers of myself will amount to no more than an honest acknowledgement, and only show a willingness in me to be grateful. I am very near wishing that it were not so much in my interest to be your Lordship servant that it might be more my merit. Not that I would avoid being obliged to you, but I would have my own choice to run me into debt, that I might have it to boast I had distinguished a man to whom I would be glad to be obliged, even without the hopes of having it in my power ever to make him a return. It is impossible for me to come near your Lordship in any kind and not receive some favour. And while in appearance I am only making an acknowledgement, with the usual underhand dealing of the world, I am at the same time insinuating my own interest. I cannot give your Lordship your due without tacking a bill of my own privileges. It is true, if ever a man never committed a folly, he would never stand in need of a protection. But then power would have nothing to do, and good nature no occasion to show itself. And where those qualities are, tis pity they should want objects to shine upon. I must confess this is no reason why a man should do an idle thing, nor indeed any good excuse for it when done. Yet it reconciles the uses of such authority and goodness to the necessities of our folly, and is a sort of poetic logic which at this time I would make use of to argue your Lordship into a protection of this play. It is the first offence I have committed in this kind, or indeed in any kind of poetry, though not the first made public, and I therefore hope will be the more easily pardoned. But had it been acted when it was first written, more might have been said in its behalf. Ignorance of the town and stage would then have been excuses in a young writer which now almost four years' experience will scarce allow of. But I must declare myself sensible to the good nature of the town in receiving this play so kindly with all its faults, which I must own were for the most part very industriously covered by the care of the players, for I think scarce a character but received all the advantage it would admit of from the justness of the action. As for the critics, my Lord, I have nothing to say to or against any of them of any kind, from those who make just exceptions to those who find fault in the wrong place. I will only make this general answer in behalf of my play, an answer which Epictetus advises every man to make for himself to his censurers, vis that if they who find some faults in it were as intimate with it as I am they would find a great many more. This is a confession which I needed not to have made, but however I can draw this use from it to my own advantage, that I think there are no faults in it but what I do know, which as I take it is the first step to an amendment. Thus may I live in hopes, some time or other, of making the town amends, but you, my Lord, I never can, though I am ever your Lordship's most obedient and most humble servant, William Congrive. To Mr. Congrive, when virtue in pursuit of fame appears and forward shoots the growth beyond the years, we timely court the rising hero's cause, and on his side the poet wisely draws, bespeaking him hereafter, by applause. The days will come when we shall all receive returning interest from what now we give, constructed and supported by that praise and reputation which we strive to raise. Nature, so coy, so hardly to be wooed, flies like a mistress, but to be pursued. O Congrive, boldly follow on the chase! She looks behind and wants thy strong embrace. She yields, she yields, surrenders all her charms to you, but force her gently to your arms. Such nerves, such graces in your lines appear as you were made to be her ravisher. Dryden has long extended his command by right divine, quite through the muses' land, absolute lord, and holding now from none but great Apollo his undighted crown. That empire settled, and grown old in power can wish for nothing but a successor, not to enlarge his limits, but maintain those provinces which he alone could gain. His eldest witchily, in wise retreat, thought it not worth his quiet to be great. Loose wandering etherage in wild pleasures tossed, and foreign interests, to his hopes long lost. Poor Lee and Otway dead, Congrive appears the darling and last comfort of his years. Maced thou live long in thy great master's smiles, and growing under him adorn these aisles? But when, when part of him be that but late, his body yielding must submit to fate, leaving his deathless works, and thee behind the natural successor of his mind, then maced thou finish what he has begun, heir to his merit, be in fame his son. What thou hast done shows all is in thy power, and to write better only must write more. It is something to be willing to commend, but my best praise is that I am your friend, Thomas Southern, to Mr. Congrive. The dangers great in these sensorious days when critics are so rife to venture praise, when the infectious and ill-natured brood behold, and dam the work because't is good, and with a proud, ungenerous spirit try to pass an ostracism on poetry. But you, my friend, your worth does safely bear above their spleen. You have no cause for fear. Like a well-metaled hawk you took your flight quite out of reach, and almost out of sight. As the strong sun in a fair summer's day you rise and drive the mists and clouds away, the owls and bats and all the birds of prey. Each line of yours, like polished steels so hard, in beauty safe, it wants no other guard. Nature herself's beholden to your dress, which though still like, much fairer you express. Some vainly striving honour to obtain leave to the heirs the traffic of their brain. Like China underground the ripening wear in a long time perhaps grows worth our care. But you now reap the fame so well you've sown the planter tastes his fruit to ripeness grown. As a fair orange tree at once is seen big with what's ripe yet springing still with green. So at one time my worthy friend appears with all the sap of youth and weight of years. Accept my pious love as forward zeal, which though it ruins me I can't conceal. Exposed to censure for my weak applause I'm pleased to suffer in so just a cause. And though my offering may unworthy prove take as a friend the wishes of my love. Jay Marsh to Mr. Congreve on his play called The Old Bachelor. Wit like true gold refined from all a lay immortal is and never can decay. Tis in all times and languages the same nor can an ill translation quench the flame. For though the form and fashion don't remain the intrinsic value still it will retain. Then let each studied scene be writ with art and judgments sweat to form the laboured part. Each character be just and nature seem. Without the ingredient wit it is all but flem for that's the soul which all the mass must move. And wake our passions into grief or love. But you too Bantius so your wit so thick we are surprised and know not where to pick. And well with clapping we are just to you ourselves we injure and lose something new. What meant we then great use of the presage whose art and wit so much transcend thy age? How wilt thy shine at thy meridian height? Who at thy rising gifts so vast a light? When dried and dying shall the world deceive whom we immortal as his works believe thou shalt succeed. The glory of the stage adorn and entertain the coming age. Bevel Higgins. Prolog intended for the Old Bachelor. Written by the Lord Falkland. Most authors on the stage at first appear like widow's bridegrooms full of doubt and fear. They judge from the experience of the dame how hard a task it is to quench her flame. And who falls short of furnishing a course up to his brawny predecessor's force with utmost rage from her embrace's throne remains convicted as an empty drone. Thus often, to his shame, a perch beginner proves in the end a miserable sinner. As for our youngster I am apt to doubt him with all the vigor of his youth about him. But he, more sanguine, trusts him one in twenty and impudently hopes he shall content you. For though his bachelor be worn in cold he sinks the young may club to help the old and what alone can be achieved by neither is often brought about by both together. The briskest of you all have felt alarms finding the fair one prostitute her charms with broken sighs in her old fumbler's arms. But for our spark he swears he'll ne'er be jealous of any rivals but young lusty fellows. Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave after his bragging prove a washy nave may he be banished to some lonely den and never more have leave to dip his pen. But if he be the champion he pretends, both sexes sure will join to be his friends for all agree when all can have their ends. And you must own him for a man of might if he holds out to please you the third night. Prologue, spoken by Mrs. Bracegirtle. How this vile world is changed! In former days prologues were serious speeches before plays, grave, solemn things Graces are to feasts where poets begged a blessing from their guests. But now, no more like suppliance we come, a play makes war and prologue is the drum. Armed with keen sutter and with pointed wit we threaten you who do for judges sit to save our plays or else we'll dam your pit. But for your comfort it falls out to-day we've a young author and his first-born play. So standing only on his good behaviour he's very civil and entreats your favour. Not but the man has malice would he show it, but on my conscience he's a bashful poet. You think that's strange? No matter, he'll outgrow it. Well, I'm his advocate. By me he praise you. I don't know whether I shall speak to please you. He prays, oh bless me, what shall I do now? Hang me if I know what he prays, or how? And was the prettiest prologue as he wrote it? Well, the juice take me if I haven't forgot it. Oh Lord, for heaven's sake excuse the play because, you know, if it be damned to-day I shall be hanged for wanting what to say. But for my sake then, but I'm in such confusion I cannot stay to hear your resolution. Runs off. Dramatis personae. Hartwell, a surly old bachelor, pretending to slight women, secretly in love with Sylvia. Read by Todd. Belmore, in love with Belinda. Read by Jason in Canada. Veinlove, capricious in his love, in love with Aramente. Read by Thomas Peter. Sharper, read by Kristen Handt. Sir Joseph Whittle, read by Adrian Stevens. Captain Bluff, read by Adam Bielka. Fondlewife, a banker, read by Larry Wilson. Setter, a pimp, read by Alan Mapstone. Servant to Fondlewife, read by Elijah Fisher. Ereminta, in love with Veinlove. Read by B. L. Newman. Belinda, her cousin, an affected lady, in love with Belmore. Read by Jennifer Pratt. Lechisha, wife of Fondlewife. Read by Sonia. Sylvia, Veinlove's Forsaken Mistress. Read by Avayee. Lucy, her maid. Read by LaSanne Lavoie. Betty, read by Lydia. Boy, read by Elijah Fisher. Footman, read by Numer. Barnaby, servant to Fondlewife. Read by Craig Franklin. Musicmaster, read by Elijah Fisher. Stage Directions, read by Michael Max. Scene, London. Act One, Scene One. Scene, the street. Belmore and Veinlove meeting. Veinlove, and abroad so early. Good morrow, I thought a contemplated lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning than he could have slept in it. Belmore, good morrow, why truth on this, these early studies are not usual to me, but business, as you see, sir. Showing letters. Business must be followed, or be lost. Business, and so must time, my friend, be close pursued or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark. Pleasure, I guess you mean. Ah, what else has meaning? The wise will tell you. More than they believe, or understand. How ham-ned, a wise man say more than he understands. Aye, aye, wisdom's nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew was that he knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers and wisdom to fools. They have need of him. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element. I roll in a higher orb, and dwell— In castles in the air of thy own building. That's thy element, Ned. Well, as high a fly as you are, I have a lure may make you stoop. Fling's a letter. I marry, sir. I have a hawk's eye at a woman's hand. There's more elegancy in the false spelling of this subscription. Takes up the letter. Then an all-cicero. Let me see. How now? Reads. Dear perfidious vain love. Hold, hold, life, that's the wrong. Nay, let's see the name. Sylvia. How canst thou be ungrateful to that creature? She's extremely pretty and loves thee entirely. I have heard her breathe such raptures about thee. Aye, or anybody that she's about. No, faith, Frank, you wrong her. She has been just to you. That's pleasant by my trough, from thee who hast had her. Never, her affections. Tis true by heaven, she owned it to my face, and blushing like the virgin mourn when it disclosed the cheat which that trusty baud of nature, Knight, had hid, confessed her soul was true to you, though I, by treachery, had stolen the bliss. So was true as turtle, in imagination. Preaches doctrine to husbands, and the married women will adore thee. Why, faith, I think it will do well enough if the husband be out of the way for the wife to show her fondness and impatience of his absence by choosing a lover as like him as she can. And what is unlike she may help out with her own fancy? But is it not an abuse to the lover to be made a blind of? As you say, the abuse is to the lover, not the husband. Fort is an argument of her great zeal towards him that she will enjoy him in effigy. It must be a very superstitious country with such zeal past as for true devotion. I doubt it will be damned by all our protestant husbands for flat adultery. But if you can make Olderman Fondle-wife the persuasion, this letter will be needless. What? The old banker with the handsome wife? Aye. Let me see. Letitia. Oh, tis a delicious morsel. Dear Frank, thou art the truest friend in the world. I am I not. To be continually starting of here's view to course, we were certainly cut out for one another. For my temper quits in a moor just when thine takes it up. But read that. It is an appointment for me this evening, when Fondle-wife will be gone out of town to meet the master of a ship about the return of a venture which he is in danger of losing. Read, read. Elmore, read. Hum-hum, out of town this evening and talks of sending for Mr. Spin-text to keep me company, but I'll take care he shall not be at home. Good, Spin-text. Oh, the fanatic one-eyed parson! Aye, Billville, read. Hum-hum, that your conversation will be much more agreeable if you can counterfeit his habit to blind the servants. Very good. Then I must be disguised? With all my heart it adds a gusto to an amor. It gives the greater resemblance of theft and, among us, lewd mortals, the deeper the sin the sweeter. Frank, I'm amazed at thy good nature. Faith, I hate love when it is forced upon a man as I do whine, and this business is none of my seeking. I only happen to be once or twice where Letitia was the handsomest woman in company, so consequently I applied myself to her, and it seems she has taken me at my word. Had you been there, or anybody, it had been the same. I wish I may succeed as the same. Never doubt it, for if the spirit of cuckolden be once raised up in a woman, the devil can't lay it until she has donned. Prithee, what sort of fellow is Fondle-wife? A kind of mongrel zealot, sometimes very precise and peevish, but I have seen him pleasant enough in his way, much addicted to jealousy, but mold of fondness, so that, as he is often jealous without a cause, he is often satisfied without reason. A very even temper, and fit for my purpose. I must get your man setter to provide my disguise. Aye, you may take him for good in all, if you will, for you have made him fit for nobody else. Well... You're going to visit in return of Sylvia's letter. Poor rogue! Any hour of the day or night will serve her. But do you know nothing of a new rival there? Yes. Hartwell. That certainly old, pretended woman-hater. Things her virtuous. That's one reason why I failed her. I would have her fret herself out of conceit with me, that she may entertain some thoughts of him. I know he visits her every day. Yet rails on still, and thinks his love unknown to us. Little time will swell him so. He must be forced to give it birth. And the discovery must needs be very pleasant from himself to see what pains he will take, and how he will strain to be delivered of a secret when he has miscarried of it already. Well, good morrow. Let's dine together. I'll meet at the old place. With all my heart. It lies convenient for us to pay our afternoon services to our mistresses. I find I am damnably in love. I'm so uneasy for not having seen Belinda yesterday. But I saw my Araminta. Yet I'm as impatient. Seen too. Belmore alone. Why, what a cormorant in love am I? Who, not contented with the slavery of honourable love in one place, and the pleasure of enjoying some half-ascore mistresses of my own acquiring, must yet take vain love's business upon my hands because it lay too heavy upon his. So I'm not only forced to lie with other men's wives for him, but must also undertake the harder task of obliging their mistresses. I must take up, or I shall never hold out. Flesh and blood cannot bear it always. Seen three. To him, sharper. I'm sorry to see this, Ned. Once a man comes to his soliloquies, I give him for gone. Sharper, I'm glad to see thee. What? Is Belinda cruel that you are so thoughtful? No, Faith, not for that. But there's a business of consequence fallen out today that requires some consideration. Prithee, what mighty business of consequence can thou have? Why, you must know, it is a piece of work toward the finishing of an alderman. It seems I must put the last hand to it and dub him cuckold, that he may be of equal dignity with the rest of his brethren. So I must beg Belinda's pardon. Faith, Ian, give her over for good and all. You can have no hopes of getting her for a mistress. And she is too proud, too inconstant, too affected, and too witty, and too handsome for a wife. But she can't have too much money. There's twelve thousand pound, Tom. Tis true she is excessively foppish and affected, but in my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me. Then, as I told you, there's twelve thousand pound. Hum! Why, Faith, upon second thoughts she does not appear to be so very affected, neither. Give her her due. I think the woman's a woman, and that's all. As such I'm sure I shall like her, for the devil take me if I don't love all the sex. And here comes one who swears as heartily he hates all the sex. Seen for. To them, Hartwell. Who? Hartwell? Aye, but he knows better things. How now, George, where hast thou been snarling odious truths and entertaining company like a physician with discourse of their diseases and infirmities? What fine lady hast thou been putting out of conceit with herself and persuading that the face she had been making all the morning was none of her own? For I know thou art as unmanorly and as unwelcome to a woman as a looking-glass after the smallpox. I confess I have not been sneering fulsome lies and nauseous flattery, fawning upon a little tawdry whore that will fawn upon me again and entertain any puppy that comes like a tumbler with the same tricks over and over. For such, I guess, may have been your late employment. Would thou hadst come a little sooner? Love would have wrought thy conversion and been a champion for the cause. What! has he been here? That's one of love's April fools. It is always upon some errand that's to no purpose, ever embarking in adventures yet never comes to harbour. That's because he always sets out in foul weather, loves to buff it with the wind, meet the tide and sail in the teeth of opposition. What! has he not dropped anchor at our aminta? Truth-aunt is she fits his temper best, is a kind of floating island, sometimes seems in reach, then vanishes and keeps him busy in the search. She had need have a good share of sense to manage so capricious a lover. But I don't know, he's of a temper the most easy to himself in the world. He takes always as much of an amour as he cares for and quits it when it grows stale or unpleasant. An argument of very little passion, very good understanding and very ill nature. And proves that vain love plays the fool with discretion. You, Belmore, are bound in gratitude to stickle for him. You with pleasure reap that fruit which he takes pains to sow. He does the drudgery in the mine and you stamp your image on the gold. He's of another opinion and says I do the drudgery in the mine. Well, we have each our share of sport and each that which he likes best, tis his diversion to set, tis mine to cover the partridge. And it should be mine to let him go again. Not till you had mouthed a little, George. I think that's all thou art fit for now. Good, Mr. Young Fellow, you're mistaken. As able as yourself and as nimble too. Though I mayn't have so much mercury in my limbs, tis true indeed I don't force appetite, but wait the natural call of my lust, and think at time enough to be lewd after I have had the temptation. Time enough I, too soon I should rather have expected from a person of your gravity. Yet it is off-times too late with one of you young, tumungent, flashy sinners. You have all the guilt of the intention, and none of the pleasures of practice. Tis true you are so eager in pursuit of the temptation that you save the devil the trouble of leading you into it. Nor is it out of discretion that you don't swallow that very hook yourselves have made it, but you are clawed with the preparative, and what you mean for a wet turns the edge of your puny stomachs. Your love is like your courage, which you show for the first year or two upon all occasions, till in a little time, being disabled or disarmed, you abate of your vigor, and that daring blade which was so often drawn is bound to the peace for ever after. Thou art an old fornicator of a singular good principle indeed, an art of encouraging youth, that they may be as wicked as thou art at thy years. I, and for having everybody, be what they pretend to be. A whoremaster be a whoremaster, and not like vain love kiss a lapdog with passion when it would disgust him from the lady's own blips. That only happens sometimes where the dog has the sweeter breath for the more cleanly conveyance, but, George, you must not quarrel with little gallantries of this nature. Women are often won by him. Who would refuse to kiss a lapdog if it were preliminary to the lips of his lady, or omit playing with her fan and cooling her if she were hot, when it might entitle him to the office of warming her when she should be cold? What is it to read a play in a rainy day? Though you should be now and then interrupted in a witty scene and she perhaps preserve her laughter till the jest were over, even that may be born with considering the reward in prospect. I confess you that our lady's asses bear greater burdens, are forced to undergo dressing, dancing, singing, sighing, whining, rhyming, flattering, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drudgery of loving to boot. Oh, brute, the drudgery of loving! Ah! Why, to come to love through all these incomparances, is like coming to an estate overcharged with debts, which, by the time you have paid, yields no further profit than what the bare tillage in manoring of the land will produce at the expense of your own sweat. Prithee, how dost thou love? He. He hates the sex. So I hate physics, too. Yet I may love to take it for my health. Well, come off, George, if at any time you should be taken straying. He has need of such an excuse, considering the present state of his body. How do you mean? Why, if whoring be purging, as you call it, then I may say marriage is entering into a course of physics. How, George, does the wind blow there? It will as soon blow north and by south. Merry quilther. I hope in heaven I have a greater portion of grace, and I think I have mated too many of those traps to be caught in one myself. Who the devil would have thee, unless we're an oyster woman to propagate young fry for Billingsgate? Thy talent will never recommend thee to anything of better quality. My talent is chiefly that of speaking truth, which I don't expect should ever recommend me to people of quality. I thank heaven I have very honestly purchased the hatred of all the great families in town. You in return of spleen hate them, but could you hope to be received into the alliance of a noble family? No. I hope I shall never merit that affliction. To be punished with a wife of birth? Be a stag of the first head and bear my horns aloft, like one of the supporters of my wife's coat? It's a death. I would not be a cockled to ear an illustrious oar in England. What, not to make your family man and provide for your children? For her children, you mean. Ah, there you've nicked it. There's the devil upon devil. Oh, the pride and joy of heart. It would be to me to have my son and heir resemble such a duke, to have a fleeting coxcomb scoff and cry. Sister, your son's mighty like his grace has just his smile and air of space. Then replies another, me thinks he has more the marquess of such a place about his nose and eyes, so he has my lord, what do you call, its mouth to a chiddle? Then I, to put it off as unconcerned, come chuck the pen under the chin, force a smile and cry, oh, the boy takes after his mother's relations, when the devil and she knows there's a little compound of the whole body of nobility. Ha, ha, ha. Well, but, George, I have one question to ask you. Be sure. I have paddled away my time. I hope you are in no haste for an answer, for I shan't stay now. Looking on his watch. Nay, prithee, George. No. Besides my business, I see a fool coming this way. Adieu. Scene five. Sharper. Belmore. What does he mean? Oh, to Sir Joseph Whittle with his friend, but I see he has turned the corner and goes another way. What in the name of wonder is it? Why, a fool. Tis a tawdry outside. And a very beggarly lining. Yet he may be worth your acquaintance. A little of thy chemistry, Tom, may extract gold from that dirt. Say you so? Faith I am as poor as a chemist and would be as industrious. But what was he that followed him? Is not he a dragon that watches those golden pippins? Hang him, no. He a dragon, if he be, tis a very peaceful one. I can ensure his anger dormant, or should he seem to rouse, tis but well lashing him, and he will sleep like a top. Aye, is he of that kidney? Yet is adored by that bigot, Sir Joseph Whittle, as the image of Valor. He calls him his back, and indeed they are never asunder. Yet last night I know not by what mischance the night was alone and had fallen into the hands of some night-walkers, who, I suppose, would have pillaged him. But I chanced to come by and rescued him, though I believe he was heartily frightened. For as soon as ever he was loose he ran away without staying to see who had helped him. Is that bully of his in the army? No, but is a pretender, and wears the habit of a soldier, which nowadays as often cloaks cowardice as a black gown does atheism. You must know he has been abroad, went purely to run away from a campaign, enriched himself with the plunder of a few oaths, and here vents them against the general, who, slighting men of merit and preferring only those of interest, has made him quit the service. Wherein no doubt he magnifies his own performance. Speaks miracles is the drum to his own praise, the only implement of a soldier he resembles like that, being full of blustering noise and emptiness, and like that of no use but to be beaten. Right. But then the comparison breaks, for he will take a drubbing with his little noise as a pulpit cushion. His name and I have done? Why that, to pass it current to, he has gilded with a title. He is called Captain Bluff. Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance. You steer another course, our bound for Love's Island, I for the Golden Coast. May each succeed in what he wishes most. End of Act 1. Act 2 of The Old Bachelor by William Congreve. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 2, Scene 1. Sir Joseph Whittle. Sharper following. Sure, that's he, and along. Hey, this, this is the very damn place, the inhuman cannibals, the bloody-minded villains would have butchered me last night. No doubt they would have laid me alive, have sold my skin and devoured, etc. How's this? And it hadn't been for a civil gentleman as came by and frightened him away, but I guess I doth not stay to give him thanks. This must be Belmore, he means. Ha! I have a thought. What the captain would come. The very remembrance makes me quake. Agad, I shall never be reconciled to this place heartily. Tis but trying, and being where I am at worst. Now luck. Cursed fortune. This must be the place, this damn-done-lucky place. Agad, and so tis, why, he has been more mischief-done, I perceive. No, tis gone, tis lost. Ten thousand devils on that chance which drew me hither. I hear, just hear, this spot to me as hell. Nothing to be found but the despair of what I've lost. Looking about as if in search. Poor gentleman! By the Lord, Harry, I'll stay no longer, for I have found two. Ha! Who's that has found? What have you found? Restore it quickly, or by. Not I, sir, not I. As I have a soul to be saved, I have found nothing but what has been to my loss, as I may say, and as you were saying, sir. Oh, your servant, sir. You are safe, then, it seems. Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good. Well, you may rejoice over my ill fortune, since it paid the price of your ransom. I rejoice, Agad, not I, sir. I am very sorry for your loss, with all my heart's blood and guts, sir. And if you did but know me, you'd never say I was so ill-natured. No, you. Why, can you be so ungrateful to forget me? Oh, Lord, forget him? No, no, sir, I don't forget you, because I never saw your face before, Agad. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Sharper, angrily. How? Stay, stay, sir. Let me recollect. Aside. He's a damned angry fellow. I believe I had better remember him, until I can get out of his sight. But out of sight had a mind, Agad. Me thought the service I did you last night, sir, in preserving you from those ruffians, might have taken better root in your shallow memory. Sir Joseph Whittle, aside. Gads, daggers, belts, blades, and scabbards. This is the very gentleman. How shall I make him a return suitable to the greatness of his merit? I had a pretty thing to that purpose, if he hadn't frightened it out of my memory. Hem, hem, sir. I most submissively employ your pardon for my transgression of ingratitude and omission, having my entire dependence, sir, upon the super-floating of your goodness, which like an inundation will, I hope, totally emerge the recollection of my error, and leave me floating in your sight upon the full-blown bladders of repentance, by the help of which I shall once more hope to swim into your favour. Bose. So, oh, sir, I am easily pacified. The acknowledgement of a gentleman. Acknowledgement? Sir, I am all over acknowledgement. Will not stick to show it in the greatest extremity by night or day, in sickness or in health, winter or summer, or seasons and occasion. Shall testify the reality and gratitude of your super-abundant humble servant, Sir Joseph Whittle Knight. Hem, hem. Sir Joseph Whittle? The same, sir, of Whittle Hall in Cometartu Bucks. Is it possible? That I am happy to have obliged the mirror of knighthood and the pink of courtesy in the age. Let me embrace you. Oh, Lord, sir. My loss, I esteem, as a trifle repaid with interest, since it has purchased me the friendship and acquaintance of the person in the world whose character I admire. You are only pleased to say so, sir, but pray, if I may be so bold, what is that loss you mention? Oh, term it no longer so, sir. In the scuffle last night, I only dropped a bill of a hundred pound, which I confess, I came half despairing to recover, but thanks to my better fortune. You've found it, sir, then. It seems I profess I'm heartily glad. Sir, your humble servant. I don't question but you are, you have so cheap an opportunity of expressing your gratitude and generosity, since the paying so trivial a sum will wholly acquit you and doubly engage me. Sir Joseph, aside. What a dickens does he mean by a trivial sum. But hand you found it, sir. No, otherwise I vow to gad, but in my hopes in you, sir. Tiff. But that's sufficient to our injustice to doubt the honour of Sir Joseph Whittle. Lord, sir. You are above, I'm sure, a thought so low, to suffer me to lose what was ventured in your service. Nay, twas in a matter paid down for your deliverance, twas so much lent to you. And you scorn, I'll say that for you. Nay, I'll say that for myself with your leave, sir. I do scorn a dirty thing, but I gad. I'm a little out of pocket at present. Shaw, you can't want a hundred pound. Your word is sufficient anywhere. Tis but borrowing so much dirt. You have large acres and can soon repay it. Money is but dirt, sir Joseph, mere dirt. But I profess. Tis a dirt I have washed my hands of at present. I have laid it all out upon my back. Are you so extravagant in clothes, sir Joseph? A very good jest, I profess. A very good jest. And I did not know that I had said it, and that's a better jest than teller. Tis a sigh in you and I haven't been long acquainted. You've lost a good jest for want of knowing me. I only mean a friend of mine whom I call my back. He sticks as close to me and follows me through all danger. He is indeed back, breast and headpiece, as it were, to me. A gad, he's a brave fellow. I'm quite another thing when I'm with him. I don't fear the devil, bless us, almost as if he be by. Ah, had he been with me last night? If he had, sir, what then? He could have done no more, nor perhaps have suffered so much. Angrily. Had he a hundred pound to lose? O Lord, sir, by no means, but I might have saved a hundred pound. I meant innocently as I hoped to be saved, sir. A damned hot fellow, only as I was saying, I let him have all my ready money to redeem his great sword from limbo. But, sir, I have a letter of credit to Alderman Fondlewife as far as two hundred pound, and this afternoon you shall see I am a person, such a one as you would wish to have met with. Sharper, aside. That you are, I'll be sworn. Why, that's great, and like yourself. Seen to. To them, Captain Bluff. Oh, here it comes, I, my Hector of Troy, welcome, my bully, my back, Agad. My heart has gone a pit-pat for thee. How now, my young knight? Not for fear, I hope. He that knows me must be a stranger to fear. Nay, Agad, I hate fear ever since I had liked to have died of a fright, but... But? Look here, boy. Here's your antidote. Here's your Jesuit's powder for a shaking fit. But who hast thou got with thee? Is he of metal? Laying his hand upon his sword. Aye, bully, a devilish smart fellow will fight like a cock. Say you so? Then I honour him. But has he been abroad? For every cock will fight upon his own dung hill. I don't know, but I'll present you. I'll recommend myself. Sir, I honour you. I understand you love fighting. I reverence a man that loves fighting. Sir, I kiss your hilts. Sir, you're servant, but you are misinformed. For unless it be to serve my particular friend as Sir Joseph here, my country or my religion, or in some very justifiable cause, I'm not for it. O Lord, I beg your pardon, sir. I find you are not of my palette. You can't relish a dish of fighting without sweet sauce. Now I think fighting for fighting's sake is sufficient cause, fighting to me is religion and the laws. Ah, well said, my hero. What's not that great, sir? By the Lord Harry, he says true. Fighting is meat, drink and cloth to him. But back, this gentleman is one of the best friends I have in the world, and saved my life last night. You know I told you. Aye, then I honour him again. Sir, may I crave your name? Aye, sir. My name's Sharper. Pray, Mr. Sharper, embrace my back. Very well. By the Lord Harry, Mr. Sharper, he's as brave a fellow as Cannibal. Are you not bully back? Hannibal, I believe you mean Sir Joseph. Undoubtedly he did, sir. Faith, Hannibal was a pretty fellow, but Sir Joseph comparisons her odious. Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days, it must be granted. But alas, sir, were he alive now, he would be nothing, nothing in the earth. How, sir? I make a doubt if there be at this day a greater general breathing. Oh, excuse me, sir. Have you served abroad, sir? Not I, really, sir. Oh, I thought so. Why then? You can know nothing, sir. I'm afraid you scarce know the history of the late war in Flanders, with all its particulars. But I, sir, no more than public letters or gazettes tell us. Gazette? Why there again now? Why, sir, there are not three words of truth the year round put into the gazette. I'll tell you a strange thing now as to that. You must know, sir, I was a resident in Flanders the last campaign and had a small post there. But no matter for that. Perhaps, sir, there was scarce anything of moment done but a humble servant of yours that shall be nameless and I don't say had the greatest share in it. Though I might say that, too, since I name nobody you know. Well, Mr. Sharper, would you think it? In all this time, as I hope for a truncheon, this rascally gazette writer never so much as once mentioned me, not once, by the wars took no more notice than if no bluff had not been in the land of the living. Strange. Yet by the Lord Harry, it is true, Mr. Sharper, for I went every day to coffee houses to read the gazette myself. Aye, aye, no matter. You see, Mr. Sharper, after all I am content to retire. Live a private person. Scipio and others have done it. Sharper, aside. Impudent rogue. Aye, this damned monastery of yours, again, if he would put in foot he might make general himself yet. Oh, fi! No, sir Joseph. You know I hate this. Don't make me but tell Mr. Sharper a little. How you ate fire once out of the mouth of a cannon. Agad, he did. Those impenetrable whiskers of his have confronted flames. Death? What do you mean, sir Joseph? Look, you know, I tell you he's so modest he'll owe nothing. Pish! You have put me out. I forgot what I was about. Angryly. I am dumb. This sword I think I was telling you of, Mr. Sharper. This sword I'll maintain to be the best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or casualist in Europe. It shall decide a controversy or split a cause. No, now I must speak. It will split a hair by the Lord Harry. I have seen it. Zown, sir. It's a lie. You have not seen it nor shan't see it. Sir, I say you can't see. What do you say that that now? I am blind. Death had any other man interrupted me. Good, Mr. Sharper. Speak to him. I dare not look that way. Captain, sir Joseph's penitent. Oh, I am calm, sir. Calm is a discharged culverine. But twas indiscreet when you know what will provoke me. Nay, come, sir Joseph. You know my heat soon over. Well, I'm a fool sometimes, but I'm sorry. Enough! Come, we'll go take a glass to drown animosities. Mr. Sharper, what will you partake? I wait on you, sir. Nay, pray, Captain. You are sir Joseph's back. Scene three. Araminta, Belinda, Betty waiting in Araminta's apartment. Oh, nay, dear, pretty good, dear sweet cousin, no more. Oh, gad, I swear you make one sick to hear you. Bless me. What have I said to move you thus? Oh, you have raved, talked idly in all in commendation of that filthy awkward two-legged creature man. You don't know what you've said. Your fever has transported you. If love be the fever, which you mean, kind heaven avert the cure. Let me have oil to feed that flame and never let it be extinct till I myself am ashes. There was a wine. Oh, gad, I hate your horrid fancy. This love is the devil, and sure to be in love is to be possessed. It is in the heart, the head, the blood, the... all over. Oh, gad, you are quite spoiled. I shall loathe the sight of mankind for your sake. Fee! This is gross affectation. A little of Belmore's company would change the scene. Healthy fellow, I wonder, cousin. I wonder, cousin. You should imagine I don't perceive you love him. Oh, I love your hideous fancy. Love a man. Love a man, yes. You would not love a beast. Of all beasts, not an ass, which is so like your vain love. Lad, I have seen an ass look so chagrin. You must pardon me. I can't help laughing, that an absolute lover would have concluded the poor creature to have had darts and flames and altars and all that in his breast. Araminta, come. I'll talk seriously to you now. Could you but see with my eyes the buffoonery of one scene of address a lover set out with all his equipenche and appurtenances? Oh, gad, I sure you would, but you play the game and consequently can't see the miscarriages obvious to every stand-by. Yes, yes. I can see something near it when you and Belmore meet. You don't know that you dreamt of Belmore last night and called him aloud in your sleep. Pish, I can't help dreaming of the devil sometimes. Would you from thence infer I love him? But that's not all. You caught me in your arms when you named him and pressed me to your bosom. Sure, if I had not pinched you until you waked, you had stifled me with kisses. Oh, barbarous aspersion! No aspersion, cousin. We are alone. Nay, I can tell you more. I deny it all. What, before you hear it? My denial is premeditated like your malice. Laught, cousin, you talk oddly. Whatever the matter is, oh my soul, I'm afraid you'll follow evil courses. Ha, ha, ha, this is pleasant. You may laugh, but... Ha. You think that malicious grin becomes you. The devil take Belmore. Why do you tell me of him? Oh, is it come out? Now you're angry I am sure you love him. I tell nobody else, cousin. I have not betrayed you yet. Prithee, tell it all the world. It's false. Come then, kiss and friends. Pish. Prithee, don't be so peevish. Prithee, don't be so impertinent. Betty. Did your ladyship call, madam? Get my hoods and tip it and bid the footman call a chair. I hope you are not going out and dutch and cousin. Seenful. To them, footman. Madam, there are... Is there a chair? No, madam. There are Mr. Belmore and Mr. Vainlove to wait upon your ladyship. Hello? No, madam. They sent before to know if you were at home. The visit's to you, cousin. I suppose I am at my liberty. Be ready to show him up. Seen five. To them, Betty with hoods and looking glass. I can't tell, cousin. I believe we are equally concerned. But if you continue your humor it won't be very entertaining. Aside. I shall be persuaded to stay. I shall oblige you in leaving you to the full and free enjoyment of that conversation you admire. Let me see. Hold the glass. Lord, I look wretchedly at today. Betty, why don't you help my cousin? Putting on her hoods. Hold off your fists and see that he gets a chair with a high roof or a very low seat. Stay. Come back here. You, Mrs. Fidget. You are so ready to go to the footman. Here, take them all again. My mind's changed. I won't go. Seen six. Ereminta Belinda So, this I expected. You won't oblige me, then, cousin, and let me have all the company to myself? No. Upon deliberation I have too much charity to trust you to yourself. The devil watches all opportunities and in this favourable disposition of your mind heaven knows how far you may be tempted. I am tender of your reputation. I am oblige to you. But who's malicious now, Belinda? Not I. Witness my heart. I stay out of pure affection. In my conscience I believe you. Seen seven. To them, Vainlove Belmore Footman. So, fortune be praised. To find you both within ladies is— No miracle, I hope. Not to your side, madam, I confess. But my tyrant there and I are two buckets that can never come together. Nor are ever like, yet we often meet in clash. How never like? Mary, hymen forbid. But this it is to run so extravagantly in debt I have laid out such a world of love in your service that you think you can never be able to pay me all. So shun me for the same reason that you would have done. I, on my conscience, am the most impertinent and troublesome of duns. A dun for money will be quiet. When he sees his debtor has not wherewithal, but a dun for love is an eternal torment that never rests. Until he has created love where there was none and then gets it for his pains. For importunity in love, like importunity at court, first creates its own interest and then pursues it for the favour. Favours that are got by imputance and importunity are like discoveries from the wrack. When the afflicted person for his ease sometimes confesses secrets his heart knows nothing of. I should rather think favours so gain to be due rewards to indefatigable devotion. For his love is a deity he must be served by prayer. Would you would all pray to love then and let us alone? You are the temples of love and is through you, a cultivation must be conveyed. Rather poor silly idols of your own making which upon the least is pleasure you forsake and set up new. Every man now changes his mistress and his religion as his humour varies, or his interest. O madam! Nay, come! I find we are growing serious and then we are in great danger of being dull. If my music master be not gone I'll entertain you with a new song which comes pretty near my own opinion of love and your sex. Cools. Who's there? Is Mr. Gavogon? Only to the next door, madam. I'll call him. C. Nate. Araminta, Belinda, Vainlove and Belmore. Why, you won't hear me with patience. What's the matter, cousin? Nothing, madam, only... Pretty hold thy tongue, lout. He has so pestered me with flames and stuff I think I shan't endure the sight of a fire this twelve month. Yet all can't melt that cruel, frozen heart. Irgat, I hate your hideous fancy. You said that once before. If you must talk impertently for heaven's sake let it be with variety. Don't come always like the devil wrapped in flames. I'll not hear a sentence more when it begins with an eye burn or an eye beseech you, madam. But tell me how you would be adored. I am very tractable. Then no, I would be adored in silence. I thought so that you might have all the talk to yourself. You had better let me speak for if my thoughts fly to any pitch I shall make villainous signs. What will you get by that to make such signs as I won't understand? I, but if I'm tongue-tied, I must have all my actions free to quicken your apprehension. And I, God, let me tell you my most prevailing argument is expressed in dumb show. Scene nine to them, music master. Oh, I am glad we shall have a song to divert the discourse. Pray, apply just with the last new song. Song. The ripe consenting maid, poor old repenting Delia said, would you long preserve your lover? Would you still his goddess reign? Never let him all discover. Never let him much obtain. Two. Men will admire, adore, and die, while wishing at your feet they lie. But admitting their embraces walks him from the golden dream. Nothing's new besides their faces. Every woman is the same. So, how do you like the song, gentlemen? Oh, very well performed, but I don't much admire the words. I expected it. There's too much truth in them. If Mr. Gauvot will walk with us in the garden, we'll have it once again. You may like it better at second hearing. You'll bring my cousin. Faith, madam, I dare not speak to her, but I'll make signs. Addresses Belinda in Dumb Show. Oh, foe, your dumb rhetoric is more ridiculous than your talking impertinence. As an ape is a much more troublesome animal than a parrot. Aye, cousin, and his assign the creature's mimic nature well. For there are few men, but do more silly things than they say. Well, I find my apishness has paid the ransom for my speech and set it at liberty, though I confess I could be well enough pleased to drive on a love bargain in that silent manner to save a man a world of lying and swearing at the year's end. Besides, I have had a little experience that brings to mind when wit and reason both have failed to move, kind looks and actions from success do prove. Even silence may be eloquent in love. Yes, yes, come. I warrant him. If you will go in and be ready to receive him. Why did you not tell me? Whom mean you? Whom you should mean, heart well. Senseless creature, I meant my vain love. You may as soon hope to recover your own maidenhood as his love. Therefore, eat such your heart at rest and in the name of opportunity mind your own business. Strike heart well home before the baits warn off the hook. Age will come. He nibbled fairly yesterday and no doubt will be eager enough today to swallow the temptation. Well, since there's no remedy yet tell me for I would know though to the anguish of my soul how did he refuse? Tell me how did he receive or in score? Neither, but what was ten times worse with damned senseless indifference. By this light I could have spit in his face, receive it. Why he received it as I would one of your lovers that should come empty-handed as a court lord does his mercers bill or a begging dedication. He received it as if it been a letter from his wife. What? Did he not read it? Hummed over it gave you his respects and said he would take time to peruse it but then he was in haste. Respects and peruse it. He's gone and Araminta has bewitched him from me. Oh, how the name of rival fires my blood. I could curse him both. Eternal jealousy attained her love and disappointment meet his. Oh, that I could revenge the torment he has caused. Me thinks I feel the woman strong within me and vengeance kindles in the room of love. I have that in my head may make mischief. How, dear Lucy? You know Araminta's dissembled coyness as one and keeps him herbs. Could we persuade him that she loves another? No, you're out. Could we persuade him that she dotes on him himself? Contrive a kind letter as from her to a disgust his nicety and take away his stomach. Impossible, it will never take. Trouble not your head. Let me alone. I will inform myself of what passed between him today and about it straight. Hold. I'm mistaken or that's Hartwell who stands talking at the corner. Tis he. Go get you in, madam. Receive him pleasantly. Dress up your face in innocence and smiles and dissemble the very want of dissimulation. You know what will take him. Tis as hard to counterfeit love as it is to conceal it. But I'll do my weak endeavour though I fear I have not art. Hang art, madam, and trust in nature for dissembling. Man was, by nature, woman's culley made. We never are, but by ourselves betrayed. Seen to. Hartwell. Veinlove and Belmore following. Hist, hissed. Is that not Hartwell going to Sylvia? He's talking to himself, I think. Pretty let's try if we can hear him. Why, whether, in the devil's name, am I going now? Hmm. Let me think. Is not this Sylvia's house? The cave of that enchantress? And which consequently I ought to show on as I would infection? To enter here is to put on the inventive shirt, to run into the embraces of a fever and in some raving fit to be led to plunge myself into that more consuming fire, a woman's arms. Ah! Well recollected. I will recover my reason and be gone. Now Venus forbid. Hush! Well, why do you not move? Feet, do your office. Not one inch. No. Adam caught. There stands my north and thither my needle points. How could I curse myself? Yet cannot repent. Oh, thou delicious, damned, dear, destructive woman. To death how the young fellows will hoot me. I shall be the jest of the town. Nay, in two days I expect to be chronicled in ditty and sung in woeful ballad to the tune of the superannuated maiden's comfort or the bachelor's fall. And upon the third I shall be hanged in effigy, pasted up for the exemplary ornament of necessary houses and cobbler's stalls. Death. I can't think on it. I'll run into the danger to lose apprehension. Scene three. Belmore, Vainglove. A very certain remedy probate him est. Ha, ha, ha, poor George. Thou art in the right. Thou hast sold thyself to laughter. The ill-natured town will find the jest just where thou hast lost it. Ha, ha, how a struggled like an old lawyer between two fees. A winch between pleasure and reputation. Or as you did today, when half afraid you snatched a kiss from Araminta. She has made a quarrel on't. Pa, women are only angry at such offences to have the pleasure of forgiving them. And I love to have the pleasure of making my peace. I should not esteem a pardon if too easily won. Thou dost not know what to marry or pleased. Couldest thou be content to marry Araminta? Could you be content to go to heaven? Hmm, not immediately. In my conscience, not heartily. I'd do a little more good in my generation first in order to deserve it. Nor I to marry Araminta till I merit her. But how the devil dost thou expect to get her if she never yield? Marry her without her consent. Thou art a riddle beyond woman. Sinful to them, set her. Trusty set her what tidings. How goes the project? As all lewd projects do, sir, where the devil prevents our endeavours with success. A good hearing, set her. Well, I leave you with your engineer. And has thou provided necessaries? All, all, sir. The large sanctified act and the little precise ban, with a swinging-long spiritual cloak, to cover carnal navery, not forgetting the black patch which tribulation spin-text wears as I'm informed upon one eye as a penal mourning for the ogling offences of his youth. And some say, with that eye, he first discovered the frailty of his wife. Well, in this fanatic father's habit, I will confess Letitia. Rather prepare her for confession, sir, by helping her to sin. Be at your master's lodging in the evening. I shall use the robes. Scene five Set her alone. I shall, sir. I wonder to which of these two gentlemen I do most properly appertain. The one uses me as his attendant. The other, being better acquainted with my parts, employs me as a pimp. Why, that's much the more honourable employment by all means. I follow one as my master. The other follows me as his conductor. Scene six to him Lucy. There's the hang dog, his man. I had a power over him in the reign of my mistress, but he is too true a valet de chambre not to affect his master's faults and consequently is revolted from his allegiance. Undoubtedly it is impossible to be a pimp and not a man of parts. That is, without being politic, diligent, secret, wary, and so forth. And to all this valiant azurakiles. That is passively valiant and actively obedient. Ah, set her. What a treasure is you lost from what have been known. Here's some villainy afoot. He's so thoughtful. Maybe I may discover something in my mask. Worthy, sir. A word with you. Puts on her mask. Why, if I were known, I might come to be a great man. Not to interrupt your meditation. And I should not be the first as precurity's greatness by pimpin. Now, poverty and the pox light upon thee for a contemplative pimp. Oh, war thou thus maliciously has awakened me from my dreams of glory. Speak, thou vile disturber. O thy mozenfile cogitations, thou poor conceited wretch. How worth thou valuing thy self upon thy master's employment? For he's the head pimp to Mr. Belmauer. Good words, damsel. But how dost thou know my master or me? Yes. I know both master and man to be. To be men, perhaps? Nay, faith, like enough. I often march in the rear of my master and enter the breaches which he has made. I, the breach of faith which he has begun, thou traitor to thy lawful princess. Why, oh, now, pretty you are. Lay by that worldly face and produce your natural visor. No, sirrah. I'll keep it on to abuse thee and leave thee without hopes of revenge. Oh, I begin to smoke you. Thou art some forsaken Abigail we have dallied with ear to fore. And art come to tickle thy imagination with remembrance of iniquity past. No, thou pitiful flatterer of thy masters imperfections. Thou mocken made up of the shreds and pairings of his superfluous properties. Thou art my mistress's foul self, composed of her sullen iniquities and clothing. Hang thee, beggars cur. Thy master is but a mumper in love. Lies canting at the gate, but never dares presumed to enter the house. Thou art the wicket to thy mistress's gate to be opened to all comers. In fine thou art the high road to thy mistress. Beast, filthy toad, I can hold no longer. Look and tremble. Unmasks. How, Mrs. Lucy? I wonder thou hast the impudence to look me in the face. Adds but who's in fault, mistress of mine? Who flung the first stone? Who undervalued my function? And who the devil could know you by instinct? You could know my office by instinct and be hanged, which you have slandered most abominably. It vexes me not what you said about my person, but that my innocent calling should be exposed and scandalized. I cannot bear it. Nay, Faith Lucy, I'm sorry. All owe myself to blame, though we were both in fault as to our offices. Come, I'll make you any reparation. Swear. I do swear to the utmost of my power. To be brief, then, what is the reason your master did not appear today according to the summons I brought him? To answer you as briefly, he has a cause to be trod in another court. Come, tell me in plain terms how forward he is with our aminta. Too forward to be turned back, although he's a little in disgrace at present about a kiss which he forced. You and I can kiss, Lucy, without all that. Stand off. He's a precious jewel. And, therefore, you'd have him to set in your lady's locket. Where is he now? He'll be in the piazza presently. Remember today's behaviour. Let me see you with a penitent face. What? No token of amity, Lucy? You and I don't used to part with dry lips. No, no, Avant, I'll not be slabbered and kissed now. I'm not in the humour. I'll not quit you so. I'll follow and put you into the humour. Scene 7. Sir Joseph Whittle. Pluff. And so, out of your unwanted generosity. And good nature back. I'm good natured. I can't help it. You have given him a note upon Fondlewife for a hundred pound. Aye, aye, poor fellow. He ventured fair thought. You have disobliged me in it, for I have occasion for the money and if you would look me in the face again and live, go and force him to re-deliver you the note. Go and bring it to me hither. I'll stay here for you. You may stay until the day of judgement then by the Lord Harry. I know better things than to be run through the guts for a hundred pounds. Why, I gave that hundred pound for being saved. And do you think that when a danger, I'd be so ungrateful to take it from the gentleman again? Well, go to him for me. Tell him, I say, he must refund or billbles the world and slaughter will ensue. If he refuse, tell him, but whisper that, tell him, but whisper that softly to him. So softly that he shall never hear on tell, warrant you. Why, what's a devil so mad a bully? Are you mad or do you think I'm mad? Again, for my part I don't love to be the messenger of all news, it is an ungrateful office, so tell him yourself. By these hilts I believe he frightened you into this composition. I believe you gave it to him out of fear, pure paltry fear. Confess. No, no, Hankt, I was not afraid, neither. Though I confess he did in a manner snap me up, yet I can't say that it was all together out of fear, but partly to prevent mischief, for he was a devilish choleric fellow, and if my choler had been up to, heck ahead, there would have been mischief done thus flat, and yet I believe if you had been by I would have sooner let him have a hundred of my teeth at heart, if he should come just now when I'm angry. I'll tell him, mum. Scenate. To them, Belmore Sharper. Thou art a lucky rogue. There's your benefactor. You ought to return him thanks now you have received the favour. Sir Joseph, your note was accepted and the money paid at sight. I've come to return my thanks. It won't be accepted so readily as the bill, sir. I doubt the night repents, Tom. He looks like the night of the sorrowful face. This is a double generosity. Do me a kindness and refuse my thanks, but I hope you are not offended that I offered them. Maybe I am, sir. Maybe I'm not, sir. Maybe I'm both, sir. What then? I hope I may be offended without any offence to you, sir. Hey, Day. Captain, what's the matter? You can tell. Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain. Sir Joseph has found out your trick and does not care to be put upon being a man of honour. Trick, sir? Trick, sir. It won't be put upon, sir. Being a man of honour, sir. And so, sir. Harky, sir Joseph, a word with you. In consideration of some favour lately received, I would not have you draw yourself into a promunier by trusting that sign of a man there. That pot-gun charged with wind. O Lord! O Lord! Captain, come justify yourself. I'll give him the lie if you'll stand to it. Nay, then. I'll be beforehand with you. Take that, oaf. Cuff him. Captain, will you see this? Won't you pink his soul? Hush! It's not so convenient now. I shall find a time. What do you mutter about a time, you were the incendiary. There's to put you in mind of your time, a memorandum. Kicks him. Oh, this is your time, sir. You had best make use on it. I, Gaten, so I will. There's again for you. Kicks him. You are obliging, sir, but this is too public a place to thank you in. But in your ear you are to be seen again. I, thou inimitable coward, am to be felt, as for example. Kicks him. Ha, ha, ha. Prithee come away. Tis scandalous to kick this puppy unless a man were cold and had no other way to get himself a heat. Scene nine. Sir Joseph Bluff. Very well. Very fine. But tis no matter. Is not this fine, sir Joseph? Indifferent, a cat, in my opinion. Very indifferent. I'd rather go plain all my life than wear such finery. Death and hell to be affronted thus. I'll die before I suffer it. Draws. O Lord, his anger wasn't raised before. Nay, dear captain, don't be impassioned now he's gone. Put up, put up, dear back. Tis your sir Joseph begs. Come, let me kiss thee so. So, put up, put up. By heaven, tis not to be put up. What, bully? Be affront. No, agad. No more tis. For that's put up all already. Thy sword, I mean. Well, sir Joseph, at your entreaty. Putting up his sword. But were not you, my friend, abused, and coughed, and kicked? Aye, aye. So were you two, no matter, tis past. By the immortal thunder of great guns, tis false. Not the vital air who dares affirm it to this face. Looks big. To that face I grant you, captain. No, no, I grant you, not to that face, by the Lord Harry. If you had put on your fighting face before, you had done his business. He dost as soon have kissed you as kicked you to your face. But a man can no more help what's done behind his back than what's said. Come, we'll think no more of what's past. I call a council of war within to consider of my revenge to come. Scene 10 Hartwell Sylvia Sylvia's Apartment Song As amorette and thyseris lay, melting the hours and gentle play, joining faces, mingling kisses, and exchanging harmless blisses, he trembling cried with eager haste, oh, let me feed as well as taste. I die if I'm not holy blessed. After the song a dance of antics. Indeed, it is very fine. I could look upon him all day. Well, has this prevailed for me? And will you look upon me? If you could sing and dance so, I should love to look upon you, too. Why? It was I sung and danced. I gave music to the voice and life to their measures. Look you here, Sylvia. Scene 10 Pulling out a purse and chinking it. Here are songs and dances, poetry and music. Hart, how sweetly one guinea rhymes to another, and how they dance to the music of their own chink. This buys all to other. And this thou shalt have. This and all that I am worth for the purchase of thy love. Say, is it mine then? Huh? Speak, Siren. Oh, why do I look upon her? Yet I must speak, dear angel, devil, saint, witch. Do not rack me with suspense. Nay, don't stare at me so. You make me blush. I cannot look. Oh, manhood, where art thou? What am I come to? A woman's toy at these years. Death. A bearded baby for a girl to dendle. Oh, dotage, dotage. That ever that noble passion lust should ebb to this degree. No reflux of vigorous blood, but milky love supplies the empty channels and prompts me to the softness of a child a mere infant and would suck. Can you love me, Sylvia? Speak. I dare not speak until I believe you, and indeed I'm afraid to believe you yet. Death. Our innocence torments and pleases me. Lying child is indeed the art of love, and men are generally masters in it. But I'm so newly entered you cannot distrust me of any skill in the treacherous mystery. Now, by my soul, I cannot lie, though it were to serve a friend or gain a mistress. Must you lie then if you say you love me? No, no. Dear ignorance, thou beauty is changeling. I tell thee, I do love thee and tell it for a truth a naked truth which I'm ashamed to discover. But, love, they say is a tender thing that will smooth frowns and make calm an angry face, will soften a rugged temper and make ill-humoured people good. You look ready to fright one and talk as if your passion were not love but anger. Tears both, for I am angry with myself when I am pleased with you. And a pox upon me for loving thee so well. Yet I must on. Tis a bearded arrow and will more easily be thrust forward than drawn back. Indeed, if I were well assured you loved. But how can I be well assured? Take the symptoms and ask all the tyrants of thy sex if their fools are not known by this party-coloured livery. I am melancholic when thou art absent. Look like an ass when thou art present. Wake for thee when I should sleep and even dream of thee when I am awake. Psy-march, drink little, eat less, court solitude. I am grown very entertaining to myself and, as I am informed, very troublesome to everybody else. If this be not love it is madness and then it is pardonable. Nay, yet a more certain sign than all this I give thee my money. Ah, but that is no sign for they say gentlemen will give money to any naughty woman to come to bed with them. Oh, Gemini, I hope you don't mean so, for I won't be a whore. Hartwell, aside. The whore is the pity. Nay, if you would marry me you should not come to bed to me. You have such a beard and with so prickle one. But do you intend to marry me? Hartwell, aside. That a fool should ask such a malicious question. Death I shall be put in before I know where I am. However I find I am pretty sure of her consent I am put to it. Marry you? No, no. I'll love you. Nay, but if you love me you must marry me. What, don't I know my father loved my mother and was married to her? Ah, ah, ah, in old days people married where they loved. But that fashion is changed, child. Never tell me that. I know it is not changed by myself for I love you and would marry you. I'll have my beard shaved it shan't hurt thee and we'll go to bed. No, no, I'm not such a fool neither, but I can keep myself honest. Here, I won't keep anything that's yours. I hate you now. And I'll never see you again cos you'd have me be not. Going. Damn her, let her go and a good riddance. Yet so much tenderness and beauty and honesty together is a jewel. Stay, Sylvia! But then to marry why every man plays the fool once in his life but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long. What did you call me for? I'll give thee all I have and thou shalt live with me in everything so like my wife the world shall believe it. Nay, thou shalt think so thyself only let me not think so. No, I'll die before I'll be your whore as well as I love you. Art well, aside. A woman and ignorant may be honest when tears out of obstinacy and contradiction but to death it is but a may be and upon scurvy terms. Well, farewell then. If I can get out of sight I may get the better of myself. Well, good-bye. Turns and weeps. Ah, nay, come we'll kiss at parting. Kisses, huh? By heaven her kiss is sweeter than liberty. I will marry thee. There, thou has done it. Oh, my resolve melted in that kiss. One more? But when? I'm impatient till it be done. I will not give myself liberty to think lest I should cool. I will about a license straight in the evening expect me. One kiss more to confirm me mad? So? An old fox trapped. Scene 11 To her, Lucy. Bless me, you frightened me. I thought he had been come again and had heard me. Lord madam, I met your lover in as much haste as if he had been going for a midwife. He's going for a parson girl, the forerunner of a midwife some nine months hence. Well, I find dissembling to our sex is as natural as swimming to a negro. We may depend upon our skill to save us at a plunge, though till then we'd never make the experiment. But how has thou succeeded? As you would wish. Since there is no reclaiming vain love. I have found out a peak she has taken at him and have framed a letter that makes her sue for reconciliation first. I know that will do. Walk in and I'll show it to you. Come, madam. You're like to have a happy time on both your love and anger satisfied. All that can charm our sex conspired to please you. That woman sure enjoys a blessed night whom love and vengeance both at once delight.