FOOTNOTES:

Cast.If I survive thee! what a thought was that!Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!

EnterChamont,disarmed, and held byAcastoandServants.

Cham.Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,If I forgive your house, if I not liveAn everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,And all thy race! You've overpowered me now;But hear me, Heaven!—Ah! here's the scene of death.My sister, my Monimia! breathless!—Now,Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!Acast.My Polydore!Pol.Who calls?Acast.How camest thou wounded?Cast.Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,And leave me to my sorrows.Cham.By the loveI bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.Cast.Vanish, I charge thee, or—[Draws a dagger.Cham.Thou canst not kill me;That would be kindness, and against thy nature.Acast.What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pullMore sorrows on thy agèd father's head.Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad causeOf all this ruin.Pol.That must be my task:But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;You'll in my closet find the story writtenOf all our woes. Castalio's innocent,And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:Inquire no farther.Cast.Thou, unkind Chamont,Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,Come join with me and curse.Cham.What?Cast.First thyself,As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.Confusion and disorder seize the world,To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;'Twixt families engender endless feuds,In countries needless fears, in cities factions,In states rebellion, and in churches schism;Till all things move against the course of nature;Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,And the originals of being lost!Acast.Have patience.Cast.Patience! preach it to the winds,To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knavesThat teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.Strip me of all the common needs of life,Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degreeThat I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more.[23][Stabs himself.

Acast.My Polydore!

Pol.Who calls?

Acast.How camest thou wounded?

Cast.Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,And leave me to my sorrows.

Cham.By the loveI bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.

Cast.Vanish, I charge thee, or—[Draws a dagger.

Cham.Thou canst not kill me;That would be kindness, and against thy nature.

Acast.What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pullMore sorrows on thy agèd father's head.Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad causeOf all this ruin.

Pol.That must be my task:But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;You'll in my closet find the story writtenOf all our woes. Castalio's innocent,And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:Inquire no farther.

Cast.Thou, unkind Chamont,Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,Come join with me and curse.

Cham.What?

Cast.First thyself,As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.Confusion and disorder seize the world,To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;'Twixt families engender endless feuds,In countries needless fears, in cities factions,In states rebellion, and in churches schism;Till all things move against the course of nature;Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,And the originals of being lost!

Acast.Have patience.

Cast.Patience! preach it to the winds,To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knavesThat teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.Strip me of all the common needs of life,Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degreeThat I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more.[23][Stabs himself.

[Dies.

Pol.Castalio! Oh!Cast.I come.Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,

Pol.Castalio! Oh!

Cast.I come.Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,

[Acastofaints into the arms of aServant.

For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt findI never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.Now all I beg is, lay me in one graveThus with my love. Farewell! I now am—nothing.[Dies.Cham.Take care of good Acasto, whilst I goTo search the means by which the fates have plagued us.'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;It may afflict, but man must not complain.[Exeunt.

Cham.Take care of good Acasto, whilst I goTo search the means by which the fates have plagued us.'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;It may afflict, but man must not complain.[Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:[23]This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends on his own sympathy with the situation.

[23]This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends on his own sympathy with the situation.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Serina.

You've seen one Orphan ruined here; and IMay be the next, if old Acasto die.Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you findWho 'tis would to the fatherless be kind.To whose protection might I safely go?Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.What should I do? Should I the godly seek,And go a conventicling twice a week;Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,Affect each form and saint-like institution;So draw the brethren all to contribution?Or shall I (as I guess the poet mayWithin these three days) fairly run away?No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire;Seem very grave, and privacy desire;Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:Which may produce a story worth the telling,Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.

Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus.[24]—

Martial, Lib. I., Ep. 39.

ThisPlay is neither more nor less indecent than Otway's other comedies, but less uninteresting, on account of its autobiographical allusions to the writer's own adventures in Flanders, and the disbandment without their pay of the troops he was sent to join. Like most of the old comedies, this one throws light upon the manners, customs, and costumes of the period represented. Its distinctive quality is a certain rollicking vein of fun and mere buffoonery, together with a rapidity of movement and variety of incident, that vindicate the work from any charge of absolute dulness—nay, it is undeniably amusing to those whose stomach is strong enough not to be nauseated with the dirt. The play is not a mere jumble of bustling incidents, as many of the contemporary comedies are, written by one who "faggoted his notions as they fell." At least the main intrigue is regular and connected, and the characters speak naturally.

Otway wrote hastily, and "lived to please," since he must "please to live."The Soldier's Fortuneis the kind of thing that pleased very much. For Downes tells us that the play was extraordinarily successful, bringing both profit and reputation to the theatre. Betterton acted the part of Beaugard, and Mrs. Barry played Lady Dunce. The dedication to Bentley, the publisher, is unique and curious, while the Epilogue shows the gloomy and bitter feelings to which the writer was now frequently a prey. Langbaine and Thornton have respectively drawn attention to the many different sources from which much of the plot and material of the play seems to have been taken. Thus Lady Dunce's scheme for conveying the ring and letter to her lover may be found in several earlier plays, and Otway probably derived it from Molière'sL'Ecole des Maris; the story comes originally from Boccaccio.

The Soldier's Fortunewas acted in 1681 and printed in 4to in the same year. In 1748 a farce, founded upon it, was brought out at Covent Garden, but was never printed.

Ihave often (during this play's being in the press) been importuned for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a preface to the book.

And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr. Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part with ready money for.

As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance, I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay, I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once brought into the world, e'en let the brat shift for itself, I say.

The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must confess, are very grievous—

First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think civilly of her: "Faugh! Oh, sherreu! 'tis so filthy, so bawdy, no modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick!" When theworld lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington, and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct; they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics, and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing calledbawdy. So, Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent neither.

This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will complete the wishes of

Your Friend and Servant,THO. OTWAY.

FOOTNOTES:[24]"The lines you read were writ by me alone,But your bad reading makes them half your own."—H. S.

[24]"The lines you read were writ by me alone,But your bad reading makes them half your own."—H. S.

[24]

"The lines you read were writ by me alone,But your bad reading makes them half your own."—H. S.

PROLOGUE.

By Lord Falkland.

Forsaken dames with less concern reflectOn their inconstant hero's cold neglectThan we (provoked by this ungrateful age)Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.With grief we see you ravished from our arms,And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime!)When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,And we believed your treach'rous hearts as trueAs e'er was nymph of ours to one of you.But a more powerful Saint[25]enjoys ye now;Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:To her are all your pious vows addressed;She's both your love's and your religion's test,The fairest prelate of her time, and best.We own her more deserving far than we,A just excuse for your inconstancy.Yet 'twas unkindly done to leave us so;First to betray with love, and then undo,A horrid crime you're all addicted to.Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.But all rash oaths of love and constancyWith the too short, forgotten pleasures die;Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,Still drudges on with vain desire to please;And restless follows you from place to place,For tributes due to her autumnal face.Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,How can we hope you'll e'er return again?Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,Wit now's our only treasure left in store,And that's a coin will pass with you no more.You who such dreadful bullies would appear,—True bullies! quiet when there's danger near,—Show your great souls in damning poets here.

FOOTNOTES:[25]This was theFemale Prelate, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon the well-known story of a female Pope.

[25]This was theFemale Prelate, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon the well-known story of a female Pope.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE—London.

THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE.

EnterBeaugard,Courtine,andFourbin.

Beau. A pox o' fortune! Thou art always teasing me about fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth; nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned, since the world's so wide!Cour.As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in it.Beau.Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.Cour.At you I ought to rail; 'twas your fault we left our employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as loyally starve for it.Beau.Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity could never thrive since.Cour.'Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a—Beau.Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.Cour.My companions the worthy knights of the most noble order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the Temple-walks,[26]rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.Beau.I am ashamed to hear a soldier talk of starving.Cour.Why, what shall I do? I can't steal.Beau.Though thou canst not steal, thou hast other vices enough for any industrious fellow to live comfortably upon.Cour.What! wouldst thou have me turn rascal, and run cheating up and down the town for a livelihood? I would no more keep a blockhead company, and endure his nauseous nonsense, in hopes to get him, than I would be a drudge to an old woman with rheumatic eyes, hollow teeth, and stinking breath, for a pension: of all rogues, I would not be a fool-monger.Beau.How well this niceness becomes thee! I'd fain see e'en thee turn parson in a pet, o' purpose to rail at all those vices which I know thou naturallyart fond of. Why, surely an old lady's pension need not be so despicable in the eyes of a disbanded officer, as times go, friend.Cour.I am glad, Beaugard, you think so.Beau.Why thou shalt think so too, man; be ruled by me, and I'll bring thee into good company,—families, Courtine, families; and such families, where formality's a scandal, and pleasure is the business; where the women are all wanton, and the men all witty, you rogue.Cour.What, some of your worship's Wapping acquaintance, that you made last time you came over for recruits, and spirited away your landlady's daughter a-volunteering with you into France?Beau.I'll bring thee, Courtine, where cuckoldom's in credit, and lewdness laudable; where thou shalt wallow in pleasures and preferments, revel all day, and every night lie in the arms of melting beauty, sweet as roses, and as springs refreshing.Cour.Pr'ythee don't talk thus; I had rather thou wouldst tell me where new levies are to be raised: a pox of whores, when a man has not money to make 'em comfortable!Beau.That shall shower upon us in abundance; and for instance, know, to thy everlasting amazement, all this dropped out of the clouds to-day.Cour.Ha! gold, by this light!Four.Out of the clouds?Beau.Ay, gold! does it not smell of the sweet hand that sent it? Smell—smell, you dog!

Cour.As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in it.

Beau.Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.

Cour.At you I ought to rail; 'twas your fault we left our employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as loyally starve for it.

Beau.Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity could never thrive since.

Cour.'Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a—

Beau.Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.

Cour.My companions the worthy knights of the most noble order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the Temple-walks,[26]rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.

Beau.I am ashamed to hear a soldier talk of starving.

Cour.Why, what shall I do? I can't steal.

Beau.Though thou canst not steal, thou hast other vices enough for any industrious fellow to live comfortably upon.

Cour.What! wouldst thou have me turn rascal, and run cheating up and down the town for a livelihood? I would no more keep a blockhead company, and endure his nauseous nonsense, in hopes to get him, than I would be a drudge to an old woman with rheumatic eyes, hollow teeth, and stinking breath, for a pension: of all rogues, I would not be a fool-monger.

Beau.How well this niceness becomes thee! I'd fain see e'en thee turn parson in a pet, o' purpose to rail at all those vices which I know thou naturallyart fond of. Why, surely an old lady's pension need not be so despicable in the eyes of a disbanded officer, as times go, friend.

Cour.I am glad, Beaugard, you think so.

Beau.Why thou shalt think so too, man; be ruled by me, and I'll bring thee into good company,—families, Courtine, families; and such families, where formality's a scandal, and pleasure is the business; where the women are all wanton, and the men all witty, you rogue.

Cour.What, some of your worship's Wapping acquaintance, that you made last time you came over for recruits, and spirited away your landlady's daughter a-volunteering with you into France?

Beau.I'll bring thee, Courtine, where cuckoldom's in credit, and lewdness laudable; where thou shalt wallow in pleasures and preferments, revel all day, and every night lie in the arms of melting beauty, sweet as roses, and as springs refreshing.

Cour.Pr'ythee don't talk thus; I had rather thou wouldst tell me where new levies are to be raised: a pox of whores, when a man has not money to make 'em comfortable!

Beau.That shall shower upon us in abundance; and for instance, know, to thy everlasting amazement, all this dropped out of the clouds to-day.

Cour.Ha! gold, by this light!

Four.Out of the clouds?

Beau.Ay, gold! does it not smell of the sweet hand that sent it? Smell—smell, you dog!

[ToFourbin.

[Fourbinsmells the handful of gold, andgathers up some pieces in his mouth.

Four.Truly, sir, of heavenly sweetness, and very refreshing.Cour.Dear Beaugard, if thou hast any good-nature in thee, if thou wouldst not have me hangmyself before my time, tell me where the devil haunts that helped thee to this, that I may go make a bargain with him presently: speak, speak, or I am a lost man.Beau.Why, thou must know this devil, which I have given my soul to already, and must I suppose have my body very speedily, lives I know not where, and may, for aught I know, be a real devil; but if it be, 'tis the best natured devil under Beelzebub's dominions,—that I'll swear to.Cour.But how came the gold, then?Beau.To deal freely with my friend, I am lately happened into the acquaintance of a very reverend pimp, as fine a discreet, sober, grey-bearded old gentleman as one would wish; as good a natured public-spirited person as the nation holds; one that is never so happy as when he is bringing good people together, and promoting civil understanding betwixt the sexes: nay, rather than want employment, he will go from one end of the town to t'other, to procure my lord's little dog to be civil to my lady's little languishing bitch.Cour.A very worthy member of the commonwealth!Beau.This noble person one day—but Fourbin can give you a more particular account of the matter. Sweet sir, if you please, tell us the story of the first encounter betwixt you and Sir Jolly Jumble. You must know that's his title.Four.Sir, it shall be done. Walking one day upon the Piazza,[27]about three of the clock i' the afternoon, to get me a stomach to my dinner, I chanced to encounter a person of goodly presence and worthy appearance; his beard and hair white, grave, and comely; his countenance ruddy, plump, smooth, and cheerful; who perceiving me also equipped as I am,with a mien and air which might well inform him I was a person of no inconsiderable quality, came very respectfully up to me, and, after the usual ceremonies between persons of parts and breeding had passed, very humbly inquired of me "What is it o'clock?" I presently understanding by the question that he was a man of parts and business, told him I did presume it was at most but nicely turned of three.Beau.Very court-like, civil, quaint, and new, I think.Four.The freedom of commerce increasing, after some little inconsiderable questionspour passer letemps, and so, he was pleased to offer me the courtesy of a glass of wine: I told him I very seldom drank, but, if he so pleased, I would do myself the honour to present him with a dish of meat at an eating-house hard by, where I had an interest.Cour.Very well: I think this squire of thine, Beaugard, is as accomplished a person as any of the employment I ever saw.Beau.Let the rogue go on.Four.In short, we agreed and went together. As soon as we entered the room, "I am your most humble servant, sir," says he. "I am the meanest of your vassals, sir," said I. "I am very happy in lighting into the acquaintance of so worthy a gentleman as you appear to be, sir," said he again. "Worthy Sir Jolly,"—then came I upon him again on t'other side (for you must know by that time I had groped out his title), "I kiss your hands from the bottom of my heart, which I shall be always ready to lay at your feet."Cour.Well, Fourbin, and what replied the knight then?Four.Nothing, he had nothing to say; his sense was transported with admiration of my parts: so we sat down, and after some pause, he desired to knowby what title he was to distinguish the person that had so highly honoured him.Beau.That is as much as to say, sir, whose rascal you were.Four.Sir, you may make as bold with your poor slave as you please.—I told him those that knew me well were pleased to call me the Chevalier Fourbin; that I was a cadet of the ancient family of the Fourbinois; and that I had had the honour of serving the great monarch of France in his wars in Flanders, where I contracted great familiarity and intimacy with a gallant officer of the English troops in that service, one Captain Beaugard.Beau.Oh, sir, you did me too much honour. What a true-bred rogue's this!Cour.Well, but the money, Fourbin, the money?Four."Beaugard, hum! Beaugard," says he—"ay, it must be so,—a black man, is he not?" "Ay," says I, "blackish—a dark brown." "Full-faced?" "Yes." "A sly, subtle, observing eye?" "The same." "A strong-built, well-made man?" "Right." "A devilish fellow for a wench, a devilish fellow for a wench, I warrant him; a thundering rogue upon occasion—Beaugard! a thundering fellow for a wench: I must be acquainted with him."Cour.But to the money, the money, man; that's the thing I would be acquainted withal.Beau.This civil gentleman of the chevalier's acquaintance comes yesterday morning to my lodging, and seeing my picture in miniature upon the toilet, told me, with the greatest ecstasy in the world, that was the thing he came to me about: he told me there was a lady of his acquaintance had some favourable thoughts of me, and "I'gad," says he, "she's a hummer; such abona roba,[28]ah!"—So without more ado begs me to lend it him till dinner (for weconcluded to eat together); so away he scuttled with as great joy as if he had found the philosopher's stone.Cour.Very well.Beau.At Locket's[29]we met again; where after a thousand grimaces, to show how much he was pleased, instead of my picture, presents me with the contents aforesaid; and told me the lady desired me to accept of them for the picture, which she was much transported withal, as well as with the original.Cour.Ha!Beau.Now, whereabouts this taking quality lies in me, the devil take me, Ned, if I know; but the fates, Ned, the fates!Cour.A curse on the fates! Of all strumpets, fortune's the basest. 'Twas fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red, the grievance of the nation; fortune made the peace just when we were on the brink of a war; then fortune disbanded us, and lost us two months' pay: fortune gave us debentures instead of ready money, and by very good fortune I sold mine, and lost heartily by it, in hopes the grinding ill-natured dog that bought it will never get a shilling for't.Beau.Leave off thy railing, for shame! it looks like a cur that barks for want of bones. Come, times may mend, and an honest soldier be in fashion again.Cour.These greasy, fat, unwieldy, wheezing rogues that live at home, and brood over their bags, when a fit of fear's upon them, then if one of us pass but by, all the family is ready at the door to cry, "Heavens bless you, sir! the Laird go along with you!"Beau."Ah, good men; what pity 'tis such proper gentlemen should ever be out of employment!"Cour.But when the business is over, then every parish bawd that goes but to a conventicle twice a week, and pays but scot and lot to the parish, shall roar out, "Faugh, ye lousy red-coat rake-hells! hout, ye caterpillars, ye locusts of the nation! you are the dogs that would enslave us all, plunder our shops, and ravish our daughters, ye scoundrels!"Beau.I must confess ravishing ought to be regulated; it would destroy commerce, and many a good sober matron about this town might lose the selling of her daughter's maidenhead, which were a great grievance to the people, and a particular branch of property lost. Fourbin!Four.Your worship's pleasure?Beau.Run, like a rogue as you are, and try to find Sir Jolly, and desire him to meet me at the Blue-Posts in the Haymarket about twelve; we'll dine together. [ExitFourbin.] I must inquire farther into yesterday's adventure; in the mean time, Ned, here's half the prize, to be doing withal: old friends must preserve correspondence; we have shared good fortune together, and bad shall never part us.Cour.Well, thou wilt certainly die in a ditch for this: hast thou no more grace than to be a true friend? nay, to part with thy money to thy friend? I grant you, a gentleman may swear and lie for his friend, pimp for his friend, hang for his friend, and so forth; but to part with ready money is the devil.Beau.Stand aside; either I am mistaken, or yonder's Sir Jolly coming: now, Courtine, will I show thee the flower of knighthood. Ah, Sir Jolly!

Four.Truly, sir, of heavenly sweetness, and very refreshing.

Cour.Dear Beaugard, if thou hast any good-nature in thee, if thou wouldst not have me hangmyself before my time, tell me where the devil haunts that helped thee to this, that I may go make a bargain with him presently: speak, speak, or I am a lost man.

Beau.Why, thou must know this devil, which I have given my soul to already, and must I suppose have my body very speedily, lives I know not where, and may, for aught I know, be a real devil; but if it be, 'tis the best natured devil under Beelzebub's dominions,—that I'll swear to.

Cour.But how came the gold, then?

Beau.To deal freely with my friend, I am lately happened into the acquaintance of a very reverend pimp, as fine a discreet, sober, grey-bearded old gentleman as one would wish; as good a natured public-spirited person as the nation holds; one that is never so happy as when he is bringing good people together, and promoting civil understanding betwixt the sexes: nay, rather than want employment, he will go from one end of the town to t'other, to procure my lord's little dog to be civil to my lady's little languishing bitch.

Cour.A very worthy member of the commonwealth!

Beau.This noble person one day—but Fourbin can give you a more particular account of the matter. Sweet sir, if you please, tell us the story of the first encounter betwixt you and Sir Jolly Jumble. You must know that's his title.

Four.Sir, it shall be done. Walking one day upon the Piazza,[27]about three of the clock i' the afternoon, to get me a stomach to my dinner, I chanced to encounter a person of goodly presence and worthy appearance; his beard and hair white, grave, and comely; his countenance ruddy, plump, smooth, and cheerful; who perceiving me also equipped as I am,with a mien and air which might well inform him I was a person of no inconsiderable quality, came very respectfully up to me, and, after the usual ceremonies between persons of parts and breeding had passed, very humbly inquired of me "What is it o'clock?" I presently understanding by the question that he was a man of parts and business, told him I did presume it was at most but nicely turned of three.

Beau.Very court-like, civil, quaint, and new, I think.

Four.The freedom of commerce increasing, after some little inconsiderable questionspour passer letemps, and so, he was pleased to offer me the courtesy of a glass of wine: I told him I very seldom drank, but, if he so pleased, I would do myself the honour to present him with a dish of meat at an eating-house hard by, where I had an interest.

Cour.Very well: I think this squire of thine, Beaugard, is as accomplished a person as any of the employment I ever saw.

Beau.Let the rogue go on.

Four.In short, we agreed and went together. As soon as we entered the room, "I am your most humble servant, sir," says he. "I am the meanest of your vassals, sir," said I. "I am very happy in lighting into the acquaintance of so worthy a gentleman as you appear to be, sir," said he again. "Worthy Sir Jolly,"—then came I upon him again on t'other side (for you must know by that time I had groped out his title), "I kiss your hands from the bottom of my heart, which I shall be always ready to lay at your feet."

Cour.Well, Fourbin, and what replied the knight then?

Four.Nothing, he had nothing to say; his sense was transported with admiration of my parts: so we sat down, and after some pause, he desired to knowby what title he was to distinguish the person that had so highly honoured him.

Beau.That is as much as to say, sir, whose rascal you were.

Four.Sir, you may make as bold with your poor slave as you please.—I told him those that knew me well were pleased to call me the Chevalier Fourbin; that I was a cadet of the ancient family of the Fourbinois; and that I had had the honour of serving the great monarch of France in his wars in Flanders, where I contracted great familiarity and intimacy with a gallant officer of the English troops in that service, one Captain Beaugard.

Beau.Oh, sir, you did me too much honour. What a true-bred rogue's this!

Cour.Well, but the money, Fourbin, the money?

Four."Beaugard, hum! Beaugard," says he—"ay, it must be so,—a black man, is he not?" "Ay," says I, "blackish—a dark brown." "Full-faced?" "Yes." "A sly, subtle, observing eye?" "The same." "A strong-built, well-made man?" "Right." "A devilish fellow for a wench, a devilish fellow for a wench, I warrant him; a thundering rogue upon occasion—Beaugard! a thundering fellow for a wench: I must be acquainted with him."

Cour.But to the money, the money, man; that's the thing I would be acquainted withal.

Beau.This civil gentleman of the chevalier's acquaintance comes yesterday morning to my lodging, and seeing my picture in miniature upon the toilet, told me, with the greatest ecstasy in the world, that was the thing he came to me about: he told me there was a lady of his acquaintance had some favourable thoughts of me, and "I'gad," says he, "she's a hummer; such abona roba,[28]ah!"—So without more ado begs me to lend it him till dinner (for weconcluded to eat together); so away he scuttled with as great joy as if he had found the philosopher's stone.

Cour.Very well.

Beau.At Locket's[29]we met again; where after a thousand grimaces, to show how much he was pleased, instead of my picture, presents me with the contents aforesaid; and told me the lady desired me to accept of them for the picture, which she was much transported withal, as well as with the original.

Cour.Ha!

Beau.Now, whereabouts this taking quality lies in me, the devil take me, Ned, if I know; but the fates, Ned, the fates!

Cour.A curse on the fates! Of all strumpets, fortune's the basest. 'Twas fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red, the grievance of the nation; fortune made the peace just when we were on the brink of a war; then fortune disbanded us, and lost us two months' pay: fortune gave us debentures instead of ready money, and by very good fortune I sold mine, and lost heartily by it, in hopes the grinding ill-natured dog that bought it will never get a shilling for't.

Beau.Leave off thy railing, for shame! it looks like a cur that barks for want of bones. Come, times may mend, and an honest soldier be in fashion again.

Cour.These greasy, fat, unwieldy, wheezing rogues that live at home, and brood over their bags, when a fit of fear's upon them, then if one of us pass but by, all the family is ready at the door to cry, "Heavens bless you, sir! the Laird go along with you!"

Beau."Ah, good men; what pity 'tis such proper gentlemen should ever be out of employment!"

Cour.But when the business is over, then every parish bawd that goes but to a conventicle twice a week, and pays but scot and lot to the parish, shall roar out, "Faugh, ye lousy red-coat rake-hells! hout, ye caterpillars, ye locusts of the nation! you are the dogs that would enslave us all, plunder our shops, and ravish our daughters, ye scoundrels!"

Beau.I must confess ravishing ought to be regulated; it would destroy commerce, and many a good sober matron about this town might lose the selling of her daughter's maidenhead, which were a great grievance to the people, and a particular branch of property lost. Fourbin!

Four.Your worship's pleasure?

Beau.Run, like a rogue as you are, and try to find Sir Jolly, and desire him to meet me at the Blue-Posts in the Haymarket about twelve; we'll dine together. [ExitFourbin.] I must inquire farther into yesterday's adventure; in the mean time, Ned, here's half the prize, to be doing withal: old friends must preserve correspondence; we have shared good fortune together, and bad shall never part us.

Cour.Well, thou wilt certainly die in a ditch for this: hast thou no more grace than to be a true friend? nay, to part with thy money to thy friend? I grant you, a gentleman may swear and lie for his friend, pimp for his friend, hang for his friend, and so forth; but to part with ready money is the devil.

Beau.Stand aside; either I am mistaken, or yonder's Sir Jolly coming: now, Courtine, will I show thee the flower of knighthood. Ah, Sir Jolly!

EnterSirJolly Jumble.

Sir Jol.My hero! my darling! my Ganymede! how dost thou? Strong! wanton! lusty! rampant! ha, ah, ah! She's thine, boy! odd, she's thine; plump, soft, smooth, wanton! ha, ah, ah! Ah, rogue! ah,rogue! here's shoulders! here's shape! there's a foot and leg, here's a leg, here's a leg—Qua-a-a-a-a!

[Squeaks like a cat, and ticklesBeaugard'slegs.

Cour.What an old goat's this!Sir Jol.Child, child, child, who's that? a friend of thine, a friend o' thine? A pretty fellow, odd, a very pretty fellow, and a strong dog I'll warrant him. How dost do, dear heart? pr'ythee let me kiss thee. I'll swear and vow I will kiss thee; ha, ha, he, he, he, he, a toad, a toad, a toa-a-a-d!Cour.Sir, I am your humble servant.Beau.But the lady, Sir Jolly, the lady; how does the lady? what says the lady, Sir Jolly?Sir Jol.What says the lady! why, she says—she says—odd, she has a delicate lip, such a lip, so red, so hard, so plump, so blub; I fancy I am eating cherries every time I think on't—and for her neck and breasts, and her—odd's life! I'll say no more, not a word more; but I know, I know—Beau.I am sorry for that with all my heart; do you know, say you, sir? and would you put off your mumbled orts,[30]your offal, upon me?Sir Jol.Hush, hush, hush! have a care; as I live and breathe, not I; alack and well-a-day, I am a poor old fellow, decayed and done: all's gone with me, gentlemen, but my good-nature; odd, I love to know how matters go though now and then, to see a pretty wench and a young fellow touze and rouze and frouze and mouze; odd, I love a young fellow dearly, faith dearly!Cour.This is the most extraordinary rogue I ever met withal.Beau.But, Sir Jolly, in the first place, you must know I have sworn never to marry.Sir Jol.I would not have thee, man: I am a bachelor myself and have been a whore-master allmy life;—besides, she's married already, man; her husband's an old, greasy, untoward, ill-natured, slovenly, tobacco-taking cuckold; but plaguy jealous.Beau.Already a cuckold, Sir Jolly?Sir Jol.No, that shall be, my boy; thou shalt make him one, and I'll pimp for thee, dear heart; and shan't I hold the door? shan't I peep, ha? shan't I, you devil, you little dog, shan't I?Beau.What is it I'd not grant to oblige my patron!Sir Jol.And then dost hear? I have a lodging for thee in my own house: dost hear, old soul? in my own house; she lives the very next door, man; there's but a wall to part her chamber and thine; and then for a peep-hole—odd's fish, I have a peep-hole for thee; 'sbud, I'll show thee, I'll show thee—Beau.But when, Sir Jolly? I am in haste, impatient.Sir Jol.Why, this very night, man; poor rogue's in haste, poor rogue; but hear you—Cour.The matter?Sir Jol.Shan't we dine together?Beau.With all my heart.Sir Jol.The Mall begins to empty. Get you before, and bespeak dinner at the Blue-Posts; while I stay behind and gather up a dish of whores for a dessert.Cour.Be sure that they be lewd, drunken, stripping whores, Sir Jolly, that won't be affectedly squeamish and troublesome.Sir Jol.I warrant you.Cour.I love a well-disciplined whore, that shows all the tricks of her profession with a wink, like an old soldier that understands all his exercise by beat of drum.Sir Jol.Ah, thief, sayest thou so? I must be better acquainted with that fellow; he has a notable nose; a hard brawny carle, true and trusty, and mettle, I'll warrant him.Beau.Well, Sir Jolly, you'll not fail us?Sir Jol.Fail ye! am I a knight? hark ye, boys: I'll muster this evening such a regiment of rampant, roaring, roisterous whores, that shall make more noise than if all the cats in the Haymarket were in conjunction; whores, ye rogues, that shall swear with you, drink with you, talk bawdy with you, fight with you, scratch with you, lie with you, and go to the devil with you. Shan't we be very merry, ha?Cour.As merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us.Sir Jol.Odd, that's well said again, very well said; as merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us. I love a fellow that's very wicked dearly: methinks there's a spirit in him, there's a sort of tantara-rara; tantara-rara, ah, ah! well, and won't ye, when the women come, won't ye, and shall I not see a little sport amongst you? well, get ye gone; ah, rogues, ah, rogues, da, da, I'll be with you, da, da!

Cour.What an old goat's this!

Sir Jol.Child, child, child, who's that? a friend of thine, a friend o' thine? A pretty fellow, odd, a very pretty fellow, and a strong dog I'll warrant him. How dost do, dear heart? pr'ythee let me kiss thee. I'll swear and vow I will kiss thee; ha, ha, he, he, he, he, a toad, a toad, a toa-a-a-d!

Cour.Sir, I am your humble servant.

Beau.But the lady, Sir Jolly, the lady; how does the lady? what says the lady, Sir Jolly?

Sir Jol.What says the lady! why, she says—she says—odd, she has a delicate lip, such a lip, so red, so hard, so plump, so blub; I fancy I am eating cherries every time I think on't—and for her neck and breasts, and her—odd's life! I'll say no more, not a word more; but I know, I know—

Beau.I am sorry for that with all my heart; do you know, say you, sir? and would you put off your mumbled orts,[30]your offal, upon me?

Sir Jol.Hush, hush, hush! have a care; as I live and breathe, not I; alack and well-a-day, I am a poor old fellow, decayed and done: all's gone with me, gentlemen, but my good-nature; odd, I love to know how matters go though now and then, to see a pretty wench and a young fellow touze and rouze and frouze and mouze; odd, I love a young fellow dearly, faith dearly!

Cour.This is the most extraordinary rogue I ever met withal.

Beau.But, Sir Jolly, in the first place, you must know I have sworn never to marry.

Sir Jol.I would not have thee, man: I am a bachelor myself and have been a whore-master allmy life;—besides, she's married already, man; her husband's an old, greasy, untoward, ill-natured, slovenly, tobacco-taking cuckold; but plaguy jealous.

Beau.Already a cuckold, Sir Jolly?

Sir Jol.No, that shall be, my boy; thou shalt make him one, and I'll pimp for thee, dear heart; and shan't I hold the door? shan't I peep, ha? shan't I, you devil, you little dog, shan't I?

Beau.What is it I'd not grant to oblige my patron!

Sir Jol.And then dost hear? I have a lodging for thee in my own house: dost hear, old soul? in my own house; she lives the very next door, man; there's but a wall to part her chamber and thine; and then for a peep-hole—odd's fish, I have a peep-hole for thee; 'sbud, I'll show thee, I'll show thee—

Beau.But when, Sir Jolly? I am in haste, impatient.

Sir Jol.Why, this very night, man; poor rogue's in haste, poor rogue; but hear you—

Cour.The matter?

Sir Jol.Shan't we dine together?

Beau.With all my heart.

Sir Jol.The Mall begins to empty. Get you before, and bespeak dinner at the Blue-Posts; while I stay behind and gather up a dish of whores for a dessert.

Cour.Be sure that they be lewd, drunken, stripping whores, Sir Jolly, that won't be affectedly squeamish and troublesome.

Sir Jol.I warrant you.

Cour.I love a well-disciplined whore, that shows all the tricks of her profession with a wink, like an old soldier that understands all his exercise by beat of drum.

Sir Jol.Ah, thief, sayest thou so? I must be better acquainted with that fellow; he has a notable nose; a hard brawny carle, true and trusty, and mettle, I'll warrant him.

Beau.Well, Sir Jolly, you'll not fail us?

Sir Jol.Fail ye! am I a knight? hark ye, boys: I'll muster this evening such a regiment of rampant, roaring, roisterous whores, that shall make more noise than if all the cats in the Haymarket were in conjunction; whores, ye rogues, that shall swear with you, drink with you, talk bawdy with you, fight with you, scratch with you, lie with you, and go to the devil with you. Shan't we be very merry, ha?

Cour.As merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us.

Sir Jol.Odd, that's well said again, very well said; as merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us. I love a fellow that's very wicked dearly: methinks there's a spirit in him, there's a sort of tantara-rara; tantara-rara, ah, ah! well, and won't ye, when the women come, won't ye, and shall I not see a little sport amongst you? well, get ye gone; ah, rogues, ah, rogues, da, da, I'll be with you, da, da!

[ExeuntBeaugardandCourtine.

Enter severalWhores,and ThreeBullies.

1st Bully.In the name of Satan, what whores are these in their copper trim, yonder?1st Whore.Well, I'll swear, madam, 'tis the finest evening;—I love the Mall mightily.2nd Bully.Let's huzza the bulkers.2nd Whore.Really, and so do I; because there's always good company, and one meets with such civilities from every body.3rd Bully.Damned whores! hout, ye filthies!3rd Whore.Ay, and then I love extremely to show myself here, when I am very fine, to vex those poor devils that call themselves virtues, and are very scandalous and crapish, I'll swear. O crimine! who's yonder? Sir Jolly Jumble, I vow.1st Bully.Faugh! let's leave the nasty sows to fools and diseases.[ExeuntBullies.1st Whore.Oh papa, papa! where have you been these two days, papa?2nd Whore.You are a precious father indeed, to take no more care of your children! we might be dead for all you, you naughty daddy, you.Sir Jol.Dead, my poor fubses! odd, I had rather all the relations I have were dead; a-dad, I had. Get you gone, you little devils! Bubbies! oh, law, there's bubbies!—odd, I'll bite 'em; odd, I will!1st Whore.Nay, fie, papa! I'll swear you'll make me angry, except you carry us and treat us to-night; you have promised me a treat this week; won't you, papa?2nd Whore.Ay, won't you, dad?Sir Jol.Odds so, odds so, well remembered! get you gone, don't stay talking: get you gone! Yonder's a great lord, the Lord Beaugard, and his cousin the baron, the count, the marquis, the Lord knows what, Monsieur Courtine, newly come to town, odds so.3rd Whore.O law, where, daddy, where? O dear, a lord!1st Whore.Well, you are the purest papa; but where be dey mun, papa?Sir Jol.I won't tell you, you gipsies, so I won't—except you tickle me: 'sbud they are brave fellows, all tall, and not a bit small; odd, one of 'em has a devilish deal of money.1st Whore.Oh, dear! but which is he, papa?2nd Whore.Shan't I be in love with him, daddy?Sir Jol.What, nobody tickle me! nobody tickle me!—not yet? Tickle me a little, Mally—tickle me a little, Jenny—do! he, he, he, he, he, he! [Theytickle him.] No more, O dear, O dear! poor rogues! so, so, no more,—nay, if you do, if you do, odd I'll, I'll, I'll—3rd Whore.What, what will you do, trow?Sir Jol.Come along with me, come along with me; sneak after me at a distance, that nobody take notice: swingeing fellows, Mally—swingeing fellows, Jenny; a devilish deal of money: get you afore me then, you little didappers, ye wasps, ye wagtails, get you gone, I say; swingeing fellows! [Exeunt.

1st Bully.In the name of Satan, what whores are these in their copper trim, yonder?

1st Whore.Well, I'll swear, madam, 'tis the finest evening;—I love the Mall mightily.

2nd Bully.Let's huzza the bulkers.

2nd Whore.Really, and so do I; because there's always good company, and one meets with such civilities from every body.

3rd Bully.Damned whores! hout, ye filthies!

3rd Whore.Ay, and then I love extremely to show myself here, when I am very fine, to vex those poor devils that call themselves virtues, and are very scandalous and crapish, I'll swear. O crimine! who's yonder? Sir Jolly Jumble, I vow.

1st Bully.Faugh! let's leave the nasty sows to fools and diseases.[ExeuntBullies.

1st Whore.Oh papa, papa! where have you been these two days, papa?

2nd Whore.You are a precious father indeed, to take no more care of your children! we might be dead for all you, you naughty daddy, you.

Sir Jol.Dead, my poor fubses! odd, I had rather all the relations I have were dead; a-dad, I had. Get you gone, you little devils! Bubbies! oh, law, there's bubbies!—odd, I'll bite 'em; odd, I will!

1st Whore.Nay, fie, papa! I'll swear you'll make me angry, except you carry us and treat us to-night; you have promised me a treat this week; won't you, papa?

2nd Whore.Ay, won't you, dad?

Sir Jol.Odds so, odds so, well remembered! get you gone, don't stay talking: get you gone! Yonder's a great lord, the Lord Beaugard, and his cousin the baron, the count, the marquis, the Lord knows what, Monsieur Courtine, newly come to town, odds so.

3rd Whore.O law, where, daddy, where? O dear, a lord!

1st Whore.Well, you are the purest papa; but where be dey mun, papa?

Sir Jol.I won't tell you, you gipsies, so I won't—except you tickle me: 'sbud they are brave fellows, all tall, and not a bit small; odd, one of 'em has a devilish deal of money.

1st Whore.Oh, dear! but which is he, papa?

2nd Whore.Shan't I be in love with him, daddy?

Sir Jol.What, nobody tickle me! nobody tickle me!—not yet? Tickle me a little, Mally—tickle me a little, Jenny—do! he, he, he, he, he, he! [Theytickle him.] No more, O dear, O dear! poor rogues! so, so, no more,—nay, if you do, if you do, odd I'll, I'll, I'll—

3rd Whore.What, what will you do, trow?

Sir Jol.Come along with me, come along with me; sneak after me at a distance, that nobody take notice: swingeing fellows, Mally—swingeing fellows, Jenny; a devilish deal of money: get you afore me then, you little didappers, ye wasps, ye wagtails, get you gone, I say; swingeing fellows! [Exeunt.

EnterLadyDunceandSylvia.

L. Dunce.Die a maid, Sylvia, fie, for shame! what a scandalous resolution's that! Five thousand pounds to your portion, and leave it all to hospitals, for the innocent recreation hereafter of leading apes in hell?[31]fie, for shame!Sylv.Indeed, such another charming animal as your consort, Sir Davy, might do much with me; 'tis an unspeakable blessing to lie all night by a horseload of diseases; a beastly, unsavoury, old, groaning, grunting, wheezing wretch, that smells of the grave he's going to already. From such a curse, and haircloth next my skin, good Heaven deliver me!L. Dunce.Thou mistakest the use of a husband, Sylvia: they are not meant for bedfellows; heretofore, indeed, 'twas a fulsome fashion, to lie o' nights with a husband; but the world's improved, and customs altered.Sylv.Pray instruct me then what the use of a husband is.L. Dunce.Instead of a gentleman-usher for ceremony's sake, to be in waiting on set days andparticular occasions; but the friend, cousin, is the jewel unvaluable.Sylv.But Sir Davy, madam, will be difficult to be so governed; I am mistaken if his nature is not too jealous to be blinded.L. Dunce.So much the better; of all, the jealous fool is easiest to be deceived: for observe, where there's jealousy there's always fondness; which if a woman, as she ought to do, will make the right use of, the husband's fears shall not so awake him on one side, as his dotage shall blind him on the other.Sylv.Is your piece of mortality such a doting doodle? is he so very fond of you?L. Dunce.No, but he has the vanity to think that I am very fond of him; and if he be jealous, 'tis not so much for fear I do abuse, as that in time I may, and therefore imposes this confinement on me; though he has other divertisements that take him off from my enjoyment, which make him so loathsome no woman but must hate him.Sylv.His private divertisements I am a stranger to.L. Dunce.Then for his person, 'tis incomparably odious; he has such a breath, one kiss of him were enough to cure the fits of the mother;[32]'tis worse than assafœtida.Sylv.Oh, hideous!L. Dunce.Everything that's nasty he affects: clean linen he says is unwholesome; and to make him more charming, he's continually eating of garlic and chewing tobacco.Sylv.Faugh! this is love! this is the blessing of matrimony!L. Dunce.Rail not so unreasonably against love, Sylvia. As I have dealt freely, and acknowledged to thee the passion I have for Beaugard, so methinksSylvia need not conceal her good thoughts of her friend. Do not I know Courtine sticks in your stomach?Sylv.If he does, I'll assure you he shall never get to my heart. But can you have the conscience to love another man now you are married? What do you think will become of you?L. Dunce.I tell thee, Sylvia, I was never married to that engine we have been talking of; my parents indeed made me say something to him after a priest once, but my heart went not along with my tongue; I minded not what it was: for my thoughts, Sylvia, for these seven years, have been much better employed—Beaugard! Ah, curse on the day that first sent him into France!Sylv.Why so, I beseech you?L. Dunce.Had he stayed here, I had not been sacrificed to the arms of this monument of man, for the bed of death could not be more cold than his has been: he would have delivered me from the monster, for even then I loved him, and was apt to think my kindness not neglected.Sylv.I find indeed your ladyship had good thoughts of him.L. Dunce.Surely 'tis impossible to think too well of him, for he has wit enough to call his good-nature in question, and yet good-nature enough to make his wit suspected.Sylv.But how do you hope ever to get sight of him? Sir Davy's watchfulness is invincible. I dare swear he would smell out a rival if he were in the house, only by natural instinct; as some that always sweat when a cat's in the room. Then again, Beaugard's a soldier, and that's a thing the old gentleman, you know, loves dearly.L. Dunce.There lies the greatest comfort of my uneasy life; he is one of those fools, forsooth, thatare led by the nose by knaves to rail against the king and the government, and is mightily fond of being thought of a party. I have had hopes this twelve-month to have heard of his being in the Gatehouse[33]for treason.Sylv.But I find only yourself the prisoner all this while.L. Dunce.At present indeed I am so; but fortune I hope will smile, wouldst thou but be my friend, Sylvia.Sylv.In any mischievous design, with all my heart.L. Dunce.The conclusion, madam, may turn to your satisfaction. But you have no thoughts of Courtine?Sylv.Not I, I'll assure you, cousin.L. Dunce.You don't think him well shaped, straight, and proportionable?Sylv.Considering he eats but once a week, the man is well enough.L. Dunce.And then he wears his clothes, you know, filthily, and like a horrid sloven.Sylv.Filthily enough of all conscience, with a threadbare red coat, which his tailor duns him for to this day, over which a great, broad, greasy, buff-belt, enough to turn any one's stomach but a disbanded soldier; a peruke tied up in a knot, to excuse its want of combing; and then, because he has been a man at arms, he must wear two tuffles of a beard, forsooth, to lodge a dunghill of snuff upon, to keep his nose in good humour.L. Dunce.Nay, now I am sure that thou lovest him.Sylv.So far from it, that I protest eternally against the whole sex.L. Dunce.That time will best demonstrate; in the mean while to our business.Sylv.As how, madam?L. Dunce.To-night must I see Beaugard; they are this minute at dinner in the Haymarket; now to make my evil genius, that haunts me everywhere, my thing called a husband, himself to assist his poor wife at a dead lift, I think would not be unpleasant.Sylv.But 'twill be impossible.L. Dunce.I am apt to be persuaded rather very easy. You know our good and friendly neighbour, Sir Jolly.Sylv.Out on him, beast! he's always talking filthily to a body; if he sits but at the table with one, he'll be making nasty figures in the napkins.L. Dunce.He and my sweet yoke-fellow are the most intimate friends in the world; so that partly out of neighbourly kindness, as well as the great delight he takes to be meddling in matters of this nature, with a great deal of pains and industry he has procured me Beaugard's picture, and given him to understand how well a friend of his in petticoats, called myself, wishes him.Sylv.But what's all this to the making the husband instrumental? for I must confess, of all creatures, a husband's the thing that's odious to me.L. Dunce.That must be done this night: I'll instantly to my chamber, take my bed in a pet, and send for Sir Davy.Sylv.But which way then must the lover come?L. Dunce.Nay, I'll betray Beaugard to him, show him the picture he sent me, and beg of him, as he tenders his own honour and my quiet, to take some course to secure me from the scandalous solicitations of that innocent fellow.Sylv.And so make him the property, the go-between, to bring the affair to an issue the more decently.L. Dunce.Right, Sylvia; 'tis the best office ahusband can do a wife; I mean an old husband. Bless us, to be yoked in wedlock with a paralytic, coughing, decrepit dotterel; to be a dry-nurse all one's life-time to an old child of sixty-five; to lie by the image of death a whole night, a dull immoveable, that has no sense of life but through its pains! the pigeon's as happy that's laid to a sick man's feet, when the world has given him over:[34]for my part, this shall henceforth be my prayer:—

Sylv.Indeed, such another charming animal as your consort, Sir Davy, might do much with me; 'tis an unspeakable blessing to lie all night by a horseload of diseases; a beastly, unsavoury, old, groaning, grunting, wheezing wretch, that smells of the grave he's going to already. From such a curse, and haircloth next my skin, good Heaven deliver me!

L. Dunce.Thou mistakest the use of a husband, Sylvia: they are not meant for bedfellows; heretofore, indeed, 'twas a fulsome fashion, to lie o' nights with a husband; but the world's improved, and customs altered.

Sylv.Pray instruct me then what the use of a husband is.

L. Dunce.Instead of a gentleman-usher for ceremony's sake, to be in waiting on set days andparticular occasions; but the friend, cousin, is the jewel unvaluable.

Sylv.But Sir Davy, madam, will be difficult to be so governed; I am mistaken if his nature is not too jealous to be blinded.

L. Dunce.So much the better; of all, the jealous fool is easiest to be deceived: for observe, where there's jealousy there's always fondness; which if a woman, as she ought to do, will make the right use of, the husband's fears shall not so awake him on one side, as his dotage shall blind him on the other.

Sylv.Is your piece of mortality such a doting doodle? is he so very fond of you?

L. Dunce.No, but he has the vanity to think that I am very fond of him; and if he be jealous, 'tis not so much for fear I do abuse, as that in time I may, and therefore imposes this confinement on me; though he has other divertisements that take him off from my enjoyment, which make him so loathsome no woman but must hate him.

Sylv.His private divertisements I am a stranger to.

L. Dunce.Then for his person, 'tis incomparably odious; he has such a breath, one kiss of him were enough to cure the fits of the mother;[32]'tis worse than assafœtida.

Sylv.Oh, hideous!

L. Dunce.Everything that's nasty he affects: clean linen he says is unwholesome; and to make him more charming, he's continually eating of garlic and chewing tobacco.

Sylv.Faugh! this is love! this is the blessing of matrimony!

L. Dunce.Rail not so unreasonably against love, Sylvia. As I have dealt freely, and acknowledged to thee the passion I have for Beaugard, so methinksSylvia need not conceal her good thoughts of her friend. Do not I know Courtine sticks in your stomach?

Sylv.If he does, I'll assure you he shall never get to my heart. But can you have the conscience to love another man now you are married? What do you think will become of you?

L. Dunce.I tell thee, Sylvia, I was never married to that engine we have been talking of; my parents indeed made me say something to him after a priest once, but my heart went not along with my tongue; I minded not what it was: for my thoughts, Sylvia, for these seven years, have been much better employed—Beaugard! Ah, curse on the day that first sent him into France!

Sylv.Why so, I beseech you?

L. Dunce.Had he stayed here, I had not been sacrificed to the arms of this monument of man, for the bed of death could not be more cold than his has been: he would have delivered me from the monster, for even then I loved him, and was apt to think my kindness not neglected.

Sylv.I find indeed your ladyship had good thoughts of him.

L. Dunce.Surely 'tis impossible to think too well of him, for he has wit enough to call his good-nature in question, and yet good-nature enough to make his wit suspected.

Sylv.But how do you hope ever to get sight of him? Sir Davy's watchfulness is invincible. I dare swear he would smell out a rival if he were in the house, only by natural instinct; as some that always sweat when a cat's in the room. Then again, Beaugard's a soldier, and that's a thing the old gentleman, you know, loves dearly.

L. Dunce.There lies the greatest comfort of my uneasy life; he is one of those fools, forsooth, thatare led by the nose by knaves to rail against the king and the government, and is mightily fond of being thought of a party. I have had hopes this twelve-month to have heard of his being in the Gatehouse[33]for treason.

Sylv.But I find only yourself the prisoner all this while.

L. Dunce.At present indeed I am so; but fortune I hope will smile, wouldst thou but be my friend, Sylvia.

Sylv.In any mischievous design, with all my heart.

L. Dunce.The conclusion, madam, may turn to your satisfaction. But you have no thoughts of Courtine?

Sylv.Not I, I'll assure you, cousin.

L. Dunce.You don't think him well shaped, straight, and proportionable?

Sylv.Considering he eats but once a week, the man is well enough.

L. Dunce.And then he wears his clothes, you know, filthily, and like a horrid sloven.

Sylv.Filthily enough of all conscience, with a threadbare red coat, which his tailor duns him for to this day, over which a great, broad, greasy, buff-belt, enough to turn any one's stomach but a disbanded soldier; a peruke tied up in a knot, to excuse its want of combing; and then, because he has been a man at arms, he must wear two tuffles of a beard, forsooth, to lodge a dunghill of snuff upon, to keep his nose in good humour.

L. Dunce.Nay, now I am sure that thou lovest him.

Sylv.So far from it, that I protest eternally against the whole sex.

L. Dunce.That time will best demonstrate; in the mean while to our business.

Sylv.As how, madam?

L. Dunce.To-night must I see Beaugard; they are this minute at dinner in the Haymarket; now to make my evil genius, that haunts me everywhere, my thing called a husband, himself to assist his poor wife at a dead lift, I think would not be unpleasant.

Sylv.But 'twill be impossible.

L. Dunce.I am apt to be persuaded rather very easy. You know our good and friendly neighbour, Sir Jolly.

Sylv.Out on him, beast! he's always talking filthily to a body; if he sits but at the table with one, he'll be making nasty figures in the napkins.

L. Dunce.He and my sweet yoke-fellow are the most intimate friends in the world; so that partly out of neighbourly kindness, as well as the great delight he takes to be meddling in matters of this nature, with a great deal of pains and industry he has procured me Beaugard's picture, and given him to understand how well a friend of his in petticoats, called myself, wishes him.

Sylv.But what's all this to the making the husband instrumental? for I must confess, of all creatures, a husband's the thing that's odious to me.

L. Dunce.That must be done this night: I'll instantly to my chamber, take my bed in a pet, and send for Sir Davy.

Sylv.But which way then must the lover come?

L. Dunce.Nay, I'll betray Beaugard to him, show him the picture he sent me, and beg of him, as he tenders his own honour and my quiet, to take some course to secure me from the scandalous solicitations of that innocent fellow.

Sylv.And so make him the property, the go-between, to bring the affair to an issue the more decently.

L. Dunce.Right, Sylvia; 'tis the best office ahusband can do a wife; I mean an old husband. Bless us, to be yoked in wedlock with a paralytic, coughing, decrepit dotterel; to be a dry-nurse all one's life-time to an old child of sixty-five; to lie by the image of death a whole night, a dull immoveable, that has no sense of life but through its pains! the pigeon's as happy that's laid to a sick man's feet, when the world has given him over:[34]for my part, this shall henceforth be my prayer:—

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