 Act one 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. The Lying Lover or The Lady's Friendship. Heik Nosse Salus est Arolesien Tullius, Tertullian. The Lying Lover or The Lady's Friendship, a comedy, was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on December 2, 1703 and ran for six nights. It was published by Bernard Linto on January 26, 1704. Wilkes, Buckwick Jr. Mills, Lovemore Sibur, Latine Pinkethman, Storm and Bullock, Charcoal together with Mrs. Oldfield, Victoria and Mrs. Rogers, Penelope acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has been revived only once, April 4, 1746, since it was originally produced. The plot was taken from Le Mentur by Cornet, who had borrowed from Vruit de Alarcorn's Verdade Sospecosa. Steele is, of course, solely responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards the end of the piece. Samuel Foote, afterwards, made much use of Steele's play in his Lawyer. To his Grace, the Duke of Ormond My Lord, out of gratitude to the memorable and illustrious patron of my infancy, your Grace's grandfather, I presume to lay this comedy at your feet. The design of it is to banish out of conversation all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity of mind, good nature, friendship and honour. Such a purpose will not, I hope, be unacceptable to so great a lover of mankind as your Grace, and if your patronage can recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world itself. It was the irresistible force of dishumanity in your temper that has carried you through the various successes of war, with the peculiar and undisputed distinction that you have drawn your sword without other motive than a passionate regard for the glory of your country. Since before you entered into its service you were possessed of its highest honours, but could not be contented with the illustrious rank your birth gave you without repeating the glorious actions by which it was acquired. But there cannot be less expected from the son of an usury than to contend life, to adorn it, and with munificence, affability, scorn of gain and passion for glory, to be the honour and example to the profession of arms, all which engage in qualities your noble family has exerted with so steadfast the loyalty that in the most adverse fortune of our monarchy, popularity, which in others has been invidious, was a security to the crown when lodged in the house of Ormond. Thus your Grace entered into the business of the world with so great an expectation that it seemed impossible there could be anything left which might still conduce to the honour of your name. But the most memorable advantage your country has gained this century was obtained under your command, and Providence thought fit to give the wealth of the Indies into his hands who only could despise it, while with its superior generosity he knows no reward but in opportunities of bestowing. The great personage whom you succeed in your honours made me feel before I was sensible of the benefit that this glorious bent of mind is hereditary to you. I hope therefore you will pardon me that I take the liberty of expressing my veneration for his remains by assuring your Grace that I am, my Lord, your Grace's most obedient and most devoted humble servant, Richard Steele. The Preface Though it ought to be the care of all governments that public representations should have nothing in them but what is agreeable to the manners, laws, religion and policy of the place or nation in which they are exhibited, yet it is the general complaint of the more learned and virtuous amongst us that the English stage has extremely offended in this kind. I thought therefore it would be an honest ambition to attempt a comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a Christian commonwealth. In order to this, the spark of display is introduced with as much agility and life as he brought with him from France and as much humour as I could bestow upon him in England. But he used the advantages of a learned education, a ready fancy and a liberal fortune without the circumspection and good sense which should always attend to the pleasures of a gentleman, that is to say a reasonable creature. Thus he makes false love, gets drunk and kills his man, but in the fifth act awakes from his debauch with the compunction and remorse which is suitable to a man's finding himself in a jail for the death of his friend without his knowing why. The anguish he there expresses and the mutual sorrow between an only child and a tender father in that distress are perhaps an injury to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of morality. And passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer draw occasions of mirth from those images which the religion of our country tells us we ought to tremble at with horror. But her most excellent majesty has taken the stage into her consideration and we may hope by her gracious influence on the muses which will recover from its apostasy and that by being encouraged in the interests of virtue it will strip vice of the gay habit in which it has too long appeared and close it in its native dress of shame, contempt and dishonour. Prologue. All the commanding powers that all mankind are in a trembling poet's audience joined were such bright galaxies of beauty sit, and at their feet assembled men of wit. Our author therefore owns his deep despair to entertain the learned or the fair, yet hopes that both will so much be his friends to pardon what he does for what he intends. He aims to make the coming action move on the dread laws of friendship and of love. Sure, then he'll find but very few severe, since there's of both so many objects here. He offers no gross vices to your sight, those too much horror race for just delight, and to detain the attentive knowing ear, pleasure must still have something that's severe. If then you find our author treads to stage with just regard to a reforming age, he hopes, he humbly hopes you'll think there's two mercy to him for justice done to you. Dermatis Persona. Old Bookwit. Read by Todd. Young Bookwit. The Lying Lover. Read by Thomas Peter. Love More. In Love with Penelope. Read by Aaron White. Frederick. Friend to Love More. Read by Major Toast. Latine. Friend to Young Bookwit. Read by Lex Hankins. Storm the Highwayman. Read by Beth Thomas. Charcoal. An Alchemist and Coiner. Read by Son of the Exiles. Simon. Servant to Penelope. Read by Alan Mapstone. Penelope. Read by Liania. Victoria. Friend to Penelope. Read by Campbell Shelp. Betty. Victoria's Woman. Read by Devorah Allen. Ratis. Penelope's Woman. Read by Sonia. Servant. Read by Larry Wilson. Maid. Read by Nikalia. Constable. Read by Larry Wilson. Watchman. Read by April. 6-0-9-0. First Prisoner. Read by Benny. Second Prisoner. Read by Sandra Schmidt. Turnkey. Read by Neema. Jailer. Read by Peter Strom. Chairman. Read by Neema. Mr. Leverage. A professional singer. Read by Alan Mapstone. Stage Directions. Read by Phone. Scene London. The Lying Lover or The Lady's Friendship. Act the First. Scene One. St. James's Park. Enter Young Buckwit and Latine. But have you utterly left Oxford? Forever, sir. Forever. Father has given me leave to come to town, and I don't question but will let my return be in my own choice. But, Jack, you know we were talking in Maudlin Walks last week of the necessity and intrigues of a faithful yet a prating servant. We agreed, therefore, to cast lots who should be the other's footmen for the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, gave me the superiority. Ha! She shall be called no more so for that one action. And I am, sir, in a literal sense your very humble servant. Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and flatter me egregiously. Has a fellow fitted me? How is my manner? My mean? Do I move freely? Have I kicked off the trammels of a gown? Or does not the tail-on seem still tucked under my arm where my hat is, with a pert jerk forward and a little hitch in my gait like a scholastic bow? This wig, I fear, looks like a cap. No, Faith, it looks like a cap and gown, too, though at the same time you look as if you near had worn either. But my sword, does it hang careless? Do I look bold, negligent, and erect? That is, do I look as if I could kill a man without being out of humour? I hoardedly mistrust myself. Am I military enough in my air? I fancy people see I understand Greek. Don't I pour a little in my visage? Haven't I a down bookish lower, a wise sadness? I don't look gay enough and unthinking I fancy. I protest you wrong yourself. You look very brisk and very ignorant. Oh, fie! I'm afraid you flatter me. I don't indeed. I'll be hanged if my tutor would know either of us. But, good master, to what use do you design to put the noble arts and sciences he taught us? The conduct of our lives, the government of our passions, were his daily talk to us, good man. Why, I'll obey his precepts, but a bridgium. For as he used to advise me, I'll contract my thoughts, as I'll tell you, Jack. For the passions, I'll turn them all into that one dear passion-love. And when that's the only torch of my heart, I'll give that tortured heart quite away, deny there's any such thing as pain, and turn stoic a shorter way than ere thy tutor taught thee. This is the new philosophy, you rogue you. But you would not in earnest be thought wholly illiterate. No. For as when I walk, I'd have you know by my motion I can dance. So when I speak, I'd have you see I read. Yet would ornarily neither cut capers nor talk sentences. But you prayt as if I came to town to get an employment. No. Hang business. Hang care. Let it live and prosper among the men. I'll ne'er go near the solemn, ugly things again. I'll keep company with none but ladies. Bright ladies. Oh, London. London. Oh, woman. Woman. I am come without livest, without shyness. Hey, Day. Why, were there no women in Oxford? No, no. Why, do you think a bed-maker's a woman? Yes, and I thought you knew it. No, no. It is no such thing. It is he that is not honest or brave as no man, so she that is not witty or fair is no woman. No, no, Jack. To come up to that high name and object of desire, she must be gay and chaste. She must at once attract and banish you. I don't know how to express myself, but a woman, me thinks, is a being between us and angels. She has something in her that at the same time gives awe and invitation. And I swear to you I was never out in't yet, but I always judged of men as I observed they judged of women. There is nothing shows a man so much as the object of his affections. But what do you stare at so considerably? Faith, sir, I am wondering at you, how, as possible, you could be so jaunty a town-spark in a moment and have so easy a behaviour. I look, me thinks, to you, as if I were really your footman. Why, if you're serious in what you say, I owe it wholly to the indulgence of an excellent father, in whose company I was always free and unconstrained. But what's this to ladies, Jack, to ladies? I was going to tell you I had studied them, and know how to make my approaches to them by contemplating their frame, their inmost temper. I don't ground my hopes on the scandalous tales and opinions your wild fellows have of them, fellows that are but mere bodies, machines, which at best can but move gracefully. No, I draw my pretenses from philosophy, from nature. To give us by and by a lecture over your mistress, you can dissect her. That I can indeed, and have so accurately observed on woman, that I can know her mind by her eye as well as her doctor shall her health by her pulse. I can read approbation through a glance of disdain. I can see when the soul is divided by a sparkling tear that twinkles and betrays the heart. The sparkling tears address and livery of love, of love made up of hope and fear, of joy and grief. But what have the whores to do with all this? Why must you needs commence soldier all of a sudden? What not a taking compliment with my college face and phrase to a cost to lady? Madam, I bring your ladyship alone at heart, one newly come from the university. If you want definitions, axioms and arguments, I am an able schoolman. I've read Aristotle twice over, compared his jarring commentators too, examined all the famous peripatetics. Though where the scotis and the nominals differ, this certainly must needs enchant a lady. This is too much on the other side. The name of soldier bids you better welcome. It is valour and feats done in the field a man should be cried up for, nor is it so hard to achieve. The fame of it, you mean? Yes, and that will serve. It is but looking big, bragging with an easy grace, and confidently mustering up in hundred hard names they understand not. Thunder out, Viroe, Catinan, Boufflé, speak of strange towns and castles, whose barbarous names, the harsher there to the air, the rarer and more taking. Still running over lines, trenches, outworks, counterscarps and forts, citadels, mines, countermines, procuring, pioneers, sentinels, patrols and others without sense or order. That matters not. The women are amazed. They admire to hear you wrap them out so readily, and many a one that went no farther for it, retailing handsomely some warlike terms, passes for a brave fellow. Don't stand gaping, but live and learn, my lad. I can tell the ten thousand arts to make thee known and valued in these regions of wit and gallantry. The park, the playhouse. Now you put me in mind where we are. What have we to do here thus early? Now there's no company. Oh, sir, I have put on so much of the soldier with my red coat that I came here to observe the ground I am to engage upon. Here must I act, I know, some lovers' part, and therefore come to view this pleasant walk. I privately rambled to town life November. Here, I here, I stood and gazed at high moor till I forgot it was winter. So many pretty sheaves marched by me. Oh, to see the dear things drip, trip along and breathe so short, nipped with the season. I saw the very air not without force leave their dear lips. They were intolerably handsome. You'll see perhaps such today, but how to come at them? Aye, there's it, how to come at them. Are you generous? I think I am no-niggered. You must entertain them high and bribe all about them. They talk of Ovan and his art of loving, be liberal, and you outdo his precepts. The art of love, sir, is the art of giving. And women, they'll be free to you. Not every open-headed fellow hits it neither. Some give by lap-fuls, and yet nare oblige. The manner, you know, of doing a thing is more than the thing itself. Some drop a jewel, which had been refused if bluntly offered. Some lose at play when they design a present. Right. The skill is to be generous and seem not to know it of yourself, till it's done with so much ease. But a liberal blockhead presents his mistress as he'd give an alms. Leaving such blockheads to their deserved ill fortune, tell me if thou knowest these ladies. Oh, not I, sir. They are above an academic, converse many degrees. I've seen ten thousand verses writ in the university on wenches not fit to be either of their handmaids. I never spoke to such a fine thing as either in my whole life. I'm downright asleep a sudden. I must fall back, and glad it is my place to do so. Yet I can get you intelligence, perhaps. I'll to the footman. Do you think you'll tell? He would not to you, perhaps, but to a brother footman. Do but listen at the entrance of the mall at noon, and you'll have all the ladies' characters in town among their lackeys. You know all fame begins from our domestics. That was a wise man's observation. Follow him, and know what you can. Exit Latine. Enter Penelope, Victoria, Simon, and Latisse. A walk round would be too much for us. We'll keep them all. But, to our talk, I must confess I have terrors when I think of marrying Lovemore. He is indeed a man of an honest character. He has my good opinion, but Love does not always follow that. He is so wise a fellow, always so precisely in the right, so observing, and so jealous. He's blameless indeed, but not to be commended. What good he has has no grace in it. He's one of those who's never highly moved except to anger. Give me a man that is agreeable fault rather than offensive virtues. Offensive virtues, madam? Yes, I don't know how. There's a sort of virtue, or prudence, or what you'll call it, that we can but just approve. That does not win us. Lovemore wants that fire, that conversation spirit I would have. They say he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that. I'm sure he's no women's scholar. His wisdom he should turn into wit, and his learning into poetry or humour. Well, I'm not so much of your mind. I like a sober passion. A sober passion? You took me up just now and I said an offensive virtue. Bless me! Stumbling almost to a foal. Young but quit catching her. How much am I indebted to an accident that faves me with an occasion of this small service? For tears to me and happiness beyond expression thus to kiss your hand. The occasion, me thinks, is not so obliging, nor the happiness you mention worth that name, sir. It is true, madam. I owe it all to fortune, neither your kindness nor my industry had any asherent. Thus am I still as wretched as I was, for this happiness I so much prize had doubtless been refused my want of merit. It has very soon, you see, lost what you valued in it. But I find you and I, sir, have a different sense. For, in my opinion, we enjoy with most pleasure what we attain with least merit. Merit is a claim, and may pretend justly to favour, when without it what's conferred is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing. You talk very well, madam, of unhappiness you can't possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying without dessert. But indeed you have done me a very singular good office in letting me know myself very much qualified for felicity. I swear he's a very pretty fellow, and how readily the thing talks. I begin to pity lover more, but I begin to hate panellope. How he looks, he looks at her. But judge, madam, what the condition of a passionate man must be, that can approach the hand only of her he dies for, when her heart is inaccessible. Tis very well the heart lies not so easily to be seized as the hand. I find, pray, sir, I don't know what there is in this very old fellow. I'm not angry, though he's downright rude, but I must— But your heart, madam, your heart. You seem, sir, I must confess, to have shown a ready civility when I'd like to fall just now, for which I could not but thank you, and permit you to say what you pleased on that occasion. But your heart, madam, tis a sure sign, sir, you know not me. Or, if you are what indeed you seem—a gentleman—sure you forget yourself, or rather you talk by memory a form or can't which you mistake for something that's gallant. Madam, I very humbly beg your pardon if I press too far and too abruptly. I forgot indeed that I broke through decencies, and that though you have been long a familiar to me, I am a stranger to you. Pray, familiar stranger, what can you mean? I never saw you before this instant, nor you me, I believe. Perhaps not, that you know, have, madam, for your humility, it seems, makes you so little sensible of your own perfection, that you overlook your conquest. Nor have you ere observed me, though I have a day and night about your lodging, haunt you from place to place at balls in the park, at church. I give you all the serenades you've had, yet never till this minute could I find you, and this minute an unfortunate one. But this is always my luck when I'm out of the field. You've travelled then, and seen the wars, sir? I, madam, I, all that I know of the matters, that Louis XIV mortally hates me. They talk of French gold. What heaps have I refused? Yet to be generous even to an enemy, I must allow that Prince has reason for his rank at me. There has not been a skirmish siege or battle since I bore arms, I may not one in. No, nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but I had my share, though perhaps not all my share of the glory. You've seen my name, though you don't know it often in the gizette. I never read these. Enter Latine. What tales he telling now, Tro? You've never heard, I suppose, of such names as Rue-remont, Caise's word and Liege, nor read of an English gentleman left dead by his precipitancy upon a parapet de Venleau. I was stopped so indeed when the first account came away. Every man has his failings. Rationous is my fault. Don't you remember a certain place called Oxford among your towns, sir? Sure, away. Oh, oh, oh, I beg your pardon, ladies. This fellow knows I was shot in my left arm and cannot bear the least touch, yet will still be rushing on me. Latine, aside. He has a lie, I think, in every joint. Do you bear any commission, sir? There is an intimate of mine. A general officer who has often said, Tom, if thou wouldst but stick to any one application, there might be anything. It is my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive. I began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince Eugene, that was forced to fly into Holland for a duel with that rough captain of the Hussars, Paul Diak. They talk of a regimen for me, but those things, besides, it will oblige me to attend it. And then I can't follow honor whereas she is busiest, but must be confined to one nation, when indeed, tis rather my way of serving with such of our allies as most want me. But I see you soldiers never enjoy such a thing as rest. You but come home in winter to turn your valour on the ladies. Tis but just a change of your warfare. I had immediately returned to Holland, that your beauties at my arrival here disarmed me, madam, made me a man of peace, who raised a civil war within me rather. You took me prisoner at first sight, and to your chums I yielded up in heart, till then unconquered. Martial delights, once best and dearest to me, vanished before you in a moment, and all my thoughts grew bent to please and serve you. Love most in the walk, madam, he'll be in a fit. Rob me of the sudden thus of all my happiness. Yet ere you quite forsake me, authorise my passion, license my innocent flames, and give me leave to love such charming sweetness. He that will love, and knows what is to love, will ask no leave of any but himself. Excellent ladies. Follow him, Jack. I know as much of him already as needs. The footman was in his talking vein. The handsomer of the two says he, I serve, and she lives in the garden. What garden? Covent Garden. The other lies there, too. I did not stay to ask her name, but I shall meet him again. I took particularly notice of delivery. Nay, I troubled myself to know which is which. My heart and my good genius tell me, till she, that pretty she I talk to. If with respect to your worship's opinion I might presume to be of a contrary one, I should think the other the handsomer now. What, the dumb thing, the picture? No, love is the union of minds, and she that engages mine must be very well able to express her own. But I suppose some scolding landlady has made you thus enamoured with silence. But here are two of the dearest of my old comrades. They seem amazed at something by their action. Enter Lovemore and Frederick. How? A collation on the water and music, too? Yes, music and a collation. Last night? Last night, too. And that's some treat. A very noble one. Who gave it? That. I'm yet to learn. How happy am I to meet you here? When I embrace you thus, no happiness can equal mine. Saluting. I thrust myself intrudingly upon you, to pardon a man of a joy to see you. Where you're always welcome, you never can intrude. What were you talking of? Of an entertainment. Given by some lover? As we suppose. That circumstance deserves my curiosity. Pray go on and let me share the story. Some ladies had the fiddles last night. Upon the water, too, we thought, you said. Yes, twice upon the water. Water often feeds the flame. Sometimes. And by night, too. Yes, last night. He chose his time well. The lady's handsome. In most men's eyes she is. And the music. Good. As we hear. Some banquet followed. A sumptuous one, they say. And neither of you all this while know who gave this treat. Do you laugh at it? How can I choose to see you thus admire a slight divertissement I gave myself? You. Even I. Why, have you got a mistress here already? I should be sorry else. I've been in town this month or more, though for some reasons I appear but little yet by day. In the dark of the evening I peep out, and incognito make some visits. Thus had I spent my time, but ill were not. Latine to Young Buckwick. Do you know what you say, sir? Don't wear it on so thick. Young Buckwick to Latine. Nay, you must be sure to take care to be in the way as soon as they land, to show upstairs. I beg pardon. I was giving my fellow some directions about receiving some women of quality that sub with me to-night in cog. But you're my dearest friends, and shall hear all. Frederick to Loesmore. How luckily your rival discovers himself. I took five barges, and the theorists kept for my company. The other four I filled with music of all sorts, and of all sorts the best. In the first were fiddles. In the next the oboe loots and voices. Flutes and such pastoral instruments, the third. Loud music from the fourth to pierce the air. Each concert vied by turns, which with most melody should charm our ears. The fifth, the largest of them all, was neatly hung, not with dull tapestry, but with green boughs, curiously interlaced to let in air. And every branch with jessimons and orange posies decked. In this the feast was kept. Here thou with father the ladies, I led her whose beauty alone governs my destiny. Supper was served up straight. I will not trouble you with our bill of fare, what dishes were best liked, what sauces most recommended. It is enough I tell you this delicious feast was of six courses. Twelve dishes to a course. Latine, a side. That's indeed enough of our conscience. Lovesmore, a side. Oh, the torture of jealousy! But, sir, how seemed the lady to receive this entertainment? We must know that. Oh, that was a heightened. She, I want, she was quite negligent of all this matter. You know their way. They must not seem to like. No, I warned it would not so much as smile to make the fellow vain, and believe he had power to move the light in her. But how then? Well, you must know my humour-group poetic. I pulled off my sword not, and with that bound up a coronet of ivy, laurel, and flowers, with that round my temples and a plate of richest fruits in my hand. On one knee I presented her with it as a cornucopia, and halfering from her humble sway in all his harvest, to her the series of our genial feast and rural mirth. She smiled. The ladies clapped their hands, and all our music struck sympathetic rapture at my happiness, where gentle winds, the river, air, and shore echoed that harmony in notes more soft than they received it. Me thought all nature seemed to die for love like me. To all my heart and every pulse beat time. The pleasures of successful love. Ha! Love more! Ha! What? How's there got a good office lately? You're afraid I should make some request. Pretty being so shy, I have nothing to ask but of my mistress. What's the matter? I only attend, sir. I only attend. Then I'll go on. As soon as we had sucked the fireworks played. Squibs of all sorts were darted to the skies, whose spreading fires made a new day. A flaming deluge seemed to fall from heaven, and with such violence attacked the waves. You would have thought the fiery element had left his sphere to ruin his moist enemy. Their contest done. We landed. Danced till day. Which hasty sword stirb'd us with too soon. Had it taken our advice, or feared my anger, he might in that his lap have slept as long as that alchemyner's labour he's reported. But steering on to sweet would have prescribed he put a period to our envied mirth. Trust me, you tell us wonders, and with a grace as rare as the feast itself, which all our summers mirth can't equal. My mistress took me of the sudden. I had not a day's warning. The treat was costly, though, and finely ordered. I was forced to take up with his trifle, he that once time can't do as he would. Farewell. We shall meet again at more leisure. Number me among your creatures. Oh, jealousy! Thou wrack! Jealousy! Frederick to Lovemore. What reason have you to feel it? The circumstances of the feast, nothing agree. Lovemore to Frederick. In time and place they do. The rest is nothing. Exhumed Frederick and Lovemore. May I speak now, sir, without offence? It is in your choice now to speak or not, but before company you'll spoil all. Do you walk abroad and talk in your sleep, or do you use to tell your dreams for current truth? Dull brain. Why, you beat out mine with your battles, your fireworks, your music, and your feasts. You found an excellent way to go to the wars, and yet keep out of danger. Then you feast your mistresses at the cheapest rate that I ever knew. Why do you make them believe you have been here these six weeks? My passion has them all growth, and I the better ground to make love. You'd make one believe fine things. I'd but hearken to you, but this lady you might soon have found you out. Some acquaintance I have got, however. This is making love, scholar, and at the best rate, too. To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet. Your great supper lies on my stomach still. I defy Pontac to have prepared a better of the sudden. Your enchanted castles where strangers found strange tables strangely furnished and strange kates were but six penny ordinaries to the fifth barge. You were an excellent man to write romances. For having feasts and battles at command, your Quixote and a trice would overrun the world. Revelling and skirmishing cost you nothing. Then you vary your scene with so much ease and shift from court to camp with such facility. I love thus to outvi I'd newsmonger, and as soon as I perceive a fair of things a story will surprise, I choke him with a stranger and stop his mouth with an extemple wonder. Didst thou but know what a pleasure it is to cram their own news down their throats again? Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport and may involve us in a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, consider that I am of quality to be kicked or cane by this— Hush, hush! Call it not lying. As for my waging war, it is but just I snatch and steal from fortune that fame which she denies me opportunity to deserve. My father has cramped me in a college where all the world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my mistress, tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call it not then by that course name a lie. Tis wit, tis fable, allegory, fiction, hyperbole, albeit what you call it. The world's made up almost of nothing else. What are all the grave faces you meet in public? Mere silent lies, dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain, empty, silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I am resolved honestly to love, I don't care how artfully I obtain the woman I pitch upon. Besides, did you ever know any of them the knowledge they loved as soon as they loved? No, they let a man dwell upon his knees, whom they languished to receive into their arms. They are no fair enemy. Therefore, tis but just that, we use all arts the fair to undermine and learn with gallantry to hide design. Act II 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 II Scene I Penelope's lodgings, Covent Garden Enter Old Bookwit, Penelope and Latisse. Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning. Nay, to talk to you of marriage. To talk to me of marriage, sir? Yes, madam, on behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit. Penelope, aside. Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. I sent for him from Oxford with that design. He came to town but yesterday, and, if a father can judge, he brings from a college the mien and heir of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you. To a want of sense, sir, to do that. Old Bookwit, aside. If I can remember my style to my mistress of old, I'll ease Tom's way and raise her expectation of my son. Madam, had I my hat, my feather, pantaloons and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her just such a young thing as you. Her complexion was charming, but not indeed with all your sweetness. Oh, sir! Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows. Her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant shining. But was the work of nature free, unconstrained, healthy, and... But her charms had not all that emanation which yours have. Oh, fie! fie! Not those thousand, thousand graces, that soft army of loves and zeffers, millions of eerie beings that attend around you, and appear only to the second sight of lovers. Oh, fie! Very good, sir. You'll leave nothing for your son to say. Walt Buckwit, assigned. I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are now certainly daughters of the women before him. Flattery still does it. Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I own, I think, him of much merit. He would derogate from his birth where he not much a gentleman, but to receive a man in the character of a pretender at first sight. I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretenses but yourself. But when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be condescension. You shall not answer. Farewell, daughter. We are but too apt to believe what we wish. Exit old Buckwit. Just as you said, lettuce, old Buckwit came to propose his son. I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But, madam, you haven't heard a song that was made on you. Oh, this mighty pretty. The gentleman is dying for you. He says it. Pure, pure verses. Whoever read him, he's not the first poet I've made. They may talk and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder brothers who are by nature born above Witt, shall fall in love and write verses? Nay, and pretty good ones, considering they can tag him to settlements. But let's see. Reading. T'seelia's spin it. Thou soft machine that doth to hand obey. Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay. Oh, poor man. To shun my moan to thee she'll fly. To her touch be sure reply, and if she removes it, die. The device is just and truly practical. No thy bliss. Aye, aye, there I come in. No thy bliss with a rapture shake. Trembler all thy numerous make. Speak in melting sounds my tears. Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears. Which all depend upon me. Thus force her, when from me she'd fly, by her own hand, like me, to die. Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of women so much as poetry. I suppose the master is in the next room. Tis his hour. Desire him to walk in. To make one's ears tingle. A song on one's self. Here the song is performed to a spinnet. Well, dost think, lettuce, my grave lover writ this fine thing. Saced thou? No, madam. Nobody writes songs on those they are sure of. Sure of me? Ah, the insolent! Nay, I know no more but that he said he turned me away as soon as he had married you. Tis like enough. That's the common practice of your jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind to dress myself anew, put on my best looks, and send for him to dismiss him. I know he loves me. I never knew him show it but by his jealousy. As you say, a jealous fellow, love. Tis all mistake. Tis only for himself he has desires, nor cares what the object of his wishes suffers, so he himself has satisfaction. No, he has a gluttony, an hunger for me. An hunger for you? I protest, madam. If you'd let me be his cook and make you ready, I'd poison him. But I'm glad Simon disobeyed you, and told the gentlemen so and who you were, and your lodging. Did the rogue do so? Call him hither. Simon? Why, Simon? Enter Simon. Sirah, I find a must-it-last turn you off, you saucy fellow. Don't stand staring and dodging with your feet, and wearing out your livery hat with squeezing for an excuse. But answer me, and that presently. I will, ma'am, as soon as you ask me a question. Not a four, then? Mr. Pert, don't you know? He told the gentleman's footman in the park who I was against my constant order when I walk early. Come, sirah, tell all that passed between you. Why, ma'am, the gentleman's gentleman came up to me very civilly and said his master was in discourse with my lady, he supposed. Then he fell in to talk about veils, about profits in a service. At last, after a deal of civil discourse between us. Come, without this preamble. What do you ask, you impertinent? Tell that, do. He asked about you and Madame Victoria. I said the answer, Mr. The Two, is my lady. Speak on board, Lee Simon. I'm never angrier to servant that speaks truth. He told me he should be very proud of my acquaintance. Indeed, ma'am, the man was very well spoken and showed a great deal of respect for me on your ladyship's account. He is a mighty well-spoken man and said he found I was a smart gentleman. Said he'd come again. Go, you've done your business. Go down. Exit. Well, after all, madam, I did not think that gentleman displeased you. Hard but young, but quit his mean in conversation. How easily would he exclude Lovemore? Enter servant. Mr. Lovemore is coming up, madam. He has not heard, sure, of this new proposal. Tis possible he may and come to rent or upgrade your ladyship. I wonder you endure him on these occasions. I'll rack his very heartstrings. He shall know all that man has suffered for his native mistress. Woman. His father, madam, has been so long coming out of Suffolk. There are strange tricks in the world, but tis not my place to speak. However, his father may come at last. I will not totally lose him. As bad as he is, he's better than your husband at all. Stay in the room. I'll talk to you as if he were not present. Enter Lovemore. Ah! Penelope. In constant fickle Penelope. But let tis, you don't tell me what the gentleman said. Now there's nobody here, you may speak. Now there's nobody here? Then am I a thing? A utensil? I am nobody, and I have no essence that I am sensible of. I think it will be so soon. This ingrate? This perjured? Tell me, I say, how the match happened to break off. This is downright abuse. What? Don't you see me, madam? He had the folly upon her being commonly civil to him to talk of directing her affairs before his time. In the first place he thought it but necessary her maid, her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty, should be removed. Her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty? Her betrayer, her whisperer, Mrs. Lateeth, madam, would you but hear me? I will be heard. Pretty stop, Lutus, and see what noise is that without. The noise is here, madam, tis I that make what you call noise, tis I that claim a loud my right, and speak to all the world the wrongs I suffer. Cooling herbs, well steeped, a good anodyne at night, made of the juice of hellebore, with very thin diet, may be of use in these cases. Both looking at him as disturbed. Cases? What cases? I shall downright run mad with this damned adusage. Am I a jest? A jest? No, Faith, this is far from a merry madness. Hark ye, Lutus, I'll downright buck you, hold your tongue, gypsy. Dear madam, save me, go you to him. Let him take you. Oh, bless me how he stares. Take her. Take her. Take her. Running round each other. Very fine. No, madam, your gallant, your spark last night, your fine dancer, entertainer, shall take you. He that was your swain, and you I warrant a fantastic nymph of the flood or forest, to be out all night with a young fellow. Oh, that makes you change your countenance, does it so? Fine lady, you wonder how I came to know. Why, choose a discreta the next time he told me all himself. Swoon, die for shame at hearing of these words, do. I am indeed downright ashamed for him that speaks him. Whence this insolence, if not from utter distraction under this roof? Oh, the ingrate have not I, madam, too long years, too ages, with humblest resignation depended on your smile. And shall I suffer one of yesterday's to treat you, to dance all night with you? Speak softly, my father's coming down. Faithless, thou hast no father, but to cross me by night upon the water. Well, by night upon the water, what then? Yes, all night. What of that? Without blushing when you hear of it. Blush for what? What do you drive at? Can you then coolly ask what is I mean? Thou, reveler, thou rambler, a fine young lady with your midnight frolics. But what do I pretend to? I know not how with bended knees to call you series make you an offering of summer fruits and deify your vanity. Thou art no goddess, thou art a very woman with all the guile, your barges, your treats, your fireworks. What means the insolent? You grow insufferable. O Penelope, that look, that disdainful look has pierced my soul and ebbed my rage to penitence and sorrow. I own my fault. I'm too rash. The imaginary enemies you raise are but mere forms of your sickly brain. So I think and scorn them. A diffident, a humorous and ungenerous man who without grounds calls me inconstant shall surely find me so. She will be very happy that takes a constant man with twenty thousand humours. Is it a fault my life's bound up in thee that all my powers change with thy looks? That my eyes gloat on thee when thou art present and ache and roll for light when thou art absent? Penelope, the side. A little ill usage, I see, improves a lover. I never heard him speak so well in my life before. Of you I am not jealous. It is my own indisert that gives me fears and tenderness forms dangers where they're not. I doubt and envy all things that approach thee. Not a fond mother of a long-wished for only child beholds with such kind terrors her infant offspring as I do her I love. She thinks it's food if she's not by unwholesome in all the ambient air made up of fevers and quartane agus except she shrouds it in her arms such is my unpityed anxious care for you. And can I see another? What other? Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting there's all that I suspect in it. Another? Young Bookwit is another? I never saw his face. Young Bookwit? What, not though he solicited a glance with symphonies of charming note, with sumptuous dishes, not when the flying meteors from earth made a new day, not see him? Oh, that was hard. That was unkind. Not one look for all this gallantry. But love is blind. You can be all night with the sun all day with the father and never see either. His father was here this morning. Seek not to excuse. I find your arts and see their aim too. Go. Go. Take your Bookwit. Forget your lover as he now must you. Going. Hear but three words. What shall they be? Prithee, hear me. No, no, your father's coming down. He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's time and privacy enough to disabuse you. I'll hear nothing. Unless you will be married, unless you give me as a present earnest of yourself three kisses and your word forever. To give way to my satisfaction then, and be friends again, you would, Mr. Lovell, have three kisses. Three kisses, your faith and hand. Nothing else? Will you be so contented? I'll expect higher terms if you accept not these quickly then. Well then, no, my father's coming. Laugh at my sufferings, slight my anger. Is this your base requital of my love? Revenge! Revenge! I'll print on my favourite in his heart's blood my revenge. Our swords, our swords shall dispute our pretenses rather than he enjoy what my long service has entitled me to, which is to do myself right for what he intends an injury, though perhaps what we shall dispute for is better lost. Mr. Lovemore, you have taken very great liberties. You say I've injured you in my regard to another. Is your opinion then of what you say you will dispute for, such as you just now said, better lost? Look, you madam, so therefore as to that, that is such for that you don't consider what you said to me. You shall, by all that, you shall repent this. Flings out. This is all we have for it. A little dominion beforehand. These are the creatures that are born to rule us, who creep, who flatter, and servilely beseech our favour, which obtained they grow sullen, proud, and insolent. Pry into the gift, the manner of bestowing, with all the little arts the ungrateful use to hide, or kill their sense and conscience of a benefit. I, I, madam, tis so. I had a sweetheart once, a lady's butler, to whom I gave a lock of my hair, and the villain, when we quarrelled, told me half of them were gray. Ha, ha, ha! The ingrate. The faithless, as Lovemore says. And yet, madam, the rogue stole a letter out of a book to ask me for it, as my next suitor found out. However, I am sure, tis in my fate to be subject to one of them very suddenly. Ah, madam, the gentleman this morning. The fellow's very well. And I am mightily mistaken of my cousin Victoria, did not think so. Latice, aside. And so do you, heartily. Yet, I wish I had seen this young bit quit before Lovemore came to-day. I'll tell you how, madam. Victoria has never a lover and is your entire friend. Now, madam, suppose you got her to write a letter to this young gentleman in her own name. You meet him under that name incognito. Then, if an accident should happen, both you and she will be safe and puzzle the truth. If you never read to him, she never met him. A lucky thought. Stubbed to her immediately. I'll come to her, or she to me. I fly, I fly. Exit. This is, indeed, a lucky hint of the wench, in which I have another drift, too. Now shall I sift my friend Victoria, and perfectly understand whether she likes that agreeable young fellow, for if her reserved humour easily falls in with this design on Bookwit, she's certainly smitten with the other, and suspects me to be so, too. What is this, dear, this sudden intruder, Love, that Victoria's long and faithful friendship, Lovemore's anxious and constant passion, both vanish before it in a moment? Why are our hearts so accessible at our eyes? Enter Victoria and Latisse. Oh, my dear. Dear Pen, I ran to you. Well, what is it? Set chairs, and a bohia tea, and leave us. Exit Latisse. Dear Victoria, you have always been my most intimate bosom friend. Your wary carriage and circumspection have often been a safety against arrows to me. I must confess it. Filling her tea. But, my dear, why this preface to me, to the matter? You know all that has passed between me and Mr. Lovemore. I have always approved him, and do now more than ever. For tea's not amine and air that makes that worthy creature a kind husband, but— True. But here was old bit quit this morning, with my father's authority to talk on me of the subject of love. Nay, madam. If so, and you can resolve to obey your father, I contend not for Lovemore, for though the young men of this age are so very vicious, so expensive, both of their health and fortune. Penelope, aside. How zealous she is to put me out of her way. False creature. But, my dear friend, you don't take me. Your friendship outruns my explanation. Twas for his son at Oxford he came to me. He is to walk with him before the door that I may view him by and by. Nay, as one must obey their parents wholly, I think a wrong young man that never saw the town but then an old one that has run through all its vices. I congratulate your good fortune. There's a great estate, and he knows nothing, just come to town. The furniture and the horse-cloths will be all your own device for the wedding, and the horses when and where you please. He knows no better. But one shall be so long teaching a raw creature a manner. Never let him have one. Make him like himself, and think of making advances elsewhere. You'd better have him a booby. How could I think of the old fellow for you? Look, you pen. Old age has its infirmities, and tis a sad prospect for an honest young woman to be sure of being a nurse and never of being a mother. Oh, that I had but your prudence. But, my dear, I have a request to make to you, and that is that you would write him an resignation this evening in the park. I'll obey the appointment and converse with him under that disguise. For the old people will clap up a match before I know anything of the real man. And if one don't know one's husband, how can one manage him? That is to say, obey him. Oh, pray, my dear, do you think I don't understand you? Oh, and there's another thing. A scholar makes the best husband in the world. Because they are the most knowing? No, because they are the least knowing. But I'll go immediately and obey your commands. I wish you heartily well, my dear, in this matter. Kissing her. I thank you, dearest. I don't doubt it indeed. Where are you going now, my dear? Oh, fine. This is not like a friend. Do I use you so, dear madam? No, indeed, madam. I must wait on you. Indeed you shan't, indeed you shan't. Penelope follows Victoria. Well, madam, will you promise, then, to be as free with me? Thus does she hope to work me out of my lover by being made my confidant. But that baseness has been too fashionable to pass any more. I have not trusted her, the cunning creature. I begin to hate her, so I'll never be a minute from her. Exit. Scene two. Covent Garden. Enter Old Buckwit, Young Buckwit, and Latine. Well, Tom, where have you sauntered about since I saw you? Is not the town mightily increased that you were in it? Ah, indeed. I need not have been so impatient to have left Oxford. Had I stayed here longer they had builded to me. But I don't observe you affected much with the alterations. Where have you been? No faith. The new exchange has taken up all my curiosity. Oh! But, son, you must not go to places to stare at women. Did you buy anything? Some bobbles. But my choice was so distracted among the pretty merchants and their dealers I knew not where to run first. One little lisping rogue. Ribbenth, Gloveth, Tippeth. Sir, cries another. Will you buy a fine sword not? Then a third pretty voice and curtsy. Does not your lady want hoods, scarves, fine green silk stockings? I went by as if I had been in a seraglio, a living gallery of beauties, staring from side to side, eye-bowing, they laughing, so made my escape and brought your son and heir safe to you through all these darts and glances to which indeed my breast is not impregnable. But I wonder whence I had this amorous inclination. Whoever you had it from, sirrah, it is your business to correct it by fixing it upon a proper object. Tom, you know I am always glad to hear you talk with the gaiety before me that you do elsewhere. But I have now something of consequence. Aside. That sudden serious look was so like me. What I am going to say now, I tell you, is extraordinary. I could not indeed help some seeming extravagancies I have been forced to, but... I do not grudge you your expenses. I was not going to speak on it. For I decay, and so do my desires, while yours grows still upon you. Therefore what may be spared from mine I heartily give you to supply yours? Tis but the just order of things. I scorned a horde what I only now can gaze at. While your youth in person want those entertainments you may become and taste. All your just pleasures are mine also. In you, my youth in gayer years, me thinks I feel repeated. Then what can give you, sir, an easiness? Your affectation of a soldier's dress makes me think you bent upon a dangerous though noble course that you'll expose a life that's dearer to your father than yourself to daily hazards. I, therefore, have resolved to settle thee, and chosen a young lady, witty, prudent, rich, and fair. Young the quit. Aside. Oh, Victoria, you cannot move too slowly in such a business. Nay, tis no sudden thing. Her father and I have been old acquaintance, and I was so confident of her worth, and your compliance, that I can't with honour disengage myself. How, sir, an honour calls me to the field where I may perpetuate your name by some brave exploit. You may do it much better, Tom, at home, by a brave boy. Come, come, it must be so. Young the quit. Aside. What shall I do for some invention? Let it be so, dear Tom. It must be so. What if it be impossible? Impossible? As how? Upon my knees, I beg your pardon, sir. I am— What? At Oxford. What art thou at Oxford? Rise and tell me. Why, I am married there, since you needs must know. Married. Without my consent? There was a force upon me. You'll easily get all annulled if you desire it. It was the crossest, most unhappy accident. Yet indeed she is an excellent creature. Latine. Aside. How could he conceal this all this while from me? But I remember he used to be out of the college whole nights. We knew not where. Penelope and Victoria at the window. Penelope aside. The very man we met this morning, and I employ my rival to write to him. How confidently she stares at the fellow and observes his action. Betty, do you see with what intent and with what fire in her eyes Penelope gazes yonder? But take you that letter and give it when the old gentleman's gone. Goodness, how concerned she seems. Well, some women. Exeunt ladies from above. Let that pass, since the business is irrevocable. What is her name? Matilda and her father's Newton. Their names I never heard before. But go on. This lady, sir, I saw in a public assembly. At the first sight she made me hers for ever. From that instant I languished, nor had vital heat out of her presence. The son to me shed influence in vain. He rose and set both unobserved, nor was to any living this human life so much a dream as me. All this she observed, but not untouched observed. She showed a noble gratitude to a noble passion. Failures I soon received, but severely modest ones. The teen aside. Oh, that's presupposed. You, to be sure, would never desire any other. We had contrived to meet tonight's the sweetest hours of love. And there was I one evening in a lodging. Twas, as I remember. Yes, twas on the second of December. That's the very night I was caught. Latine aside. Tis strange a fellow of his wit to be trepanned into a marriage. The father's scepter brought that night, which made us think ourselves secure. He was coming home by accident sooner than we expected. We heard him at the door. How did that noise surprise us? She hid me behind the bed, then let's him in. I tremble for the poor young lady. Pray, go on. How did she recover herself? She fell into the prettiest artful little tales to divert him and hide a discomposure, which she interrupted by telling her she must be married suddenly to one proposed him that evening. This was to me daggers. But she— She, by general answers, in that case, managed it so well that he was going down when instantly my watch and my pocket struck ten. He turned some short on his amazed daughter, asked where she had it. She cried her cousin Martha sent it out of the country to be mended for her. He said he would take care on it. She comes to me, but as I was giving it her, the string was so entangled in the cock of a pistol I always had about me on those occasions that my haste to disengage had fired it off. My mistress swooned away. The father ran out crying out murder. I thought her dead feared his return, which he soon did with two boisterous rogues, his sons, and his whole family of servants. I would have made my escape, but they opposed me with drawn swords. I wounded both. But a lasty wench with a fire-shovel at one blow struck down my sword and broke it all to pieces. But still the poor young lady— Here was I seized. Meantime Matilda wakes from her trance, beholding me held like a ruffian, both her brother's bleeding. She was returning to it. What should I do? I saw the horrid father and the divided sorrow for his son's lies and daughter's honour of both which she thought me the invader. She, with pitying, dying and reproaching looks, besieged me and taught me what I owed a constant love. I yielded, sir, I own, I yielded to the just terror of their family resentment and to my mistress' more dreadful upbraining. Thus am I, sir, the martyr of an honest passion. What I most blame is that you concealed it from your best friend. I call instantly to Penelope's father and make my apology. He is my friend. Exit. This marriage strangely surprised me. Why, did you believe it to as well as the old gentleman? Why, then, I did it excellently. What? The watch, the pistol, lady's swooning, her pitying, upbraining look. Oh, Chimera? Nothing but downright wit to keep myself safe for Victoria. May I desire one favour? What can I deny thee, my privado? Only that you'd give me some little secret hint when next you are going to be witty, but to jumble particular so readily, it is impossible you could, I believe, at the beginning of your tale know the ending. Yet... These are gifts, child, mere gifts. It is not to be learnt. The skill of lying, except humour, wit, invention, presence of mind, retention, memory, circumspection, et cetera, were to be obtained by industry. You must not hum, nor whore, nor blush for it. Betty entering. Who have we got here? May I be so bold as to crave the liberty to ask your name. My bright hand, mate, my little sheer ganymeat, thou charming heavy, you may ask me my name, for I won't tell it to you, till you do, because I'd have the more words with you. Are not you, Mr. Bookwit? The very same, my dear. There, then. Giving him letter. He's a mighty pretty man. Exit, Betty. Young Bookwit, reading. I may wonder your person and character. This evening, near Rosamund's pond, on the other side of the park, Victoria. Oh, the happiness! What has become of the girl? Oh, Latine! Latine! Ask me fifty questions all at once. What hails me? Why this joy? Who is this from? Oh, I could die, me thinks, this moment, lest there should be in fate some future ill to dash my present joy. Why, Jack? Why doth not ask me what's the matter? If you'd but give me leave. No, do not speak. Let me talk all. I feign would celebrate my fair one's praise, her every beauty, but the mind's too full to utter anything that is articulate and will give away to nothing but mere names and interjections. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Am I Victoria? Read there. Well, I own this subscribed Victoria, but still I am afraid of mistakes. No. Kneel down and ask forgiveness. You don't believe that she that would not speak to me would write, but after all raptures and ecstasies, pretty step after the maid, learn what you can of her fortune and so forth, get interest to be admitted another time. Exit Latine. Enter Frederick. Sir, your servant. Your sir. Have you business with me? This paper speaks it. Young Buckwit. Reading. I'm a friend you've made me your mortal enemy. With your sword I expect satisfaction to mourn a morning at Sixth and Hyde Park. Lovemore. Do you know the contents of this letter? Yes, sir. It is a challenge from Lovemore. Are you to be his second? I offered it, but he will meet you single. The fewer the better cheer. You're very pleasant, sir. My good humor was ever challenge-proof. I will be very punctual. Exit Frederick. I've fallen to business very fast. There, thou dear letter of love, be there, thou of hatred. There, men of business must sort their papers. I fear he saw me put up two letters. Enter Latine. Oh, Jack, more adventures. Another lady has writ. Well, let's see it. No, always tender of reputation. She is of quality. A gentleman, Usher, came with it. I can't believe there's anything in that old whim of being wrapped in one's mother's smock to be thus lucky. I suppose I was used like other children. They collapsed me on a skull-cap, swathed me hard, played me in arms, and showed me London. But, however it comes about, I have strange luck with the women. But let us see this letter. Young Bookwit. Reading. No, no. A woman of condition to go so far. But, indeed, your passion, your wit, my page, at the back stairs, secrecy, and your veracity. There her ladyship nicked it. Pox! I'll be as humorous and frolic as you. You pert fellows are the only success- Well said, lad. And, as Mr. Bayes said, now the plot thickens upon us, we'll spend our time as gaily as the best of them, and all of it in love. For since through all the race of man we find, each to some darling passion is inclined, let love be still the bias of my mind. Excellent. End of Act II. Act III. After lying lover or the ladies friendship by Richard Steal. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Act III. Scene I. Victorias Lodgings covened Garden. Enter Victoria and Betty. This was indeed Betty. a very diverting accident that I should be employed to write to her lover. Now I can't but think how angry my cousin Penne is. She frets I warrant at her very looking glass, which used to be her comforter upon all occasions." I would not be in poor Mistress Lettuce's place for all the world. Nothing, to be sure, can please today. Did you mind how she nestled and fumed inwardly to see your ladyship look so well? Nay, indeed, madam, you were in high beauty. Yet I must confess I was myself a little discomposed. I was ashamed for my friend, and then to see her show such a regard for a fellow. But I swear, were I to have my will, you should be always angry at me. It gives your ladyship such a pretty fierceness and a quick spirit to your features. Not that you want it. Yet it adds, There are some people very unhappily pretend to fire and life. This poor, stupid, insipid lady fad has heard of the word spleen, and distaste, and sets up for being out of humor with that unmeaning face of hers. You're in a fine humor, madam. Her ladyship's physician prescribed anger to her, upon which she comes in public with her eyes staringly open. This she designs for vacity and gapes about like a wandering country lady. She pretends to be a remarker and looks at everybody, but alas she wants it here, and knows not that to see is no more to look than to go is to walk. For you must know, Betty, every child can see, but kiss an observing creature that can look, as every pretty girl can go, but she's a fine woman that walks. But by the way, there's Mrs. Penelope, me thinks, does neither. I have a kindness for her, but she has no gesture in the least. My dear. Enter Penelope. Well, my dear, Betty, aside, how civilly people of quality hate one another. Well, my dear, why are you not strangely surprised to see that this young book which should be the soldier we met this morning? The confident lying creature. Indeed, I wondered you'd suffer him to entertain you so long. You must know, madam, he's married to it, Oxford. The ugly wretch. I think him downright disagreeable. Aside. But perhaps this is a fetch of hers. He had no married look. Yet I am resolved to go to your agitation, if it be but to confront the coxcomb and laugh at his lie. Most fellows should be made to know themselves, and that they're understood. I'll wait upon you, my dear. Aside. She's very prettily dressed. But indeed, my dear, you shan't go with your hood so. It makes you look abominably with your head so forward. There. Displacing her head. That's something you had a fearful, silly blushing look. Now you command all hearts. Your servant, dearest. But alas, madam, who patched you to-day? Let me see. It is the hardest thing in dress. I may say, without vanity, I know a little of it. That so low on the cheek pops the flesh too much. Hold still, my dear. I'll place it just by your eye. Aside. Now she downright squints. There's nothing like a sincere friend, for one is not a judge of oneself. I have a patch-box about me. Hold, my dear, that gives you a sedate air. That large one near your temples. People, perhaps, don't mind these things. But if it be true, as the poet finally sings, that all the passions in the features are, we may show or hide them, as we know how to affix these pretty artificial moles. And so catch lovers, and puzzle physiognomy. Dis-true. Don't pray, my dear. Let me put a little disdain in your face, for we'll plague this fop. There. That's in your forehead, does it? Hold, my dear. I'll give indifference for him. A patch just at the point of your lip exactly shows it. And that you're dumb to all applications. Penelope. Aside. You wish I would be. There, my dear. But, dear madam, your hair is not half-powdered. Betty, bring the powder-box to your lady. She gives one a clean look, though your complexion does not want it, to enliven it. Oh, fie this from you. But I know you won't flatter me. You're too much, my friend. Now, madam, you shall see. Powder, sir. Aside. Now she looks like a sprite. Thank you, my dear. We'll take and hack. Arm-maid shall go with us. Come, dear friend. Arm in arm. Pray, madam Lettuce. Be pleased to go on. Indeed, madam Betty. I must beg your pardon. I am at home, dear madam Lettuce. Well, madam, this is unkind. I don't use you with this ceremony. Exeunt. Scene two. Covent Garden. Enter Young Buckwit and Latine after a flourish. Victoria, Victoria, Victoria. Make way, make way. By your leave. Stand by. Victoria. Formosum raisonnare dosis amarili da siloas. Well said, Jack. Let me see any of your sparks besides myself keep such an equipage. I didn't question, but in a little time I shall be a finer fob than the town has yet seen. All my lackeys shall be linguists as thou art, while thus I ride immortal steeds, how my horses stare at me. They see I am a very new sort of bow. This is rare, the having this noise of music, but won't it be reckoned a disturbance? No, no, it is a usual gallantry here, but the vocal is an elegance hardly known before me here, who am the founder of accomplished rules of which I'll institute an order. All coxcoms of learning and part shall after me be called Buckwits. A sect will soon be more numerous and in more credit than your Aristotelians, Platonists and academics. Sir, Twill be extraordinary, and you are really a wise person. You put your theory of philosophy into practice. It is not with you a dead letter. Oh, sir, no. The design of learning is for the use of life. Therefore I'll settle a family very suddenly and show my literature in economy. As how, pray? I'll have four peripatetic footmen, two followers of Aristipus for Velé de Chambre, and an Epicurean cook, with an hermetical chemist, who are good only at making fires, for my scullion, and then I think all is disposed. But me thinks this fair one takes state upon her. But I am none of your languishers. I am not known in town, and if I misbehave, it is but being sent back again to my small beer and three half-binic commons, and I, like many other beau, only blazed and vanished. But you know I love music immoderately. How do you dispose your entertainment? Let him begin. Well, give me but leave. The fiddles will certainly attract the ladies. I mean the nymphs who have grottoes round this enchanted forest. In the first place, you intelligences that move this vehicle. How the fellows stare. Good, your honour. Speak to us in English. Why, then, you chairman, wherever I move you are to follow me, for I mean to strut, shine to the dusk of the evening, and look as like a lazy town fool as I can to charm them. Well, but the music. But remember ye sons of Phoebus, brethren of the string and lyre, that is to say, ye fiddlers, let me have a flourish as I now direct. When I lift up my cane, let it be marshal. If I but throw myself just forward on it, or but raise it smoothly, sigh all for love to show as I think fit that I would die or fight for her, you see me bow to. Well, then, strike up. Venus has left her Grecian isles with all her gaudy train of little love, soft cares and smiles on my larger breast to reign. Ye tender herds and listening dear, forget your food, forget your fear, the bright Victoria will be here. The savages about me throng moved with the passion of my song, and think Victoria stays too long. There's for you, Jack. It's not that like a fine gentleman that writes for his own diversion. And nobody's else. Now I warrant one of your common sparks would have stamped, fretted and cried, what the devil fool chilted abused. Well, I, in meter, to show you how well nothing at all may be made to run. The savages about me throng moved with the passion of my song, and think Victoria stays too long. I begin to be one of those savages. Enter Victoria, Penelope, Latisse and Betty. We had better have stayed where we were and listened to that charming echo than have come in search of that liar. Do you see Yonder? Young Bookwit gives the sign and sings himself. Thus, madam, have I spent my time almost ever since I saw you. Repeated your name to the woods, the doves, and echoing groves. Prithee observed him. Now he begins. I had not time to carve your name on every tree, but that's a melancholy employment, not for those lovers that are favoured with azic nation. Prithee Cousin, do you talk to him in my name? I'll be silent till I see farther. The spring is now so forward that it must indeed be attributed to your passion that you are not in the field. You do me justice, madam, in that thought, for I am strangely pestered to be there. Well, the French are the most industrious people in the world. I had a letter from one of their generals that shall be nameless. It came over by the way of Holland, with an offer of very great terms, if I would but barely sent my opinion in the use of pikes, about which he tells me their prince and generals have lately held a grand court-martial. Ha! These cunning things keep still together to puzzle us. I'll alarm him. Sir, one word. Come, come. We'll have no whispering, no messages at present. Some other ladies have sent, but they shan't have you from us. Ha! I held myself obliged to be of the same humour ladies are in. Ha! Now pray do me the favour to tell me what I laughed at. Why, you must know, your talking of the French and war puts us in mind of a young coxcomb that came last night from Oxford, calls himself soldier, treats ladies, fights battles, raises jealousies with downright lies of his own inventing. Ha! That must be an impudent young rascal certainly. Ha! Nay, this is beyond comparison. I can't conceive how one of those sneaking academics could personate such a character. For we, bred in camps, have a behaviour that shows we are used to acting before crowds. To certainly so. Nay, he has been confronted with it, as plainly as I speak to you, and yet not blushed for it, but carried on as if he knew not the man. That may be. Does one of knowing themselves makes those coxcoms so confident? The faithless! Shameless! Well then, to see if possible, such a one may be brought to that sense, I tell you. This worthy hero, two days ago, was in hanging sleeves at Oxford, and is called Mr. Bookwit. Ha! Ha! Ha! Well, or was it not well enough carried? Ha! I knew you well enough, and you knew me before you ripped me of a Mr. Bookwit's son. But I fell into that way of talking purely to divert you. I knew you a woman of wit and spirit, and that acting that part would at least show I had fire in me, and wished myself what I would be half an age to serve and please you. Suffer in camps, all the vicissitudes of burning heats and sharp afflicting codes. Look, you sir, I shall tell Mrs. Matilda Newtown, your spouse at Oxford, what you are saying to another lady. Pretty cousin. Never give yourself the trouble to meddle in such a work. One hardly knows how to speak it to a gentleman. But don't touch the affairs of so impudent a liar. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Why, madame, have they told you of the marriage, too? Well, I was hard put to it there. I had liked to have been graveled, Faith. You were more beholden to me for that than anything. Had it not been for that, they'd marry me to Mr. Spinellope, old Getwell's granddaughter, the great fortune. But I refused her for you. Aside. Who are a greater? Sir, sir, praise her, one word. Stand off, sirrah. You shan't come near him. None of your dumb signs. Then you have refused, Penelope. They're a great fortune. What could you dislike in her? The whole woman. Her person, nor carriage, please me. She is one of those women of condition who do and say what they please with an assured air and think that's enough only to be called fine mistress such a one's manner. This is not to be endured. I do assure you, sir. Mrs. Penelope has refused your bettors. I don't have much value in my bettors in her judgment, but I'm sorry to see you concerned for her. When I have been at church, when I first saw you, I've seen the gay, giddy thing in a gallery of watching eyes to make curtsies. She's indeed a very ceremonious churchwoman and never is guilty of a sin of omission to any lady of quality with an eye short. In short, I don't like the woman and would go to Tunis or Aleppo for a wife before I take her. I cannot bear this of my friend. If you go on, sir, at this rate, Tunis or Aleppo are the properst places for you to show your gallantry in. It will never be received by any here. A sign. I hope she believes me. The ladies in the right honours. Who can confide in a known common imposter? Madam, how can you use a man that loves you so unjustly? But call me what you will. Liar, cheat, imposter. Do but add you're servant and I am satisfied. I have indeed, madam, run through many shifts and hopes to gain you and could be contented to run through all the shapes in Ovid's metamorphosis. Could I but return to this on my bended knees of my fair one's humble servant? Prithee, let us leave him, as you told me. I wonder you can suffer him to entertain you so long. Leave him, let him kneel to the trees and call to the woods if he will. A sign. Oh, I could brain him. How ugly he looks kneeling to her. No, I'll stay to play, Kimball. But what opinion can I have of this sudden passion? You hardly know me, I believe, or my circumstances. No, no, not I. I don't know you. Your mother was not Alderman Sterling's daughter. Your father, Mr. Phillips of Grey's Inn, who had an estate and never practised. You had not a brother killed at Landon. Your sister Diana is not dead. Nor you are not co-arist with Miss Molly. No, madam, I don't know you. No, nor love you. Penelope, aside. I wish I had taken her advice in going. He means her all this while. Sure, this is downright fooling. Let's go, my dear. Leave him to the woods, as you say. A sign. I wish it was full of bears. No, now I'll stay to play, Kim. No, you shan't stay. Sir, we have given ourselves the diversion to see you, and confront you in your forteds, in which you have entangled yourself to that degree. You know not even the women you pretend to. And therefore, sir, I so far despise you, that if you should come after me with your fiddles, I'll have a porter. A sign. Ready to let you in. I don't know how to threaten a gentleman in that manner, but I'm sure I shall never entertain any man that has disabledged my friend while my name's Victoria. Exceunt, arm in arm. Master, me thinks these ladies don't understand wit. They were very rough with you. I, they were somewhat dull. But really, Victoria discovered herself at a going-me-things, agreeably enough. I believe they are irrecoverably lost. Pox on it, when I gave you so many signs, too. Well, hang thinking. Let's to the tavern, and in every glass name a new beauty, till I either forget, or am inspired with some new project to attain her. While in a lovely bowl I drown my care, she'll cease to be, or I to think her fair. Exceunt. End of Act Three.