The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Love-chaseThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Love-chaseAuthor: James Sheridan KnowlesEditor: Henry MorleyRelease date: November 1, 2002 [eBook #3539]Most recently updated: September 27, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE-CHASE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Love-chaseAuthor: James Sheridan KnowlesEditor: Henry MorleyRelease date: November 1, 2002 [eBook #3539]Most recently updated: September 27, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: David Price
Title: The Love-chase
Author: James Sheridan KnowlesEditor: Henry Morley
Author: James Sheridan Knowles
Editor: Henry Morley
Release date: November 1, 2002 [eBook #3539]Most recently updated: September 27, 2021
Language: English
Credits: David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE-CHASE ***
byJAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES
CASSELL & COMPANY,Limited:london,paris,new york & melbourne.1887.
(AS ORIGINALLY PERFORMED AT THE HAYMARKET, IN l837.)
Sir William Fondlove, an old Baronet
Mr.Strickland.
Waller, in love with Lydia
Mr.Elton.
Wildrake, a Sportsman
Mr.Webster.
Trueworth, a Friend of Sir William
MrHemmings.
Neville, Friend to Waller
Mr.Worrell.
Humphreys, Friend to Waller
Mr.Hutchings.
Lash
Mr.Ross.
Chargewell, a Landlord
Mr.Edwards.
George, a Waiter
Mr.Bishop.
First Lawyer
Mr.Ray.
Widow Green
Mrs.Glover.
Constance, Daughter to Sir William Fondlove
Mrs.Nisbett.
Lydia, lady’s Maid to Widow Green
MissVandenhoff.
Alice, Housekeeper to Master Waller
Mrs.Tayleure.
Phœbe, Maid to Constance
MissWrighten.
Amelia
MissGallot.
First Lady
Mrs.Gallot.
SCENE—LONDON.
[EnterChargewell, hurriedly.]
Charg. What, hoa there! Hoa, sirrahs! More wine! Are the knaves asleep? Let not our guests cool, or we shall starve the till! Good waiting, more than viands and wine, doth help to make the inn!—George!—Richard!—Ralph!—Where are you?
[EnterGeorge.]
George. Here am I, sir!
Charg. Have you taken in more wine to that company?
George. Yes, sir.
Charg. That’s right. Serve them as quick as they order! A fair company! I have seen them here before. Take care they come again. A choice company! That Master Waller, I hear, is a fine spirit—leads the town. Pay him much duty. A deep purse, and easy strings.
George. And there is another, sir;—a capital gentleman, though from the country. A gentleman most learned in dogs and horses! He doth talk wondrous edification:—one Master Wildrake. I wish you could hear him, sir.
Charg. Well, well!—attend to them. Let them not cool o’er the liquor, or their calls will grow slack. Keep feeding the fire while it blazes, and the blaze will continue. Look to it well!
George. I will, sir.
Charg. And be careful, above all, that you please Master Waller. He is a guest worth pleasing. He is a gentleman. Free order, quick pay!
George. And such, I’ll dare be sworn, is the other. A man of mighty stores of knowledge—most learned in dogs and horses! Never was I so edified by the discourse of mortal man.
[They go out severally.]
[Master Waller,Master Wildrake,Master Trueworth,Master Neville, andMaster Humphreys, sitting round a table.]
Wal. Well, Master Wildrake, speak you of the chase!To hear you one doth feel the bounding steed;You bring the hounds and game, and all to view—All scudding to the jovial huntsman’s cheer!And yet I pity the poor crownéd deer,And always fancy ’tis by fortune’s spite,That lordly head of his, he bears so high—Like Virtue, stately in calamity,And hunted by the human, worldly hound—Is made to fly before the pack, that straightBurst into song at prospect of his death.You say their cry is harmony; and yetThe chorus scarce is music to my ear,When I bethink me what it sounds to his;Nor deem I sweet the note that rings the knellOf the once merry forester!
Nev. The same thingsPlease us or pain, according to the thoughtWe take of them. Some smile at their own death,Which most do shrink from, as beast of preyIt kills to look upon. But you, who takeSuch pity of the deer, whence follows itYou hunt more costly game?—the comely maid,To wit, that waits on buxom Widow Green?
Hum. The comely maid! Such term not half the sumOf her rich beauty gives! Were rule to goBy loveliness, I knew not in the court,Or city, lady might not fitly serveThat lady serving-maid!
True. Come! your defence?Why show you ruth where there’s least argument,Deny it where there’s most? You will not plead?Oh, Master Waller, where we use to huntWe think the sport no crime!
Hum. I give you joy,You prosper in your chase.
Wal. Not so! The maidIn simple honesty I must pronounceA miracle of virtue, well as beauty.
Nev. And well do I believe you, Master Waller;Those know I who have ventured gift and promiseBut for a minute of her ear—the boonOf a poor dozen words spoke through a chink—And come off bootless, save the haughty scornThat cast their bounties back to them again.
True. That warrants her what Master Waller speaks her.Is she so very fair?
Nev. Yes, Master Trueworth;And I believe indeed an honest maid:But Love’s the coin to market with for love,And that knows Master Waller. On pretenceOf sneaking kindness for gay Widow Green,He visits her, for sake of her fair maid!To whom a glance or word avails to hintHis proper errand; and—as glimpses onlyDo only serve to whet the wish to see—Awakens interest to hear the taleSo stintingly that’s told. I know his practice—Luck to you, Master Waller! If you win,You merit it, who take the way to win!
Wal. Good Master Neville!
True. I should laugh to seeThe poacher snared!—the maid, for mistress sought,Turn out a wife.
Nev. How say you, Master Waller?Things quite as strange have fallen!
Wal. Impossible!
True. Impossible! Most possible of things—If thou’rt in love! Where merit lies itself,What matters it to want the name, which weighed,Is not the worth of so much breath as it takesTo utter it! If, but from Nature’s hand,She is all you could expect of gentle blood,Face, form, mien, speech; with these, what to belongTo lady more behoves—thoughts delicate,Affections generous, and modesty—Perfectionating, brightening crown of all!—If she hath these—true titles to thy heart—What does she lack that’s title to thy hand?The name of lady, which is none of these,But may belong without? Thou mightst do worseThan marry her. Thou wouldst, undoing her,Yea, by my mother’s name, a shameful actMost shamefully performed!
Wal. [Starting up and drawing.] Sir!
Nev. [And the others, interposing.] Gentlemen!
True. All’s right! Sit down!—I will not draw again.A word with you: If—as a man—thou sayest,Upon thy honour, I have spoken wrong,I’ll ask thy pardon!—though I never holdCommunion with thee more!
Wal. [After a pause, putting up his sword.]My sword is sheathed!Wilt let me take thy hand?
True. ’Tis thine, good sir,And faster than before—A fault confessedIs a new virtue added to a man!Yet let me own some blame was mine. A truthMay be too harshly told—but ’tis a themeI am tender on—I had a sister, sir,You understand me!—’Twas my happinessTo own her once—I would forget her now!—I have forgotten!—I know not if she lives!—Things of such strain as we were speaking of,Spite of myself, remind me of her!—So!—
Nev. Sit down! Let’s have more wine.
Wild. Not so, good sirs.Partaking of your hospitality,I have overlooked good friends I came to visit,And who have late become sojourners here—Old country friends and neighbours, and with whomI e’en take up my quarters. Master Trueworth,Bear witness for me.
True. It is even so.Sir William Fondlove and his charming daughter.
Wild. Ay, neighbour Constance. Charming, does he say?Yes, neighbour Constance is a charming girlTo those that do not know her. If she plies meAs hard as was her custom in the country,I should not wonder though, this very day,I seek the home I quitted for a month! [Aside.]
Good even, gentlemen.
Hum. Nay, if you go,We all break up, and sally forth together.
Wal. Be it so—Your hand again, good Master Trueworth!I am sorry I did pain you.
True. It is thine, sir.
[They go out.]
[EnterSir William Fondlove.]
Sir Wil. At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings,Is an old child—and with a daughter, too!Her mother held me ne’er in check so straitAs she. I must not go but where she likes,Nor see but whom she likes, do anythingBut what she likes!—A slut bare twenty-one!Nor minces she commands! A brigadierMore coolly doth not give his orders outThan she! Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp;My steward adjutant; my lacqueys serjeants;That bring me her high pleasure how I marchAnd counter-march—when I’m on duty—whenI’m off—when suits it not to tell it meHerself—“Sir William, thus my mistress says!”As saying it were enough—no will of mineConsulted! I will marry. Must I serve,Better a wife, my mistress, than a daughter!And yet the vixen says, if I do marry,I’ll find she’ll rule my wife, as well as me!
[EnterTrueworth.]
Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth!
True. Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!
Sir Wil. Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill,’Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps;By strides we reach the bottom. Look at me,And guess my age.
True. Turned fifty.
Sir Wil. Ten years more!How marvellously well I wear! I thinkYou would not flatter me!—But scan me close,And pryingly, as one who seeks a thingHe means to find—What signs of age dost see?
True. None!
Sir Wil. None about the corners of the eyes?Lines that diverge like to the spider’s joists,Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?They call them crow’s feet—has the ugly birdBeen perching there?—Eh?—Well?
True. There’s something like,But not what one must see, unless he’s blindLike steeple on a hill!
Sir Wil. [After a pause.] Your eyes are good!I am certainly a wonder for my age;I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?
True. A plummet from your head would find your heel.
Sir Wil. It is my make—my make, good Master Trueworth;I do not study it. Do you observeThe hollow in my back? That’s natural.As now I stand, so stood I when a child,A rosy, chubby boy!—I am youthful toA miracle! My arm is firm as ’twasAt twenty. Feel it!
True. [FeelingSir William’sarm.] It is deal!
Sir Wil. Oak—oak,Isn’t it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known meTen years and upwards. Thinkest my leg is shrunk?
True. No.
Sir Wil. No! not in the calf?
True. As big a calfAs ever!
Sir Wil. Thank you, thank you—I believe it!When others waste, ’tis growing-time with me!I feel it, Master Trueworth! Vigour, sir,In every joint of me—could run!—could leap!Why shouldn’t I marry? Knife and fork I playBetter than many a boy of twenty-five—Why shouldn’t I marry? If they come to wine,My brace of bottles can I carry home,And ne’er a headache. Death! why shouldn’t I marry?
True. I see in nature no impediment.
Sir Wil. Impediment? She’s all appliances!—And fortune’s with me, too! The Widow GreenGives hints to me. The pleasant Widow GreenWhose fortieth year, instead of autumn, brings,A second summer in. Odds bodikins,How young she looks! What life is in her eyes!What ease is in her gait!—while, as she walks,Her waist, still tapering, takes it pliantly!How lollingly she bears her head withal:On this side now—now that! When enters sheA drawing-room, what worlds of gracious thingsHer curtsey says!—she sinks with such a sway,Greeting on either hand the company,Then slowly rises to her state again!She is the empress of the card-table!Her hand and arm!—Gods, did you see her deal—With curved and pliant wrist dispense the pack,Which, at the touch of her fair fingers fly!How soft she speaks—how very soft! Her voiceComes melting from her round and swelling throat,Reminding you of sweetest, mellowest things—Plums, peaches, apricots, and nectarines—Whose bloom is poor to paint her cheeks and lips.By Jove, I’ll marry!
True. You forget, Sir William,I do not know the lady.
Sir Wil. Great your loss.By all the gods I’ll marry!—but my daughterMust needs be married first. She rules my house;Would rule it still, and will not have me wed.A clever, handsome, darling, forward minx!When I became a widower, the reinsHer mother dropped she caught,—a hoyden girl;Nor, since, would e’er give up; howe’er I stroveTo coax or catch them from her. One way stillOr t’other she would keep them—laugh, pout, plead;Now vanquish me with water, now with fire;Would box my face, and, ere I well could opeMy mouth to chide her, stop it with a kiss!The monkey! What a plague she’s to me! HowI love her! how I love the Widow Green!
True. Then marry her!
Sir Wil. I tell thee, first of allMust needs my daughter marry. See I notA hope of that; she nought affects the sex:Comes suitor after suitor—all in vain.Fast as they bow she curtsies, and says, “Nay!”Or she, a woman, lacks a woman’s heart,Or hath a special taste which none can hit.
True. Or taste, perhaps, which is already hit.
Sir Wil. Eh!—how?
True. Remember you no country friend,Companion of her walks—her squire to church,Her beau whenever she went visiting—Before she came to town?
Sir Wil. No!
True. None?—art sure?No playmate when she was a girl?
Sir Wil. O! ay!That Master Wildrake, I did pray thee goAnd wait for at the inn; but had forgotten.Is he come?
True. And in the house. Some friends that met him,As he alighted, laid strong hands upon Him,And made him stop for dinner. We had elseBeen earlier with you.
Sir Wil. Ha! I am glad he is come.
True. She may be smit with him.
Sir Wil. As cat with dog!
True. He heard her voice as we did mount the stairs,And darted straight to join her.
Sir Wil. You shall seeWhat wondrous calm and harmony take place,When fire meets gunpowder!
Con. [Without.] Who sent for you?What made you come?
Wild. [Without.] To see the town, not you! A kiss!
Con. I vow I’ll not.
Wild. I swear you shall.
Con. A saucy cub! I vow, I had as liefYour whipper-in had kissed me.
Sir Wil. Do you hear?
True. I do. Most pleasing discords!
[EnterConstanceandWildrake.]
Con. Father, speakTo neighbour Wildrake!
Sir Wil. Very glad to see him!
Wild. I thank you, good Sir William! Give you joyOf your good looks!
Con. What, Phœbe!—Phœbe!—Phœbe!
Sir Wil. What wantest thou with thy lap-dog?
Con. Only, sir,To welcome neighbour Wildrake! What a figureTo show himself in town!
Sir Wil. Wilt hold thy peace?
Con. Yes; if you’ll lesson me to hold my laughter!Wildrake.
Wild. Well?
Con. Let me walk thee in the Park—How they would stare at thee!
Sir Wil. Wilt ne’er give o’er?
Wild. Nay, let her have her way—I heed her not!Though to more courteous welcome I have right;Although I am neighbour Wildrake! Reason is reason!
Con. And right is right! so welcome, neighbour Wildrake,I am very, very, very glad to see you!Come, for a quarter of an hour we’ll e’enAgree together! How do your horses, neighbour?
Wild. Pshaw!
Con. And your dogs?
Wild. Pshaw!
Con. Whipper-in and huntsman?
Sir Wil. Converse of things thou knowest to talk about!
Con. And keep him silent, father, when I knowHe cannot talk of any other things?How does thy hunter? What a sorry trickHe played thee t’other day, to balk his leapAnd throw thee, neighbour! Did he balk the leap?Confess! You sportsmen never are to blame!Say you are fowlers, ’tis your dog’s in fault!Say you are anglers, ’tis your tackle’s wrong;Say you are hunters, why the honest horseThat bears your weight, must bear your blunders too!Why, whither go you?
Wild. Anywhere from thee.
Con. With me you mean.
Wild. I mean it not.
Con. You do!I’ll give you fifty reasons for’t—and first,Where you go, neighbour, I’ll go!
[They go out—Wildrake, pettishly—Constancelaughing.]
Sir Wil. Do you mark?Much love is there!
True. Indeed, a heap, or none!I’d wager on the heap!
Sir Wil. Ay!—Do you thinkThese discords, as in the musicians’ art,Are subtle servitors to harmony?That all this war’s for peace? This wrangling butA masquerade where love his roguish faceConceals beneath an ugly visor!—Well?
True. Your guess and my conceit are not a mileApart. Unlike to other common flowers,The flower of love shews various in the bud;’Twill look a thistle, and ’twill blow a rose!And with your leave I’ll put it to the test;Affect myself, for thy fair daughter, love—Make him my confidant—dilate to himUpon the graces of her heart and mind,Feature and form—that well may comment bear—Till—like the practised connoisseur, who findsA gem of heart out in a household pictureThe unskilled owner held so cheap he grudgedRenewal of the chipped and tarnished frame,But values now as priceless—I arouse himInto a quick sense of the worth of thatWhose merit hitherto, from lack of skill,Or dulling habit of acquaintanceship,He has not been awake to.
Con. [Without.] Neighbour Wildrake!
Sir Wil. Hither they come. I fancy well thy game!O to be free to marry Widow Green!I’ll call her hence anon—then ply him well.
[Sir Williamgoes out.]
Wild. [Without.] Nay, neighbour Constance!
True. He is high in storm.
[EnterWildrakeandConstance.]
Wild. To Lincolnshire, I tell thee.
Con. Lincolnshire!What, prithee, takes thee off to Lincolnshire?
Wild. Too great delight in thy fair company.
True. Nay, Master Wildrake, why away so soon?You are scarce a day in town!—Extremes like this,And starts of purpose, are the signs of love.Though immatured as yet. [Aside.]
Con. He’s long enoughIn town! What should he here? He’s lost in town:No man is he for concerts, balls, or routs!No game he knows at cards, save rare Pope Joan!He ne’er could master dance beyond a jig;And as for music, nothing to compareTo the melodious yelping of a hound,Except the braying of his huntsman’s horn!Askhimto stay in town!
Sir Wil. [Without.] Hoa, Constance!
Con. Sir!—Neighbour, a pleasant ride to Lincolnshire!Good-bye!
Sir Wil. [Without.] Why, Constance!
Con. Coming, sir. Shake hands!Neighbour, good-bye! Don’t look so woe-begone;’Tis but a two-days’ ride, and thou wilt seeRover, and Spot, and Nettle, and the restOf thy dear country friends!
Sir Wil. [Without.] Constance! I say.
Con. Anon!—Commend me to the gentle souls,And pat them for me!—Will you, neighbour Wildrake?
Sir Wil. [Without.] Why, Constance! Constance!
Con. In a moment, sir!Good-bye!—I’d cry, dear neighbour—if I could!Good-bye!—A pleasant day when next you hunt!And, prithee, mind thy horse don’t balk his leap!Good-bye!—and, after dinner, drink my health!“A bumper, sirs, to neighbour Constance!”—Do!—And give it with a speech, wherein unfoldMy many graces, more accomplishments,And virtues topping either—in a word,How I’m the fairest, kindest, best of neighbours!
[They go out severally.—Trueworthtrying to pacifyWildrake—Constancelaughing.]
[EnterTrueworthandWildrake.]
Wild. Nay, Master Trueworth, I must needs be gone!She treats me worse and worse! I am a stock,That words have none to pay her. For her sakeI quit the town to-day. I like a jest,But hers are jests past bearing. I am her butt,She nothing does but practise on! A plague!—Fly her shafts ever your way?
True. Would they did!
Wild. Art mad?—or wishest she should drive thee so?
True. Thou knowest her not.
Wild. I know not neighbour Constance?Then know I not myself, or anythingWhich as myself I know!
True. Heigh ho!
Wild. Heigh ho!Why what a burden that for a man’s song!Would fit a maiden that was sick for love.Heigh ho! Come ride with me to Lincolnshire,And turn thy “Heigh ho!” into “hilly ho!”
True. Nay, rather tarry thou in town with me.Men sometimes find a friend’s hand of avail,When useless proves their own. Wilt lend me thine?
Wild. Or may my horse break down in a steeple-chase!
True. A steeple-chase. What made thee think of that?I’m for the steeple—not to ride a race,Only to get there!—nor alone, in sooth,But in fair company.
Wild. Thou’rt not in love!
True. Heigh ho!
Wild. Thou wouldst not marry!
True. With your help.
Wild. And whom, I prithee?
True. Gentle Mistress Constance!
Wild. What!—neighbour Constance?—Never did I dreamThat mortal man would fall in love with her. [Aside.]In love with neighbour Constance!—I feel strangeAt thought that she should marry!—[Aside.] Go to churchWith neighbour Constance! That’s a steeple-chaseI never thought of. I feel very strange!What seest in neighbour Constance?
True. Lovers’ eyesSee with a vision proper to themselves;Yet thousand eyes will vouch what mine affirm.First, then, I see in her the mould expressOf woman—stature, feature, body, limb—Breathing the gentle sex we value most,When most ’tis at antipodes with ours!
Wild. You mean that neighbour Constance is a woman.Why, yes; she is a woman, certainly.
True. So much for person. Now for her complexion.What shall we liken to her dainty skin?Her arm, for instance?—
Wild. Snow will match it.
True. Snow!It is her arm without the smoothness on’t;Then is not snow transparent. ’Twill not do.
Wild. A pearl’s transparent!
True. So it is, but yetYields not elastic to the thrilléd touch!I know not what to liken to her armExcept her beauteous fellow! Oh! to beThe chosen friend of two such neighbours!
Wild. WouldHis tongue would make a halt. He makes too freeWith neighbour Constance! Can’t he let her armsAlone! I trust their chosen friendWill ne’er be he! I’m vexed. [Aside.]
True. But graceful thingsGrow doubly graceful in the graceful use!Hast marked her ever walk the drawing-room?
Wild. [Snappishly.] No.
True. No! Why, where have been your eyes?
Wild. In my head!But I begin to doubt if open yet. [Aside.]
True. Yet that’s a trifle to the dance; down whichShe floats as though she were a form of air;The ground feels not her foot, or tells not on’t;Her movements are the painting of the strain,Its swell, its fall, its mirth, its tenderness!Then is she fifty Constances!—each momentAnother one, and each, except its fellow,Without a peer! You have danced with her!
Wild. I hateTo dance! I can’t endure to dance!—Of courseYou have danced with her?
True. I have.
Wild. You have?
True. I have.
Wild. I do abominate to dance!—could carveFiddlers and company! A dancing manTo me was ever like a dancing dog!Save less to be endured.—Ne’er saw I oneBut I bethought me of the master’s whip.
True. A man might bear the whip to dance with her!
Wild. Not if I had the laying of it on!
True. Well; let that pass. The lady is the theme.
Wild. Yes; make an end of it!—I’m sick of it. [Aside.]
True. How well she plays the harpsichord and harp!How well she sings to them! Whoe’er would proveThe power of song, should hear thy neighbour sing,Especially a love-song!
Wild. Does she singSuch songs to thee?
True. Oh, yes, and constantly.For such I ever ask her.
Wild. Forward minx! [Aside.]Maids should not sing love-songs to gentlemen!Think’st neighbour Constance is a girl to love?
True. A girl to love?—Ay, and with all her soul!
Wild. How know you that?
True. I have studied close the sex.
Wild. You town-rakes are the devil for the sex! [Aside.]
True. Not your most sensitive and serious maidI’d always take for deep impressions. MindThe adage of the bow. The pensive browI have oft seen bright in wedlock, and anonO’ercast in widowhood; then, bright again,Ere half the season of the weeds was out;While, in the airy one, I have known one cloudForerunner of a gloom that ne’er cleared up—So would it prove with neighbour Constance. NotOn superficial grounds she’ll ever love;But once she does, the odds are ten to oneHer first love is her last!
Wild. I wish I ne’erHad come to town! I was a happy manAmong my dogs and horses. [Aside.] Hast thou brokeThy passion to her?
True. Never.
Wild. Never?
True. No.I hoped you’d act my proxy there.
Wild. I thank you.
True. I knew ’twould be a pleasure to you.
Wild. Yes;A pleasure!—an unutterable pleasure!
True. Thank you! You make my happiness your own.
Wild. I do.
True. I see you do. Dear Master Wildrake!Oh, what a blessing is a friend in need!You’ll go and court your neighbour for me?
Wild. Yes.
True. And says she “nay” at first, you’ll press again?
Wild. Ay, and again!
True. There’s one thing I mistrust—yea, most mistrust,That of my poor deserts you’ll make too much.
Wild. Fear anything but that.
True. ’Twere better farYou slightly spoke of them.
Wild. You think so?
True. Yes.Or rather did not speak of them at all.
Wild. You think so?
True. Yes.
Wild. Then I’ll not say a wordAbout them.
True. Thank you! A judicious friendIs better than a zealous: you are both!I see you’ll plead my cause as ’twere your own;Then stay in town, and win your neighbour for me;Make me the envy of a score of menThat die for her as I do. Make her mine,And when the last “Amen!” declares completeThe mystic tying of the holy knot,And ’fore the priest a blushing wife she stands,Be thine the right to claim the second kissShe pays for change from maidenhood to wifehood.
[Goes out.]
Wild. Take that thyself! The first be mine, or none!A man in love with neighbour Constance! NeverDreamed I that such a thing could come to pass!Such person, such endowments, such a soul!I never thought to ask myself beforeIf she were man or woman! Suitors, too,Dying for her! I’ll e’en make one among ’em!Woo her to go to church along with him,And for my pains the privilege to takeThe second kiss? I’ll take the second kiss,And first one too—and last! No man shall touchHer lips but me. I’ll massacre the manThat looks upon her! Yet what chance have IWith lovers of the town, whose study ’tisTo please your lady belles!—who dress, walk, talk,To hit their tastes—what chance, a country squireLike me? Yet your true fair, I have heard, prefersThe man before his coat at any time;And such a one may neighbour Constance be.I’ll show a limb with any of them! SilksI’ll wear, nor keep my legs in cases more.I’ll learn to dance town-dances, and frequentTheir concerts! Die away at melting strains,Or seem to do so—far the easier thing,And as effective quite; leave naught undoneTo conquer neighbour Constance.
[EnterLash.]
Lash. Sir.
Wild. Well, sir?
Lash. So please you, sir, your horse is at the door.
Wild. Unsaddle him again and put him up.And, hark you, get a tailor for me, sir—The rarest can be found.
Lash. The man’s below, sir,That owns the mare your worship thought to buy.
Wild. Tell him I do not want her, sir.
Lash. I vowYou will not find her like in Lincolnshire.
Wild. Go to! She’s spavined.
Lash. Sir!
Wild. Touched in the wind.
Lash. I trust my master be not touched in the head!I vow, a faultless beast! [Aside.]
Wild. I want her not,And that’s your answer. Go to the hosier’s, sir,And bid him send me samples of his gear,Of twenty different kinds.
Lash. I will, sir.—Sir!
Wild. Well, sir.
Lash. Squire Brush’s huntsman’s here, and saysHis master’s kennel is for sale.
Wild. The dogsAre only fit for hanging!—
Lash. Finer bred—
Wild. Sirrah, if more to me thou talkest of dogs,Horses, or aught that to thy craft belongs,Thou mayst go hang for me!—A cordwainerGo fetch me straight—the choicest in the town.Away, sir! Do thy errands smart and wellAs thou canst crack thy whip! [Lashgoes out.]Dear neighbour Constance,I’ll give up horses, dogs, and all for thee!
[Goes out.]
[EnterWidow GreenandLydia.]
W. Green. Lydia, my gloves. If Master Waller calls,I shall be in at three; and say the sameTo old Sir William Fondlove. Tarry yet!—What progress, think you, make I in the heartOf fair young Master Waller? Gods, my girl,It is a heart to win and man as well!How speed I, think you? Didst, as I desired,Detain him in my absence when he called,And, without seeming, sound him touching me?
Lydia. Yes.
W. Green. And effects he me, or not? How guess you?What said he of me? Looked he balked, or not,To find me not at home? Inquired he whenI would be back, as much he longed to see me?What did he—said he? Come!—Is he in love,Or like to fall into it? Goes well my game,Or shall I have my labour for my pains?
Lydia. I think he is in love.—O poor evasion!O to love truth, and yet not dare to speak it! [Aside.]
W. Green. You think he is in love—I’m sure of it.As well have asked you has he eyes and ears,And brain and heart to use them? Maids do throwTrick after trick away, but widows knowTo play their cards! How am I looking, Lydia?
Lydia. E’en as you ever look.
W. Green. Handsome, my girl?Eh? Clear in my complexion? Eh?—brimfulOf spirits? not too much of me, nor yetToo little?—Eh?—A woman worth a man?Look at me, Lydia! Would you credit, girl,I was a scarecrow before marriage?
Lydia. Nay!—
W. Green. Girl, but I tell thee “yea.” That gown of thine—And thou art slender—would have hung about me!There’s something of me now! good sooth, enough!Lydia, I’m quite contented with myself;I’m just the thing, methinks, a widow should be.So, Master Waller, you believe, affects me?But, Lydia, not enough to hook the fish;To prove the angler’s skill, it must be caught;And lovers, Lydia, like the angler’s prey—Which, when he draws it near the landing-place,Takes warning and runs out the slender line,And with a spring perchance jerks off the hold—When we do fish for them, and hook, and thinkThey are all but in the creel, will make the dartThat sets them free to roam the flood again!
Lydia. Is’t so?
W. Green. Thou’lt find it so, or better luckThan many another maid! Now mark me, Lydia:Sir William Fondlove fancies me. ’Tis well!I do not fancy him! What should I doWith an old man?—Attend upon the gout,Or the rheumatics! Wrap me in the cloudOf a darkened chamber—’stead of shining out,The sun of balls, and routs, and gala-days!But he affects me, Lydia; so he may!Now take a lesson from me—JealousyHad better go with open, naked breast,Than pin or button with a gem. Less plague,The plague-spot; that doth speedy make an endOne way or t’other, girl. Yet, never loveWas warm without a spice of jealousy.Thy lesson now—Sir William Fondlove’s rich,And riches, though they’re paste, yet being many,The jewel love we often cast away for.I use him but for Master Waller’s sake.Dost like my policy?
Lydia. You will not chide me?
W. Green. Nay, Lydia, I do like to hear thy thoughts,They are such novel things—plants that do thriveWith country air! I marvel still they flower,And thou so long in town! Speak freely, girl!
Lydia. I cannot think love thrives by artifice,Or can disguise its mood, and show its face.I would not hide one portion of my heartWhere I did give it and did feel ’twas right,Nor feign a wish, to mask a wish that was,Howe’er to keep it. For no cause exceptMyself would I be loved. What were’t to me,My lover valued me the more, the moreHe saw me comely in another’s eyes,When his alone the vision I would showBecoming to? I have sought the reason oft,They paint Love as a child, and still have thought,It was because true love, like infancy,Frank, trusting, unobservant of its mood,Doth show its wish at once, and means no more!
W. Green. Thou’lt find out better when thy time doth come.Now wouldst believe I love not Master Waller?I never knew what love was, Lydia;That is, as your romances have it. First,I married for a fortune. Having that,And being freed from him that brought it me,I marry now, to please my vanity,A man that is the fashion. O the delightOf a sensation, and yourself the cause!To note the stir of eyes, and ears, and tongues,When they do usher Mistress Waller in,Late Widow Green, her hand upon the armOf her young, handsome husband!—How my fanWill be in requisition—I do feelMy heart begin to flutter now—my bloodTo mount into my cheek! My honeymoonWill be a month of triumphs!—“Mistress Waller!”That name, for which a score of damsels sigh,And but the widow had the wit to win!Why, it will be the talk of east to west,And north and south!—The children loved the man,And lost him so—I liked, but there I stopped;For what is it to love, but mind and heartAnd soul upon another to depend?Depend upon another? Nothing beBut what another wills? Give up the rightsOf mine own brain and heart? I thank my starsI never came to that extremity.
[Goes out.]
Lydia. She never loved, indeed! She knows not love,Except what’s told of it! She never felt it.To stem a torrent, easy, looking at it;But once you venture in, you nothing knowExcept the speed with which you’re borne away,Howe’er you strive to check it. She suspects notHer maid, not she, brings Master Waller hither.Nor dare I undeceive her. Well might she sayHer young and handsome husband! Yet his faceAnd person are the least of him, and vanishWhen shines his soul out through his open eye!He all but says he loves me! His respectHas vanquished me! He looks the will to speakHis passion, and the fear that ties his tongue—The fear? He loves not honestly, and yetI’ll swear he loves—I’ll swear he honours me!It is but my condition is a bar,Denies him give me all. But knew he meAs I do know myself! Whate’er his purpose,When next we speak, he shall declare it to me.
[Goes out.]
[EnterConstance, dressed for riding, andPhœbe.]
Con. Well, Phœbe, would you know me? Are those locksThat cluster on my forehead and my cheek,Sufficient mask? Show I what I would seem,A lady for the chase? My darkened browsAnd heightened colour, foreign to my face,Do they my face pass off for stranger too?What think you?
Phœbe. That he’ll ne’er discover you.
Con. Then send him to me. Say a lady wantsTo speak with him, unless indeed it beA man in lady’s gear; I look so boldAnd speak so gruff. Away! [Phœbegoes out.] That I am gladHe stays in town, I own, but if I am,’Tis only for the tricks I’ll play upon him,And now begin, persuading him his fameHath made me fancy him, and brought me hitherOn visit to his worship. Soft, his foot!Thishe? Why, what has metamorphosed him,And changed my sportsman to fine gentleman?Well he becomes his clothes! But, check my wonder,Lest I forget myself. Why, what an airThe fellow hath. A man to set a cap at!
[EnterWildrake.]
Wild. Kind lady, I attend your fair commands.
Con. My veiléd face denies me justice, sir,Else would you see a maiden’s blushing cheekDo penance for her forwardness; too late,I own, repented of. Yet if ’tis true,By our own hearts of others we may judge,Mine in no peril lies that’s shown to you,Whose heart, I’m sure, is noble. Worthy sir,Souls attract souls when they’re of kindred vein.The life that you love, I love. Well I know,’Mongst those who breast the feats of the bold chase,You stand without a peer; and for myselfI dare avow ’mong such, none follows themWith heartier glee than I do.
Wild. Churl were heThat would gainsay you, madam.
Con. [Curtseying.] What delightTo back the flying steed, that challengesThe wind for speed!—seems native more of airThan earth!—whose burden only lends him fire!—Whose soul, in his task, turns labour into sport;Who makes your pastime his! I sit him now!He takes away my breath! He makes me reel!I touch not earth—I see not—hear not. AllIs ecstasy of motion!
Wild. You are used,I see, to the chase.
Con. I am, sir. Then the leap,To see the saucy barrier, and knowThe mettle that can clear it! Then, your timeTo prove you master of the manège. NowYou keep him well together for a space,Both horse and rider braced as you were one,Scanning the distance—then you give him rein,And let him fly at it, and o’er he goesLight as a bird on wing.
Wild. ’Twere a bold leap,I see, that turned you, madam.
Con. [Curtseying.] Sir, you’re good!And then the hounds, sir! Nothing I admireBeyond the running of the well-trained pack.The training’s everything! Keen on the scent!At fault none losing heart!—but all at work!None leaving his task to another!—answeringThe watchful huntsman’s cautions, check, or cheer.As steed his rider’s rein! Away they go!How close they keep together! What a pack!Nor turn, nor ditch, nor stream divides them—asThey moved with one intelligence, act, will!And then the concert they keep up!—enoughTo make one tenant of the merry wood,To list their jocund music!
Wild. You describeThe huntsman’s pastime to the life.
Con. I love it!To wood and glen, hamlet and town, it isA laughing holiday! Not a hill-topBut’s then alive! Footmen with horsemen vie,All earth’s astir, roused with the revelryOf vigour, health, and joy! Cheer awakes cheer,While Echo’s mimic tongue, that never tires,Keeps up the hearty din! Each face is thenIts neighbour’s glass—where Gladness sees itself,And at the bright reflection grows more glad!Breaks into tenfold mirth!—laughs like a child!Would make a gift of its heart, it is so free!Would scarce accept a kingdom, ’tis so rich!Shakes hands with all, and vows it never knewThat life was life before!
Wild. Nay, every wayYou do fair justice, lady, to the chase;But fancies change.
Con. Such fancy is not mine.
Wild. I would it were not mine, for your fair sake.I have quite given o’er the chase.
Con. You say not so!
Wild. Forsworn, indeed, the sportsman’s life, and grown,As you may partly see, town-gentleman.I care not now to mount a steed, unlessTo amble ’long the street; no paces mind,Except my own, to walk the drawing-room,Or in the ball-room to come off with grace;No leap for me, to match the light coupé;No music like the violin and harp,To which the huntsman’s dog and horn I findAre somewhat coarse and homely minstrelsy:Then fields of ill-dressed rustics, you’ll confess,Are well exchanged for rooms of beaux and belles;In short, I’ve ta’en another thought of life—Become another man!
Con. The cause, I pray?
Wild. The cause of causes, lady.
Con. He’s in love! [Aside.]
Wild. To you, of women, I would name it last;Yet your frank bearing merits like return;I, that did hunt the game, am caught myselfIn chase I never dreamed of!
[Goes out.]
Con. He is in love!Wildrake’s in love! ’Tis that keeps him in town,Turns him from sportsman to town-gentleman.I never dreamed that he could be in love!In love with whom?—I’ll find the vixen out!What right has she to set her cap at him?I warrant me, a forward, artful minx;I hate him worse than ever. I’ll do allI can to spoil the match. He’ll never marry—Sure he will never marry! He will haveMore sense than that! My back doth ope and shut—My temples throb and shoot—I am cold and hot!Were he to marry, there would be an endTo neighbour Constance—neighbour Wildrake—why,I should not know myself!
[EnterTrueworth.]
Dear Master Trueworth,What think you!—neighbour Wildrake is in love!In love! Would you believe it, Master Trueworth?Ne’er heed my dress and looks, but answer me.Knowest thou of any lady he has seenThat’s like to cozen him?
True. I am not sure—We talked to-day about the Widow Green!
Con. Her that my father fancies. Let him wed her!Marry her to-morrow—if he will, to-night.I can’t spare neighbour Wildrake—neighbour Wildrake!Although I would not marry him myself,I could not hear that other married him!Go to my father—’tis a proper match!He has my leave! He’s welcome to bring homeThe Widow Green. I’ll give up house and all!She would be mad to marry neighbour Wildrake;He would wear out her patience—plague her to death,As he does me. She must not marry him!
[They go out.]
[EnterMaster Waller, followingLydia.]
Wal. But thou shalt hear me, gentle Lydia.Sweet maiden, thou art frightened at thyself!Thy own perfections ’tis that talk to thee.Thy beauty rich!—thy richer grace!—thy mind,More rich again than that, though richest each!Except for these, I had no tongue for thee,Eyes for thee!—ears!—had never followed thee!—Had never loved thee, Lydia! Hear me!—
Lydia. LoveShould seek its match. No match am I for thee.
Wal. Right! Love should seek its match; and that is, loveOr nothing! Station—fortune—find their matchIn things resembling them. They are not love!Comes love (that subtle essence, without whichLife were but leaden dulness!—weariness!A plodding trudger on a heavy road!)Comes it of title-deeds which fools may boast?Or coffers vilest hands may hold the keys of?Or that ethereal lamp that lights the eyesTo shed the sparkling lustre o’er the face,Gives to the velvet skin its blushing glow,And burns as bright beneath the peasant’s roofAs roof of palaced prince? Yes, Love should seekIts match—then give my love its match in thine,Its match which in thy gentle breast doth lodgeSo rich—so earthly, heavenly fair and rich,As monarchs have no thought of on their thrones,Which kingdoms do bear up.
Lydia. Wast thou a monarch,Me wouldst thou make thy queen?
Wal. I would.
Lydia. What! PassA princess by for me?
Wal. I would.
Lydia. SupposeThy subjects would prevent thee?
Wal. Then, in spiteOf them!
Lydia. Suppose they were too strong for thee?
Wal. Why, then I’d give them up my throne—contentWith that thou’dst yield me in thy gentle breast.
Lydia. Can subjects do what monarchs do?
Wal. Far more!Far less!
Lydia. Among those things, where more their power,Is marriage one?
Wal. Yes.
Lydia. And no part of love,You say, is rank or wealth?
Wal. No part of love.
Lydia. Is marriage part of love?
Wal. At times it is,At times is not. Men love and marry—loveAnd marry not.
Lydia. Then have they not the power;So must they hapless part with those they love.
Wal. Oh, no! not part! How could they love and part?
Lydia. How could they love not part, not free to wed?
Wal. Alone in marriage doth not union lie!
Lydia. Alone where hands are free! O yes—alone!Love that is love, bestoweth all it can!It is protection, if ’tis anything,Which nothing in its object leaves exposedIts care can shelter. Love that’s free to wed,Not wedding, but profanes the name of love;Which is, on high authority to Earth’s,For Heaven did sit approving at its feast,A holy thing! Why make you love to me?Women whose hearts are free, by nature tender,Their fancies hit by those they are besought by,Do first impressions quickly—deeply take;And, balked in their election, have been knownTo droop a whole life through! Gain for a maid,A broken heart!—to barter her young love,And find she changed it for a counterfeit!
Wal. If there is truth in man, I love thee! Hear me!In wedlock, families claim property.Old notions, which we needs must humour often,Bar us to wed where we are forced to love!Thou hear’st?
Lydia. I do.
Wal. My family is proud;Our ancestor, whose arms we bear, did winAn earldom by his deeds. ’Tis not enoughI please myself! I must please others, whoDesert in wealth and station only see.Thou hear’st?
Lydia. I do.
Wal. I cannot marry thee,And must I lose thee? Do not turn away!Without the altar I can honour thee!Can cherish thee, nor swear it to the priest;For more than life I love thee!
Lydia. Say thou hatest me,And I’ll believe thee! Wherein differs loveFrom hate, to do the work of hate—destroy?Thy ancestor won title to his deeds!Was one of them, to teach an honest maidThe deed of sin—first steal her love, and thenHer virtue? If thy family is proud,Mine, sir, is worthy! if we are poor, the lackOf riches, sir, is not the lack of shame,That I should act a part, would raise a blush,Nor fear to burn an honest brother’s cheek!Thou wouldst share a throne with me! Thou wouldst rob me ofA throne!—reduce me from dominion toBase vassalage!—pull off my crown for me,And give my forehead in its place a brand!You have insulted me. To shew you, sir,The heart you make so light of, you are beloved—But she that tells you so, tells you besideShe ne’er beholds you more!
[Goes out.]
Wal. Stay, Lydia!—No!’Tis vain! She is in virtue resolute,As she is bland and tender in affection.She is a miracle, beholding whichWonder doth grow on wonder! What a maid!No mood but doth become her—yea, adorn her.She turns unsightly anger into beauty!Sour scorn grows sweetness, touching her sweet lips!And indignation, lighting on her brow,Transforms to brightness as the cloud to goldThat overhangs the sun! I love her! Ay!And all the throes of serious passion feelAt thought of losing her!—so my light love,Which but her person did at first affect,Her soul has metamorphosed—made a thingOf solid thoughts and wishes—I must have her!
[EnterWidow Green, unnoticed bySir Waller, who continues abstracted.]
W. Green. What! Master Waller, and contemplative!Presumptive proof of love! Of me he thinks!Revolves the point “to be or not to be!”“To be!” by all the triumphs of my sex!There was a sigh! My life upon’t, that sigh,If construed, would translate “Dear Widow Green!”
Wal. Enchanting woman!
W. Green. That is I!—most deepAbstraction, sure concomitant of love.Now, could I see his busy fancy’s painting,How should I blush to gaze upon myself.
Wal. The matchless form of woman! The choice callingOf the aspiring artist, whose ambitionRobs Nature to outdo her—the perfectionsOf her rare various workmanship combinesTo aggrandise his art at Nature’s cost,And make a paragon!
W. Green. Gods! how he draws me!Soon as he sees me, at my feet he falls!—Good Master Waller!
Wal. Ha! The Widow Green!
W. Green. He is confounded! So am I. O dear!How catching is emotion. He can’t speak!O beautiful confusion! AmiableExcess of modesty with passion struggling!Now comes he to declare himself, but wantsThe courage. I must help him.—Master Waller!
[EnterSir William Fondlove.]
Sir Wil. Dear Widow Green!
W. Green. Sir William Fondlove!
Wal. ThankMy lucky stars! [Aside.]
W. Green. I would he had the gout,And kept his room! [Aside.]—You’re welcome, dear Sir William!’Tis very, very kind of you to call.Sir William Fondlove—Master Waller. PrayBe seated, gentlemen.—He shall requite meFor his untimely visit. Though the nailBe driven home, it may want clinching yetTo make the hold complete! For that, I’ll use him.—[Aside.]You’re looking monstrous well, Sir William! andNo wonder. You’re a mine of happy spirits!Some women talk of such and such a styleOf features in a man. Give me good humour;That lights the homeliest visage up with beauty,And makes the face, where beauty is already,Quite irresistible!
Sir Wil. That’s hitting hard. [Aside.]Dear Widow Green, don’t say so! On my lifeYou flatter me. You almost make me blush.
W. Green. I durst not turn to Master Waller now,Nor need I. I can fancy how he looks!I warrant me he scowls on poor Sir William,As he could eat him up. I must improveHis discontent, and so make sure of him.—[Aside.]I flatter you, Sir William! O, you men!You men, that talk so meek, and all the whileDo know so well your power! Who would thinkYou had a marriageable daughter! YouDid marry very young.
Sir Wil. A boy!—a boy!Who knew not his own mind.
W. Green. Your daughter’s twenty.Come, you at least were twenty when you married;That makes you forty.
Sir Wil. O dear! Widow Green.
W. Green. Not forty?
Sir Wil. You do quite embarrass me!I own I have the feelings of a boy,The freshness and the glow of spring-time, yet,—The relish yet for my young schooldays’ sports;Could whip a top—could shoot at taw—could playAt prison-bars and leapfrog—so I might—Not with a limb, perhaps, as supple, butWith quite as supple will. Yet I confessTo more than forty!
W. Green. Do you say so? Well,I’ll never guess a man’s age by his looksAgain.—Poor Master Waller! He must writheTo hear I think Sir William is so young.I’ll turn his visit yet to more account.—[Aside.]A handsome ring, Sir William, that you wear!
Sir Wil. Pray look at it.
W. Green. The mention of a ringWill take away his breath.
Wal. She must be mineWhate’er her terms! [Aside.]
W. Green. I’ll steal a look at him!
Wal. What! though it be the ring?—the marriage ring?If that she sticks at, she deserves to wear it!Oh, the debate which love and prudence hold! [Aside.]
W. Green. How highly he is wrought upon! His handsAre clenched!—I warrant me his frame doth shake!Poor Master Waller! I have filled his heartBrimful with passion for me. The delightOf proving thus my power!
Sir Wil. Dear Widow Green!—She hears not! How the ring hath set her thinking!I’ll try and make her jealous. [Aside.]—Widow Green!
W. Green. Sir William Fondlove!
Sir Wil. Would you think that ringCould tell a story?
W. Green. Could it? Ah, Sir William,I fear you are a rogue.
Sir Wil. O no!
W. Green. You are!
Sir Wil. No, on my honour! Would you like to hearThe story of the ring?
W. Green. Much—very much.
Sir Wil. Think’st we may venture draw our chairs apartA little more from Master Waller?
W. Green. Yes.He’ll bring it to a scene! Dear—dear Sir William,How much I am obliged to him! A scene!Gods, we shall have a scene!—Good Master Waller,Your leave I pray you for a minute, whileSir William says a word or two to me.—He durst not trust his tongue for jealousy!—[Aside.]Now, dear Sir William!
Sir Wil. You must promise meYou will not think me vain.
W. Green. No fear of that.
Sir Wil. Nor given to boast.
W. Green. O! dear Sir William!
Sir Wil. NorA flirt!
W. Green. O! who would take you for a flirt?
Sir Wil. How very kind you are!
W. Green. Go on, Sir William.
Sir Wil. Upon my life, I fear you’ll think me vain!I’m covered with confusion at the thoughtOf what I’ve done. ’Twas very, very wrongTo promise you the story of the ring;Men should not talk of such things.
W. Green. Such as what?As ladies’ favours?
Sir Wil. ’Pon my life, I feelAs I were like to sink into the earth.
W. Green. A lady then it was gave you the ring?
Sir Wil. Don’t ask me to say yes, but only scanThe inside of the ring.—How much she’s moved. [Aside.]
Wal. They to each other company enough!I, company for no one but myself.I’ll take my leave, nor trouble them to payThe compliments of parting. Lydia! Lydia!
[Goes out.]
W. Green. What’s here? “Eliza!” So it was a lady!—How wondrously does Master Waller bear it!He surely will not hold much longer out.—[Aside.]Sir William! Nay, look up! What cause to castYour eyes upon the ground? What an it wereA lady?
Sir Wil. You’re not angry?
W. Green. No!
Sir Wil. She is.I’ll take the tone she speaks in ’gainst the word,For fifty crowns.—I have not told you allAbout the ring; though I would sooner dieThan play the braggart!—yet, as truth is truth,And told by halves, may from a simple thing,By misconstruction, to a monster grow,I’ll tell the whole truth!
W. Green. Dear Sir William, do!
Sir Wil. The lady was a maid, and very young;Nor there in justice to her must I stop,But say that she was beautiful as young;And add to that that she was learned too,Almost enough to win for her that title,Our sex, in poor conceit of their own merits,And narrow spirit of monopoly,And jealousy, which gallantry eschews,Do give to women who assert their rightTo minds as well as we.
W. Green. What! a blue-stocking?
Sir Wil. I see—she’ll come to calling names at last.—[Aside.]I should offend myself to quote the term.But, to return, for yet I have not done;And further yet may go, then progress onThat she was young, that she was beautiful.A wit and learned are naught to what’s to come—She had a heart!—
W. Green. [Who duringSir William’sspeech has turned gradually.]What, Master Waller gone! [Aside.]
Sir Wil. I say she had a heart—
W. Green. [Starting up—Sir Williamalso.] A plague upon her!
Sir Wil. I knew she would break out! [Aside.]
W. Green. Here, take the ring. It has ruined me!
Sir Wil. I vow thou hast no causeFor anger!
W. Green. Have I not? I am undone,And all about that bauble of a ring.
Sir Wil. You’re right, it is a bauble.
W. Green. And the minxThat gave it thee!
Sir Wil. You’re right, she was a minx.I knew she’d come to calling names at last. [Aside.]
W. Green. Sir William Fondlove, leave me.
Sir Wil. Widow Green!—
W. Green. You have undone me, sir!
Sir Wil. Don’t say so! Don’t!It was a girl—a child gave me the ring!
W. Green. Do you hear me, sir? I bade you leave me.
Sir Wil. IfI thought you were so jealous—
W. Green. Jealous, sir!Sir William! quit my house.
Sir Wil. A little girlTo make you jealous!