 Act 4 of the Lying Lover or the Ladies' Friendship by Richard Steele. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 4. Scene 1 Covent Garden Enter Young Buckwit and Lutine. This is Robuck. He's almost on my business. Rick B is an honest fellow and would not poison us. The wine had good humour and mouth and joy in it. My blood beats high and frolic. What says my dear Lackey, ha? Why, sir, I say, sir, that I am in so noble, so exalted a condition, that I almost forget that I am your honour's footman. Do but your business well tonight. Who says the tongue stutters, legs falter, and eyes fail with drink? Tis false, my dear master. My tongue runs faster than ever. My legs so brisk and nimble that I can't stand still, and my eyes are better than they ever were, for I see everything double. But the letter, the letter, I warrant I give it her. Here, here, Jack, take it. Let's come nearer the lamp. This is the foul copy of it that is wrapped in. Let me judge. Now I'll be sedate. Let me read it again. But you look cursedly fluttered, they'll say you're drunk. Let's see, I must comb your wig a little. I shall be kicked for this letter, here, about the middle. You should not talk of joys so soon. You should write miserable a fortnight, or three weeks longer. I shall be kicked. What then? What then? A man of your philosophy must need to remember. The body is but the mere organ of the mind. Kicks come under the topic of things without. What shall I do for powder for this smart bomb? Combs out his own wig into latines. Does no matter, sir. Powder comes under the notion of things without. Oh, but ladies are no philosophers. But as they're being drabbed, these stockings, too, you must fix your imagination upon some other object, and you may, by force of thought, suspend your feeling. The body is but the instrument of the mind, and you may command an instrument. No, sir. I'll have you to know. I'll save my carcass by mere dint of eloquence. You have no other orders? No, but may persuasion, grace, and eloquence hang on my lips. But if you can come into Victoria, she in the wine you've drank will inspire you. Farewell. Exit. This is the enchanted castle which the Lady Fair inhabits. Enter Simon. Mr. Simon, sir, I am your most humble servant, my dear friend. Your servant good sir. My lady is with Madam Victoria at Cards. She'll lie here tonight, but all's ruined. They are both huge angry with your master. But let is, having taken a fancy to you, Mr. John, spoke up rarely that she did indeed. Can't one come to the speech of her? I was ordered to have a strict eye to the door, and to let nobody in whatsoever. I don't care for going up, because she'll see I have made a cap for one of the finest napkins. For which she'll make a pleady noise. Nay, nay, you are exactly of my mind. I love to avoid anger. You are a little disguised in drink, though, Mr. John, but I ain't seen you, not I. Go straight up. Mrs. Lettuce is in the antechamber. I thank you, dear friend. My master bids me upon these occasions. Gives him money. I'll beg your pardon, good Mr. John. Look you, I am a servant as well as you. What do you mean, Mr. Simon? Calm, calm. Time's precious. When your lady is married, all these veils will end. Nay, I said, behind your back, Mr. John, that you were very well spoken. Well, put up briskly. I'll stand your friend as much as one servant can to another, against all masters and mistresses, whatever. Thanks, good Mr. Simon. Exceamed. Scene 2 Penelope's Lodgings Lettuce discovered reading by a small candle, two large ones by her, enlightened. This a most sad thing, when they're not like the large candle-except companies coming in, and their scares can see to read this piteous story. Well, in all these distresses and misfortunes, the faithful argoless was renowned all over the plains of Arca, Arca Arcadia, for his loyal and true affection to his charming paramour, Parthenia. Oh, blessings on his heart for it. There are no such suitors nowadays, weeping, but I hope they'll come together again at the end of the book, and marry and have several children. Oh, bless me, a man here, turns over the leaves. Oh, the gentleman's pretty man. Enterlatine. I wonder by what means with that impudence you could offer to come upstairs at this time of the night, and my lady in the next room. I protest, I'll cry out. Dear Mrs. Latice, my love to you. Hest, heest. I am, me things, however, loath to discover you, because servants must do as they bid, for I know it was not to see me, but some message from your master you came about. I offered to bring a letter from him, in hopes to see you, my dearest. I'll not give it at all. I don't care, my dearest. Kisses her hand. Foe, foe, no, you are rude, because you know one dare not discover you. You do what you will. Hmm, how he kisses one's hand. I warrant he has kissed his bettors. Pray, did you never live in a lady's service? No. Nor do I value any of the sex but your dear self, Mrs. Latice. I would be discovered. I'm in rapture, in a flame. Penelope, within. Who's that? Hest, heest. Could not you have forced the kiss quietly? Madam, madam. Hold me fast. Show the letter, my lady's coming. I tell you, sir, she will receive no message at all. Get you downstairs, you impudent. Hold me faster yet. She loves your master. Enter Penelope and Victoria. What can this mean? What fellers that a-sees to the wench? Madam, madam, he has missed a book with footmen drunk, and has directly stole upstairs with some ill-design I fear on me. It has a letter from his master to your ladyship. Call up the servants. Simon, William, Kate, Alf, I'll have the rascal well blasted for his insolence, served just as his master deserves. Latine, kneeling. Let not those lips, more sweet than labour of high-blain bees, utter a sentence as if a Libyan lioness on a mountain gave thee suck. And thou wert the obdurate offspring of a rock. High-blain, Libyan, obdurate, ridiculous, the fellow has got his master's can't, ha-ha-ha. I'll put him out of it, I'll warrant you. What? Will no one come up there? Enter servants with brooms, etc. Oh, for the force of eloquence to allay and reconcile the passion of this angry mansion, I had like to have said plain house, which had been against the laws of Buskin, in which I would at present talk. Did you ever hear anything like this? Ha-ha-ha. Madam, shall I beat him? Ah, culinary fair, compose thy rage. Thou whose more skillful hand is still employed in offices for the support of nature, descend not from thyself. Thou bright cookmaid, there sunk again. With heightened gusts and quickening tastes, by you what would be labour else is made delight. Thou great robust, let not thy hand all red. Assault to life it should rather preserve. Good madam, excuse me, I can't touch him. I have bowels for him. Ha-ha-ha-ha. I wish I had his learning, I'll warrant he buys in everything wherever he lives. This, madam, this faithful paper tells you the passions of the tenderest heart that ever bled for cruelmaid. Oh, Victoria, did you but hear his sighs, his restless hours? How often he repeats, Victoria. Oh, Victoria, then I find this is none on it meant to my lady, nor to me neither. It is a mass that end men at both rogues. Receive your seasonable epistle now at midnight. He can't mean me. To you he all along addressed. What I could read it without her. To show you I value neither author nor bearer of it. Kick the fellow down. Nay, madam, since matters must come to extremities, I'd rather have the honour of your ladyship's command to be cuddled. By your good family, then, have it from my master. A disappointed lover in his rage will strike stone walls and things inanimate, much more a poor, live footman. Therefore, I must deliver my message. I'll read it to you, ladies, for I see you are friends. Away with him. If the sincerity of my intentions were not get out false wretch, demonstrable in spite of take that these accidents in which I have been involved, I should not dare to tell you how alternately joys, raptures, ecstasies, miseries, doubts and anxieties do attack a breast devoted to you. Others shall injured virtue fly for shelter, when love and honour suffer thus in me. Oh, I could rage, call elements about me, spout cataracts. Must I be drab'd with broom-staves? Exit Latine. Come in, my dear, again. The night is cold. Exit. Line three, Covent Garden. Enter Levmore and Frederick. It is so pleasant tonight that I will see you over the garden to your lodgings. That compliment won't pass upon me. Your reason for soldering this way is that, is near Penelope's. I come for her sake. No. Should she write, beseech, kneel to me? I think I ne'er should value her more. No. I'll be no longer her tool, her jest. She shall not dally with a passion she deserves not. To her very well were this resolution in your power, but believe me, friend, one smile, one glance that were but doubtful, whether favourable, would conquer all your indignation. Faith, I'm afraid what you say is true. Then strive not to be rationally mad, which you attempt if you think you can at once be at your own command and at another's. Would you be master of yourself and have a mistress? But I can rebel against that mistress. Do if you can. Nay, I'm sure it is in your power, because tomorrow morning you are to fight a rival for her. Because though you know she lies backwards, you can't so much as see her chamber window, you must needs walk hither. Well, I protest them of your mind. There is, me thinks, now a particular, amiable gloom about that house. Though perhaps, to ordinary beholders, it is exactly like the others. You are very witty, I must confess, at your friend's follies, Mr. Frederick. I won't then any longer disturb your meditation, but even go home like a dull rogue as I am, and without love enough to any woman, or hatred enough to any man to keep me awake, fall fast asleep. I was going to wish you rest, but you were above all that, if it should rain. I advise you not to forget that it does, but go into the piazza. Exit. It is very well I'm deservedly laughed at, but the door opens. Bookwit's footman. Latine crosses the stage. The master, I suppose, is there, too. I'll watch for his coming out. Morning approaches too slowly. He shall not sleep to-night, except it be for ever. Revenge! Oh, jealousy! Enter Young Bookwit with bottle and glass singing. In city of poor man, that little, little span, though long it can't last for the future and past, is spent with remorse and despair. With such a full glass, let that of life pass, it is made up of trouble, a storm though a bubble. There's no bliss but forgetting your care. I wonder what's become of poor Latine. I wish she had a bumper of this. Drinks. Ah! I have no patience to observe his insolent jollity. How immoderately joyful my misery has made him. Bookwit! Love more! What? Sir! Are you diverting the thought of tomorrow morning's business with midnight riot, or is it an asignation keeps you out of bed thus late? An hour or two till morning is not much in either of our lives, therefore I must tell you now, sir, I am ready for your message. The conscious light and stars are witnesses of— I want no witnesses. I have a sword as you bid me meet you. They draw and fight. Ah! You've done my business! Fools! Then I've done what you desired me, but this is no place for me. Exit. Enter Constable and Watchmen. Where, where was that clash in the swords? Soho, soho, you, sir. What are you, dead? Speak, friend, what are you afraid of? If you are dead, the law can't take hold of you. I beg your pardon, Mr. Constable. He ought, by the law, to be carried to the roundhouse for being dead at this time of night. Then away with him, you three, and you gentlemen, follow me to find out who killed him. Exit. Enter Simon. What's the matter, good gentlemen? What's the matter? Oh, me! Mr. Lovemore killed. Oh, me! My mind gives me that it must be about our young lady. Does it so, sir? Then you must stay with us. Some hold Simon, whilst others carry Lovemore off. Stay with you? Oh, Gemini, indeed I can't. They can't be without me at our house. But they must, friend, harkie, friend. I hope you'll be hanged. I hanged? Pracer, take care of your words. Madam Penelope, our young lady's servant, hanged. Take care of what you say. Enter Latine. Where can this book-wit be gone? Oh, Mr. John, Mr. Lovemore is killed just now, since you went out of our house, and you and your master must have a hand in it. How? Lovemore killed. They seized Latine. Enter others with young bookwit. Hands off, you dirty midnight rascals! Let me go, or— Sir, what were you running so fast for? There's a man killed in the garden, and you're a fine gentleman, and it must be you. For good honest people only beat one another. Nay, nay, we are all in a fair way to be fine gentlemen. Mr. Simon and all. Hands off, rascals. You said just now, do you know what a constable is? The greatest man in the parish, when all the rest are asleep. Come, come, I find they are desperate fellows. Will through the justice incommit them immediately. I'll teach rascals to speak high treason against a petty constable. Exceoned. Enter Frederick and old bookwit. You well may be surprised at my waiting here for your coming home. But you'll pardon me, since it is to ease me of an anxiety that keeps me waking. I should be very glad if I'm capable of doing that. You knew my Tom at Oxford, and I believe we're not so hard a student, but you made some acquaintance in the town. Therefore pray tell me, do you know Mr. Newton there, his family, descent, and fortune? What, new town? I'll tell you, sir, what you young fellows take most notice of old ones for, a token that you needs must know him by. He's the father of the fair Matilda, your celebrated beauty of that town. I assure you, sir, I never heard of the father or daughter to this instant, therefore I'm confident there is no such beauty. Ah, sir, I know your drift, your tender of informing me for my son's sake. He told me all himself. I know all the progress of his love with the young lady, how he was taken in the night in her bed-chamber by his pistol going off, the family disturbance that was raised upon it, which he composed by marrying. I know it all. Is Tom Bookwit then married at Oxford? He is indeed, sir. Therefore our affairs are now so linked that will be an ill office, both to the Newtons and to us, to conceal anything from me that relates to them. A man can't be said to conceal what he does not know, but it seems it was Mr. Bookwit gave you this account himself. Yes, sir, I told you, sir, I had it from himself. And I'm sure there was nothing left out. He never tells a story by a haves. Why, then, you think my son's a liar? Oh, fi, sir, but he enlivens a mere narration with variety of accidents. To be plain, his discourse gains him more applause than credit. You could not, I believe, have married your son to a less expensive lady in England than this Mrs. Matilda. I'll be sworn you'll avoid all the charges of gay dress, high play and stately childbirth. Do you understand me, sir? I never could see anything in my son that's disingenuous, to put his age and father to this shame. Never fret or grieve for it. He told Lovemore this morning such a relation of his feasting ladies. And I know not what that he has brought a tilt upon his hands tomorrow morning. Therefore keep him at home. I'll to his adversary. So we'll convince him of a fault which he has so ill, though not intended, consequences. You'll highly oblige me, sir. I'll trouble you no longer. Exeunt. Scene 4 Newgate Young Bookwit, Latine, Simon, Storm, with the crowd of jailbirds. I apprehend, sir, by Mr. Turnkey, the gentleman there with a broken nose, that you're brought in for murder. I on ease, sir. I don't question, but was done like a gentleman. I hope it will appear so. I come, I fear, sir, to your acquaintance with some prejudice, because you see me thus in irons. But affliction is the portion of the virtuous and the gallant. It does not depress, sir, but manifest the brave. Right, sir, I find your noble. You may perhaps have heard of me. My name is Storm. This person, my friend, who is called Faggott, and myself, being exposed by an ungrateful world to feel its cruelty and contempt of ragged virtue, made war upon it, and in open day infested their high road. Your humble servant, gentlemen, had you conceived your, your spirits could not stoop to barter on the change, to sneer in courts, to lie, to flatter, or to creep for bread. You, therefore, chose rather to pray like lions, than to betray like crocodiles, or fall like dogs. You took upon you to interrupt the commerce of a cheating world, to unload the user of his anxious pelf, and save the thoughtless, landed boy he travelled to undo, with a thousand such good actions. By which means you, too, are infamous, for what two millions of you had been glorious. Right, sir, I see your knowing, sir, and learned in man. This gentleman, Mr. Charcoal, the chemist, was our sacred correspondent, and as we never robbed a poor man, so he never cheated a fool, but still imposed on your most sprightly wits and genius fellows of fire and metal, whose quick fancies and eager wishes formed reasons for their undoing. He is a follower of the great Raimundus Luleus. The public think to frighten him into their own purposes, but he'll leave the ungrateful world without the secret. You know, sir, he that first asserted the antipodes died for that knowledge, and I, sir, having found out the merely a ration of metals, the ignorant will needs call it coining, and am I to be hanged for it, would you think it? When, pray, sir, are you to be immortal? On Friday next. I'm very unhappy our acquaintance is to be short. I'm very sorry your business is not over, sir, that if it must be we might go together. I'm highly obliged to you, sir. But let me tell you, sir, because by secret sympathy I'm yours. I must acquaint you, if you can obtain the favour of an opportunity and a crucible. I can show projection. Directly sol, sir, sol, sir, more bright than that high luminary the Latin's called so. Wealth shall be yours. We'll tone each bar about us into golden ingots. Sir, can you lend me half a cram? Oh, sir, a trifle between such old acquaintance. You'll be indicted, sir, to-morrow. I would advise you, when your indictments read, to one thing, that is, don't cavill at false Latin, but if by chance there should be a word of good, accept to that, and puzzle the whole court. Sir, I'm obliged. I defy the world to say I ever did an ill thing. I love my friend. But there is always some little trifle given to prisoners they call Garnish. We of the road are above it, but at the other side of the house, silly rascals that came voluntarily hither, such as I in for fools, signed their own mitimus in being bound for others, may perhaps want it. I'll be your faithful almoner. Oh, by all means, sir. Gives him money. Pray, sir, is that your footman? He is my friend, sir. Look you, sir. The only time to make use of a friend is in extremity. Do you think you could not hang him and save yourself? Sir, my service to you. Your own health. Captain, your elf. Gives it to the next prisoner. Captain, your elf. But perhaps the captain likes Brandy better. So ho, Brandy, there. Drinks. But you don't perhaps like these strong liquors. Cider, ho. Drinks to him in it. Gentlemen, all. But captain, I say you don't love Cider neither. You and I will be for Claret then. Aye, Mary, I knew this would please. Drinks. You. Drinks again. Faith, we'll make an end on it. I'm glad you like it. I'm sorry, Captain Storm, to see you impose on a gentleman and put him to charge in his misfortune. If a petty larceny fellow had done this, but one of the road. I beg your pardon, sir. I don't question, but the captain understands there is a fee for you going to the keeper's side. Book which and Latine give him money, exeunt with turnkey, Simon following. Nay, nay, you must stay here. Why, I am Simon, Madame Penelope's man. Then Madame Penelope's man must strip for garnish. Indeed, Master Simon, you must. Thieves, thieves, thieves. Thieves, thieves. Why, you senseless dog, do you think there's thieves in Newgate, away with him to the tap house? Pushes him off. We'll drink his coat off. Come, my little chemist, thou shalt transmute this jacket into liquor, liquor that will make us forget the evil day. And while the day is ours, let us be merry, for little villains must submit to fate that great ones may enjoy the world in state. Exeunt. End of Act Four. Act Five of The Lying Lover or The Lady's Friendship by Richard Steele. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act the Fifth. Scene One, Newgate. Young Buckwit discovered on a couch a sleep, Latine looking on him. Thou quietly he rests, O that I could, by watching him, hanging thus over him, and feeling all his care, protract his sleep. O sleep, thou sweetest gift of heaven to man! Still in thy downy arms embraced my friend, nor loose him from his inexistent trance, to sense of yesterday and pain of being. In thee oppressors sooth their angry brow. In thee the oppressed forget tyrannic power. In thee the wretch condemned is equal to his judge, and the sad lover to his cruel fair, nay, all the shining glories men pursue, when thou art wanted, are but empty noise. Who then would court the pomp of guilty power, when the mind sickens at the weary show, and dies to temporary death, for ease, when half our life's cessation of our being? He wakes, how do I pity that returning life, which I could hazard thousands lives to save? How heavily do I awake this morning, o this senseless drinking, to suffer a whole week's pain for an hour's jollity, me think's my senses are burning round me, I have but interrupted hints of the last night. Ha! In a jail, oh, I remember, I remember, oh, love more, love more, I remember. You must have patience, and bear it like a man. Oh, withers shall I run to avoid myself. Why all these bars, these built-in iron gates, they're needless to secure me. Here, here's my rack, my jail, my torture, oh, I can't bear it, I cannot bear the rushing of new thoughts. Fancy expends my senses to distraction, and my soul's dretches to that boundless space to which I've sent my wretched, wretched friend. Oh, Latine, Latine, is all our mirth and humour come to this? Give me that bosom, close in thy bosom, hide me from thy eyes. I cannot bear their pity or reproach. Dear Bookwit, how heartily I love you. I don't know what to say. But pray, have patience. If you can't bear my pain, that's but communicated by your pity. How shall I my proper inborn woe, my wounded mind? In all assaults of fortune that should be serene, not in the power of accident or chance. Words, words, all that is but mere talk. Perhaps indeed, to undeserved affliction, reason and argument may give relief, or in the known vicissitudes of life we may feel comfort by our self-persuasion. But, oh, there is no taking away guilt. This divine particle will ache forever. There is no help, but whence I dare not ask. When this material organ is indisposed, Juleps can cool and anodynes give rest. But nothing mix with this celestial drop, but dew from that high heaven of which tis part. May that high heaven compose your mind and reconcile you to yourself. How can I hope it? No. I must descend from man, grovel on earth, no dare look up again. Oh, love more, love more, where is he now? Oh, thinking, thinking, why didst thou not come sooner, oh, not now? My thoughts do so confuse me now. As my fallen pleasures did before this fatal accident, that I cannot recollect whence love more was provoked to challenge me. You know, dear Bookwit, I feared some ill from a careless way of talking. But alas, I dreamt not of so great a— Aye, there it was. He was naturally a little jealous. Heavens, do I say he was? I talked to him of ladys, treats, and he might possibly believed was where he had engaged. I remember his serious behaviour on that subject. Oh, this unhappy tongue of mine! Thou lawless, voluble, destroying foe, that still runs on nor waits command of reason. Oh, I could tear thee from me! Did you not expostulate before the action? He would have done it, but I, flushed with the thoughts of dueling, pressed on. Thus, for the empty praise of fools, I'm solidly unhappy. You take it too deeply. Your honour was concerned. Honour! The horrid application of that sacred word to a revenge against friendship, law, and reason is the damned last shift of the damned envious foe of human race. The routed fiends projected this, but since the expanse of glorious law from heaven came down, forgive. Enter turnkey. Gentlemen, I come to tell you that you have the favour to be carried in chairs to your indictment, to which you must go immediately. We are ready, sir. How shall I bear the eyeshort of the crowd and courts? Excellent. In two, Frederick's lodgings. Enter Lovemore in a sergeant's gown, and Frederick. Oh! Mankind is infinitely beholden to this noble styptic that could produce such wonderful effect so suddenly. But though my wound was very slight, I am weak by the effusion of so much blood. But after all, you have not lost enough to cool your passion. Your heart still beats Penelope, Penelope. But in this disguise you have opportunity for observation. You'll see whether you ought still to value her or not. I'm glad you thought of being broad hither as soon as you came to yourself. I expect old Bookwit every moment here. Enter Old Bookwit. There he is. Mr. Frederick. Too late. Too late was our care. They met last night, and then the fatal act was done. You'll excuse, sir, a father's sorrow. I can't speak much, but you may guess what I hope from you. You may depend on ingenuous usage in this prosecution. I'm going instantly to Penelope's with this learned gentleman to know what she can say to this matter. I desired you, in the note I sent you, to purchase the favour of your son's being broad hither, where he and you may be witness of what shall pass. I seek not his blood, nor would neglect it justice to my deceased friend. I believe my son and the rest are going thither ere this, and I desire this worthy sergeant's favour and advice, since we both mean the same thing, only to act with honour if his life may be saved. I'll do what's just to the deceased and the survivor. I'll leave you, but we'll take care to come in just before the criminals arrive. Exit. The poor old gentleman. Prithee, let's go. I long to see my lovely torment, Penelope. I'll but leave word within. Exit. Seen three, Penelope's lodgings. Enter Penelope and Victoria. It seems Simon lay out all night, and was carried away by the watch with some gentleman in a quarrel. I fancy the men who are always for showing their valor are like the women who are always talking of their chastity, because they are conscious of their defect in it. Right, for we are not apt to raise arguments but about what we think is disputable. Aye, aye, they whose honour is a sore part are more fearful of being touched than they in whom tis only a tender one. But tell me honestly, Penelope, should poor Lovamore be in this room counter, and that for your sake, would it have no effect upon you in his favour? I don't know how to answer you, but I find something in that reflection which equates me tis very hard for one to know one's own heart. So is. However, let your heart answer me one question more, as well as it can. Does it love me as well as ever it did? Does not, madam, that question proceed from a change in your own. It does, Penelope, I own it does. I had a long conflict with myself on my pillow last night. What were your thoughts there? That I owed it to our friendship, to acknowledge to you that all the pleasure I once had anew is vanished. Ah, Penelope, I'm sorry for every good quality you have. Since you are so frank, I must confess to you something very like this. But, however I envied that sprightly, ingenuous, native beauty of yours, I see it now so much the figure of your mind that I can conquer, I think I can, any inclination in myself that opposes the happiness of so sincere a friend. Explain yourself, my dear. I'll discounten this book with ambiguous addresses, and if Lovamore can forgive my late ill usage, I need say no more. Enter Servant. Mr. Frederick below desires to see you on some extraordinary business. I have not time, my dearest friend, to applaud or thank you, but must run in. He comes from Lovamore, remember? Exit. Let him come up. Now can't I for my life, or bear a little tyranny? Enter Frederick and Lovamore. Good morrow, sir. I believe I know your business. You're officious for your friend. But I am deaf. I know you are, and have been. But I come only to do him a last office. He'll trouble you no more. But I must conjure you to read this, and inform this learned gentleman what you know of this misfortune. Penelope. Reading. Your cruelty provoked me to desire the favour of dying by Mr. Biquett's hand. Since he had taken from me more than life in robbing me of you. Farewell for ever. I direct Frederick not to give you this till I am no more. Written in his blood till I am no more. Love more no more. Thou shalt not be no more. Thou shalt live here forever. Hear, thou dearest paper, mingle with my life's stream. Either the paper bleeds new, or my eyes weep blood. So let him do for ever. Oh, my love more! Did the vanity of a prating boy banish thy solid services and manly love? This is no reparation to him for his lost life, nor me for my lost friend. Yet when you please to receive him, I am obliged to deliver you some papers, wherein he has given you all the fortune he could bestow, nor would revoke it, even thus injured as he was. Curse on all wealth and fortune. He has gone who only deserved all, and whose worth I know too late. Love more to Frederick. Oh, ecstasy! Why was I angry at her rejoicing at my sorrow when hers to me is such perfect bliss? Does barbarous not discover myself? Frederick to Lovemore. Do, and be used barbarously. But, madam, you must be composed. Your life, for art I know, is at stake. For there is no such thing as accessories and murder, and it can be proved you knew of Lovemore's threatening to fight Bookwit. You must either take your trial yourself, or be Mr. Bookwit's witness. I his witness. No, I'll swear anything to hang him. Ah, madam, you must consider yourself, however. Cray, sir, read her indictment to her. Lovemore reading. That, on the said third day of April, the said Penelope, of the parish of St. Martin's in the fields, spinced her without fear before her eyes, but by the instigation of the devil and through an evil pride of heart. Oh, just too true! A bribe, a bet, and consent to the death of John Lovemore, a squire of the age of twenty-eight years, or their bouts. I can't hear the mention of him without tears. He was the sincerest friend. I think I have seen him. He was, I've heard, a man of honesty, but of something a disagreeable make. Oh, sir, you never saw him, if you think so. John was as free as his mind was honest. No had he imperfection, but his love of me. Weeps. Lovemore to Frederick. I tremble, I shall disablige her too much. Frederick to Lovemore. You shan't discover yourself. You shall go through her soul, now tis moved on your side. Win her now, or see my face no more. I'll not have my wine spoiled every night with your recitals of love and asking advice, though you never mean to take it like a true lover. When did that bastard man expire, good Mr. Frederick? This morning. But should I speak the manner? With the faint, dying voice he called me to him. I went in tenderness to take my long farewell. He, in a last effort of nature, pressed me to his breast, and with the softest accent, sighed in death, panellope. Oh, the two generous man, ungrateful eye! Curses on him first fluttered with his tongue, on her that first assembled in her silence. What miseries have they entailed on life to bring in fraud and diffidence of love? Simplicity is the dress of honest passion. Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured, that at her feet effuses all his soul, must women called appear, forced to herself and him? Frederick, to love more. Do you see there? You'd have spoke before she considered that. Oh, could I see him now? Depress his livid lips, and call him back to life with my complaints. His eyes would glare upon my guilt with horror that used to gloat and melt in love before me. Let mine forever then be shut to joy, to all that's bright and valuable in man. Isle to his sacred ashes be a wife, and to his memory devote my life. Exit. This is worth dying for indeed. I'll follow her. No, you shant. Let her go in, throw herself upon her bed and hug, and call her pillow love more. This is what you've done a thousand times for her. That's true, too. Let her contemplate on the mischief of a vanity. She shall lament to her glasses of our side, till its pretty eyes be all blubbered, its heart must heave and pant with perfect anguish before it will feel the sorrow of another's. Don't you know pride scorn affectation, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away before a great beauty's mortified to purpose? Enter Servant. Old Mr. Bookwit inquires for you here, Mr. Frederick. Pray, let him come up. Enter Old Bookwit. What's the matter? You seem more discomposed than you were at Mr. Frederick's. Something still new. I saw the boy a coming in the chair. He looks so languid and distressed, poor lad. He has all his mother's softness, by nature of the sweetest disposition. Oh, gentlemen, you know not what it is to be a father, to see my only child in that condition. My grief quickened at the sight of him. I thought I could have patience till I saw him. Enter Servant. There are two or three in chairs desire admittance by appointment. It is right, sir. Enter Young Bookwit, Latine, and Jailer. Oh, my dear child! Oh, Tom! Are all thy aged father's hopes then come to this, that he can't see thee his only son, but guarded by a jailer? Thy mother's happy that lived not to see this day. Is all the nurture that she gave thy infancy, the erudition she bequeath thy youth thus answered? Oh, my son! My son, rise and support thy father. I sink with tenderness my child. Come to my arms while thou art mine. The best of fathers! Let me not see your tears. Don't double my afflictions by your woe. There's consolation when a friend laments us, but when a parent grieves, the anguish is too native, too mutter-owned to be called pity. Oh, sir, consider. I was born to die. Tis but expanding thought, and life is nothing. Ages and generations pass away, and with resistless force, like waves or waves, roll down the irrevocable stream of time into the insatiate ocean for ever. Thus we are gone. But the erroneous sense of man, tis the lamented that's at rest, but the survivor mourns. All my sorrows vanish with that thought, but heaven grant my aged father patience. Oh, child! Turning away. Do not torment yourself. You shall promise not to grieve. What if they do abrade you with my death? Consider, sir, in death that our relation ceases. Nor shall I want your care, or know your grief. It matters not whether by law or nature tis I die. What? Won't my father hear me pleading? Don't turn from me. Yet don't look at me with your soul so full. Oh, my child! My child! I could hear thee ever. Twas that I love thee that I turn away. To hear my son persuade me to resign him, I can't. I can't. The grief is insupportable. You make a coward of me with your anguish. I grow an infant. Scares can weep with silence. But let me keep some decency in my distress. If we might be apart. Looking after company. But that's too much to hope. No, no. We'll leave you to yourselves. Exceunt. I have too much upon me, child, to speak. And indeed have nothing to say, but to feed my eyes upon thee every part forever, if tears would let me. When you have slept in your cradle, I have waked for you. And was it to this end? Oh, child! You've broke your father's heart. Swings. Good heaven forbid it. Guard him and protect him. He faints. He's cold. He's gone. Running to him. He's gone. And with his last breath called me parasite. You've broke your father's heart. Oh, killing sound. I'm all contagion. To pity me is death. My griefs to all are mortal, but myself. You've broke your father's heart. If I did so, why the serene in death, thou smiling clay? Why that con aspect to thy murderer? Oh, big, unutterable grief. Merciful heaven. I don't deserve this ease of tears to meld with penitence. Oh, sweet, sweet remorse. Thou all my powers give way to my just sorrow for the best of fathers. Thou venerable fountain of my life. Why don't I also die derived from thee? Sure you are not con. Is the way out of life thus easy? Would you so much fear in me? Takes him by the hand. Why stay I after? But I deserve to stay, to feel the quick remembrance of my follies. It is my size, my tears, my anguish kind of tone. Re-enter Frederick, Lovemore, Latine, Jailer, Victoria and Penelope. What is the matter? What? Behold this sight. I am the guilty wretch. Keep aside a little, sir. He only swoons, I hope. I think he breathes. Yes, he returns. You must compose yourself. Poor Bookwit, how utterly he seems distressed. I will be calm, resigned to heaven, and hear you patiently. You, sir, his favourite servant, pray speak honestly of truth of what you know of this learned gentleman, who is counsel in this case. Sir, he is not. Pray, sir, give the servant leave first. No, then. I am not what I seem, but a gentleman of a plentiful fortune. I am thus dressed to carry on such gay pursuits as should offer in this town. Not to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last night with a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as I crossed, I saw Lovemore in the garden. He stopped me, and after some questions concerning my message to this house, to which he did not like my answers, he struck me. We fought. I left him dead upon the spot, of which this gentleman is guiltless. Oh, was it you, then, that killed Mr. Lovemore? It was this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked. Who could believe that any pleasing passion could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine? But all my mind is seized with admiration of thy stupendous friendship. What, then, couldst thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar with felons to save thy friend? How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture? Ah, sir, believe him not. He cannot bear the loss of me whom he overvalues. Therefore, with highest gallantry, he offers a benefit which toer the meanest baseness to receive. But death's more welcome than a life so purchased. We all know you can talk and guild things as you please, but the lady's servant knows I was taken near the body when you— Sir, do but hear me. Pushing away Latine. I'll easily convince you. Pushing away Buckwit. Pray mind him not. His brain is touched. I am the man he was not near the place. I can hold out no longer. Lovemore still lives to adore your noble friendship and begs a share in it. Be not amazed, but let me grasp you both who, in an aged degenerate as this, have such transcendent virtue. Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! How shall I speak my joy thy recovery? I fail beneath the too ecstatic pleasure. What help has human nature from its sorrows when our relief itself is such a burden? Oh, the best burden upon earth! I beg your pardon, sir. I never was so taken with a man in my life at first sight. Kisses, Lovemore. To Latine. Let me be known to you, too. Sir, you do me honour. But you, ladies, are the first cause of the many errors we have been in, who only can extricate us with satisfaction, such is the force of beauty. The wounds the sword gave this gentleman was slight, but you've transfixed a vital and a noble part, his heart. Had I known his pretenses, I had not interposed for my son. Come, madam, no more of the cruel. Go on. Lovemore, o' my conscience, the man's afraid to his impudence to be alive again. You see him now, madam. Now you may press his livid lips and call him back to life with your complaints. I stand, me thinks, on the brink of fate, in an ambiguous interval of life, and doubt to accept of being till you smile. In every human incident besides, I am superior, and can choose or leave, but in the minutest things that touch my love, my bosom seized with anguish, or with transport. You've shown your passion to me with such honour, that if I am confused, I know where should not be, to say I approve it. For I know no rule should make me insensible of generous usage. My person and my mind are yours for ever. Then doubts and fears and anxious cares be gone, all ye black thoughts that did corrode my breast, hear and to faith and confidence and love, love that can't live with jealousy, but dwells with sacred marriage, truth and mutual honour. I knew not where you would bestow your vows, but never doubted of your faith when given. Kissing Her Hand You see, my son, how constancy is rewarded. You have from nature every quality to make you well to become what fortune gave you, but neither wit nor beauty, wealth nor courage implicitly deserve the world's esteem. They're only in their application good. Did you find a man you knew not why? You don't think that is great merely to dare? Tis that a man is just he should be bold. Indeed, you've erred. You give, my friend, my thanks, too much compunction for a little levity in his actions when he's too severe in his own reflections on him. Well, Victoria, you see I take your advice at last in choice of love war. I congratulate your missing of the other. I heartily believe you, my dear friend. But we best guide our actions by hope of reward. Good, but my son have such glorious prospect as this fair one. To Victoria. I doubt not, but his future carriage would deserve her. I believe I may safely promise to approve of all the truth he tells me. You've promised then to like all I shall say. These unexpected good events deserve our celebration with some mirth and fiddles. I foresaw this happy turn. Therefore have prepared them. Call in the dancers. The rolling years the joys restore, which happy, happy Britain knew, when in a female age before beauty the sword of justice drew. Nymphs and fawns and rural powers of crystal floods and shady bowers no more shall here preside. The flowing wave and living green owe only to their present queen, their safety and their pride. United air and pleasures bring of tender note and tuneful string. All your arts devoted are to move the innocent and fair. While they receive the pleasing wound, echo repeats the dying sand. Since such deserved misfortunes they must share. Who with gay falsehoods entertain the fair? Let all with this just maxim guide their youth. There is no gallantry in love but truth. Excellent. Epilogue Our two adventurous author soared tonight above the little praise, mirth to excite, and chose with pity to chastise the light. For laughter's a distorted passion born of sudden self-esteem and sudden scorn, which went this over the men in pleasure-wise, both him that moved it and themselves despise, while generous pity of a painted woe makes us ourselves both more approve and know. What is that touch within which nature gave for man to man air fortune made a slave? Sure it descends from that dread power alone, who levels thunder from his awful throne, and shakes both worlds, yet hears the wretched groan. Tis what the ancient sage could never define, wandered and called part human part divine. Tis that pure joy which guardian angels know when timely they assist their care below. When they the good protect the ill oppose, tis what our sovereign feels when she bestows, which gives her glorious cause such high success that only on the stage you see distress. End of Act Five End of The Lying Lover or The Lady's Friendship by Richard Steele