Mons.But there are some who say, jealousy is no more to be hid than a cough:—but it should never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is not French at all—ventre bleu!
Hip.No, you should rally your rival, and rather make a jest of your quarrel to him; and that, I suppose, is French too.
Mons.'Tis so, 'tis so,cousine; 'tis the veritable French method; for your Englis, for want of wit, drive every thing to a serious grum quarrel, and then would make a jest on't, when 'tis too late, when they can't laugh,jarni!
Hip.Yes, yes, I would have you rally him soundly: do not spare him a jot.—But shall you see him to-night?
Mons.Ay, ay.
Hip.Yes; pray be sure to see him for the jest's sake.
Mons.I will—for I love a jest as well as anybel espritof 'em all—da!
Hip.Ay, and rally him soundly; be sure you rally him soundly, and tell him just thus:—that the lady he has so long courted, from the great window of the Ship tavern, is to be your wife to-morrow, unless he come at his wonted hour of six in the morning to her window to forbid the banns; for 'tis the first and last time of asking; and if he come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away, and hold his tongue.
Mons.Ha! ha! ha! a ver good jest,tête bleu!
Hip.And if the fool should come again, I would tell him his own, I warrant you, cousin. My gentleman should be satisfied for good and all, I'd secure him.
Mons. Bon, bon.
Prue.Well, well, young mistress; you were not at Hackney school for nothing, I see; nor taken away for nothing.—A woman may soon be too old, but is never too young to shift for herself. [Aside.
Mons.Ha! ha! ha!cousine, dou art a merry grig,ma foi!—I long to be with Gerrard; and I am the best at improving a jest—I shall have such divertisement to-night,tête bleu!
Hip.He'll deny, may be, at first, that he ever courted any such lady.
Mons.Nay, I am sure he'll be ashamed of it, I shall make him look so sillily,tête non!—I long to find him out.—Adieu, adieu,la cousine.
Hip.Shall you be sure to find him?
Mons. Indubitablement, I'll search the town over, but I'll find him: ha! ha! ha!—[ExitMonsieur,and returns.]—But I'm afraid,cousine, if I should tell him you are to be my wife to-morrow, he would not come: now, I am for having him come for the jest's sake,ventre!—
Hip.So am I, cousin, for having him come too for the jest's sake.
Mons.Well, well, leave it to me:—ha! ha! ha!
EnterMrs.Caution.
Mrs. Caut.What's all this giggling here?
Mons.Hey! do you tinke we'll tell you? no, fait, I warrant you,tête non!—ha! ha! ha!—
Hip.My cousin is overjoyed, I suppose, that my father is to come to-night.
Mrs. Caut.I am afraid he will not come to-night:—but you'll stay and see, nephew?
Mons. Non, non: I am to sup at t'other end of the town to-night—La, la, la—Ra, ra, ra—[Exit, singing.
Mrs. Caut.I wish the French levity of this young man may agree with your father's Spanish gravity.
Hip.Just as your crabbed old age and my youth agree.
Mrs. Caut.Well, malapert, I know you hate me, because I have been the guardian of your reputation: but your husband may thank me one day.
Hip.If he be not a fool, he would rather be obliged to me for my virtue than to you, since, at long run, he must, whether he will or no.
Mrs. Caut.So, so!
Hip.Nay, now I think on't, I'd have you to know, the poor man, whosoe'er he is, will have little cause to thank you.
Mrs. Caut.No!—
Hip.No; for I never lived so wicked a life as I have done this twelvemonth, since I have not seen a man.
Mrs. Caut.How, how! if you have not seen a man, how could you be wicked? how could you do any ill?
Hip.No, I have done no ill; but I have paid it with thinking.
Mrs. Caut.O that's no hurt! to think, is no hurt:—ancient, grave, and godly, cannot help thoughts.
Hip.I warrant, you have had 'em yourself, aunt?
Mrs. Caut.Yes, yes, when I cannot sleep.
Hip.Ha! ha!—I believe it. But know, I have hadthose thoughts sleeping and waking; for I have dreamt of a man.
Mrs. Caut.No matter, no matter, so that it was but a dream: I have dreamt myself. For you must know, widows are mightily given to dream; insomuch that a dream is waggishly called "the Widow's Comfort."
Hip.But I did not only dream—[Sighs.
Mrs. Caut.How, how! did you more than dream? speak, young harlotry! confess; did you more than dream? How could you do more than dream in this house? speak, confess!
Hip.Well, I will then. Indeed, aunt, I did not only dream, but I was pleased with my dream when I awaked.
Mrs. Caut.Oh, is that all?—Nay, if a dream only will please you, you are a modest young woman still: but have a care of a vision.
Hip.Ay; but to be delighted when we wake with a naughty dream, is a sin, aunt; and I am so very scrupulous, that I would as soon consent to a naughty man as to a naughty dream.
Mrs. Caut.I do believe you.
Hip.I am for going into the throng of temptations.
Mrs. Caut.There I believe you again.
Hip.And making myself so familiar with them, that I would not be concerned for 'em a whit.
Mrs. Caut.There I do not believe you.
Hip.And would take all the innocent liberty of the town:—to tattle to your men under a vizard in the playhouses, and meet 'em at night in masquerade.
Mrs. Caut.There I do believe you again; I know you would be masquerading: but worse would come on't, as it has done to others who have been in a masquerade, and are now virgins but in masquerade, and will not be their own women again as long as they live. The children of this age must be wise children indeed if they know their fathers, since their mothers themselves cannotinform 'em! O, the fatal liberty of this masquerading age! when I was a young woman—
Hip.Come, come, do not blaspheme this masquerading age, like an ill-bred city-dame, whose husband is half broke by living in Covent-garden, or who has been turned out of the Temple or Lincoln's-Inn upon a masquerading night. By what I've heard, 'tis a pleasant, well-bred, complaisant, free, frolic, good-natured, pretty age: and if you do not like it, leave it to us that do.
Mrs. Caut.Lord, how impudently you talk, niece! I'm sure I remember when I was a maid—
Hip.Can you remember it, reverend aunt?
Mrs. Caut.Yes, modest niece,—that a raw young thing, though almost at woman's estate, (that was then at thirty or thirty-five years of age,) would not so much as have looked upon a man—
Hip.Above her father's butler or coachman.
Mrs. Caut.Still taking me up! Well, thou art a mad girl; and so good night. We may go to bed; for I suppose now your father will not come to-night. [Exit.
Hip.I'm sorry for it; for I long to see him.—[Aside.] But I lie: I had rather see Gerrard here; and yet I know not how I shall like him. If he has wit, he will come; and if he has none, he would not be welcome. [Exeunt.
EnterMr.Gerrard, Martin,andMonsieur deParis.
Mons.'Tis ver veritable,jarni!what the French say of you Englis: you use the debauch so much, it cannot have with you the French operation; you are never enjoyee. But come, let us for once beinfiniment gaillard, and sing a French sonnet. [Sings,—"La bouteille, la bouteille, glou, glou."
Mar.[ToGerrard.] What a melodious fop it is!
Mons.Auh! you have no complaisance.
Ger.No, we can't sing; but we'll drink to you the lady's health, whom (you say) I have so long courted at her window.
Mons.Ay, there is your complaisance: all your Englis complaisance is pledging complaisance,ventre!—But if I do you reason here, [Takes the glass.]—will you do me reason to a little Frenchchanson à boireI shall begin to you?—[Sings.]"La bouteille, la bouteille—"
Mar.[ToGerrard.] I had rather keep company with a set of wide-mouthed, drunken cathedral choristers.
Ger.Come, sir, drink; and he shall do you reason to your French song, since you stand upon't.—Sing him "Arthur of Bradley," or "I am the Duke of Norfolk."
Mons.Auh!tête bleu!—an Englis catch! fy! fy!ventre!—
Ger.He can sing no damned French song.
Mons.Nor can I drink the damned Englis wine. [Sets down the glass.
Ger.Yes, to that lady's health, who has commanded me to wait upon her to-morrow at her window, which looks (you say) into the inward yard of the Ship tavern, near the end of what-d'ye-call't street.
Mons.Ay, ay; do you not know her? not you!vert bleu!
Ger.But, pray repeat again what she said.
Mons.Why, she said she is to be married to-morrow to a person of honour, a brave gentleman, that shall be nameless, and so, and so forth.—[Aside.] Little does he think who 'tis!
Ger.And what else?
Mons.That if you make not your appearance before her window to-morrow at your wonted hour of six in the morning, to forbid the banns, you must for ever hereafter stay away and hold your tongue; for 'tis the first and last time of asking.—Ha! ha! ha!
Ger.'Tis all a riddle to me: I should be unwilling to be fooled by this coxcomb. [Aside.
Mons.I won't tell him all she said, lest he should not go: I would fain have him go for the jest's sake—Ha! ha! ha! [Aside.
Ger.Her name is, you say, Hippolita, daughter to a rich Spanish merchant.
Mons.Ay, ay, you don't know her, not you!à d'autre, à d'autre, ma foi!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger.Well, I will be an easy fool for once.
Mar.By all means go.
Mons.Ay, ay, by all means go—ha! ha! ha!
Ger.[Aside.] To be caught in a fool's trap—I'll venture it.—[Drinks to him.] Come, 'tis her health.
Mons.And to your good reception—tête bleu!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger.Well, monsieur, I'll say this for thee, thou hast made the best use of three months at Paris as ever English squire did.
Mons.Considering I was in a dam Englis pension too.
Mar.Yet you have conversed with some French, I see; footmen, I suppose, at the fencing-school? I judge it by your oaths.
Mons.French footmen! well, well, I had rather have the conversation of a French footman than of an Englis 'squire; there's for you, da—
Mar.I beg your pardon, monsieur; I did not think the French footmen had been so much your friends.
Ger.Yes, yes, I warrant they have obliged him at Paris much more than any of their masters did. Well, there shall be no more said against the French footmen.
Mons. Non, de grace!—you are always turning the nationFrançaiseinto ridicule, dat nation so accomplie, dat nation which you imitate so, dat in the conclusion, you butte turn yourself into ridicule,ma foi!If you are for de raillery, abuse the Dutch, why not abuse the Dutch?les gros villains, pendards, insolents; but here in your England,ma foi!—you have more honeur, respecte, and estimation for de Dushe swabber, who come to cheat your nation, den for de Franch footman, who come to oblige your nation.
Mar.Our nation! then you disown it for yours, it seems.
Mons.Well! wat of dat? are you the disobligee by dat?
Ger.No, monsieur, far from it; you could not oblige us, nor your country, any other way than by disowning it.
Mons.It is de brutal country, which abuse de France, and reverence de Dushe; I will maintain, sustain, and justifie, dat one little Franch footman have more honeur, courage, and generosity, more good blood in his vaines, an mush more good manners an civility den all de State-General together,jarni!—Dey are only wise and valiant wen dey are drunkee.
Ger.That is, always.
Mons.But dey are never honest wen dey are drunkee; dey are de only rogue in de varlde who are not honeste when dey are drunk—ma foi!
Ger.I find you are well acquainted with them, monsieur.
Mons.Ay, ay, I have made the toure of Holland, but it wasen poste, dere was no staying for me,tête non!—for de gentleman can no more live dere den de toad in Ir'land,ma foi!for I did not see on' chevalier in de whole countree: alway, you know, de rebel hate de gens de quality. Besides, I had made sufficient observation of thecanaille barbarede first nightee of my arrival at Amsterdamme: I did visit, you must know, one of de principal of de State-General, to whom I had recommendation from England, and did find his excellence weighing soap,jarni!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger.Weighing soap!
Mons.Weighing soap,ma foi!for he was a wholesale chandeleer; and his lady was taking de tale of chandels wid her own witer hands,ma foi!and de young lady, his excellence daughter, stringing harring, stringing harring,jarni!—
Ger.So!—and what were his sons doing?
Mons.Augh—his son (for he had but one) was making the tour of France, Espagne, Italy, and Germany, in a coach and six; or rader, now I tink on't, gone of an embassy hider to dere master Cromwell, whom dey did love and fear, because he was someting de greater rebel. But now I talk of derebelle, none but the rebel can love therebelle. And so much for you and your friend the Dushe; I'll say no more, and pray do you say no more of my friend de Franch, not so mush as of my friend de Franch footman—da—
Ger.No, no;—but, monsieur, now give me leave to admire thee, that in three months at Paris you could renounce your language, drinking, and your country, (for which we are not angry with you,) as I said, and come home so perfect a Frenchman, that the draymen of your father's own brewhouse would be ready to knock thee on the head.
Mons.Vel, vel, my father was a merchant of his own beer, as thenoblesseof Franch of their own wine.—But I can forgive you that raillery, that bob,[56]since you say I have the eyreFrançais:—but have I the eyreFrançais?
Ger.As much as any French footman of 'em all.
Mons.And do I speak agreeable ill Englis enough?
Ger.Very ill.
Mons. Véritablement?
Ger. Véritablement.
Mons.For you must know, 'tis as ill breeding now to speak good Englis as to write good Englis, good sense, or a good hand.
Ger.But, indeed, methinks you are not slovenly enough for a Frenchman.
Mons.Slovenly! you mean negligent?
Ger.No, I mean slovenly.
Mons.Then I will be more slovenly.
Ger.You know, to be a perfect Frenchman, you must never be silent, never sit still, and never be clean.
Mar.But you have forgot one main qualification of a true Frenchman, he should never be sound, that is, be very pocky too.
Mons.Oh! if dat be all, I am very pocky; pocky enough,jarni!that is the only French qualification may be had without going to Paris,ma foi!
EnterWaiter.
Wait.Here are a couple of ladies coming up to you, sir.
Ger.To us!—did you appoint any to come hither, Martin?
Mar.Not I.
Ger.Nor you, monsieur?
Mons.Nor I.
Ger.Sirrah, tell your master, if he cannot protect us from the constable, and these midnight coursers, 'tis not a house for us.
Mar.Tell 'em you have nobody in the house, and shut the doors.
Wait.They'll not be satisfied with that, they'll break open the door. They searched last night all over the house for my Lord Fisk, and Sir Jeffery Jantee, who were fain to hide themselves in the bar under my mistress's chair and petticoats.
Mons.Wat, do the women hunt out the men so now?
Mar.Ay, ay, things are altered since you went to Paris; there's hardly a young man in town dares be known of his lodging for 'em.
Ger.Bailiffs, pursuivants, or a city constable, are modest people in comparison of them.
Mar.And we are not so much afraid to be taken up by the watch as by the tearing midnight ramblers, or huzza women.
Mons. Jarni!ha! ha! ha!
Ger.Where are they? I hope they are gone again.
Wait.No, sir, they are below at the stair-foot, only swearing at their coachman.
Ger.Come, you rogue, they are in fee with you waiters, and no gentleman can come hither, but they have the intelligence straight.
Wait.Intelligence from us, sir! they should never come here, if we could help it. I am sure we wish 'em choked when we see them come in; for they bring such good stomachs from St James's Park, or rambling about in the streets, that we poor waiters have not a bit left; 'tis well if we can keep our money in our pockets for 'em. I am sure I have paid seventeen and sixpence in half-crowns for coach-hire at several times for a little damned tearing lady, and when I asked her for it again one morning in her chamber, she bid me pay myself, for she had no money; but I wanted the courage of a gentleman; besides, the lord that kept her was a good customer to our house and my friend, and I made a conscience of wronging him.
Ger.A man of honour!
Mons. Vertandbleu!pleasant, pleasant,ma foi!
Ger.Go, go, sirrah, shut the door, I hear 'em coming up.
Wait.Indeed I dare not; they'll kick me down stairs, if I should.
Ger.Go, you rascal, I say. [TheWaitershuts the door, 'tis thrust open again.
EnterFlounceandFlirtin vizards, striking theWaiter,and come up to the table.
Ger.[Aside.] Flounce and Flirt, upon mylife!—[Aloud.] Ladies, I am sorry you have no volunteers in your service; this is mere pressing, and argues a great necessity you have for men.
Flou.You need not be afraid, sir; we will use no violence to you; you are not fit for our service: we know you.
Flirt.The hot service you have been in formerly makes you unfit for ours now; besides, you begin to be something too old for us; we are for the brisk huzzas of seventeen or eighteen.
Ger.Nay, faith, I am not too old yet; but an old acquaintance will make any man old:—besides, to tell you the truth, you are come a little too early for me, for I am not drunk yet. But there are your brisk young men, who are always drunk, and, perhaps, have the happiness not to know you.
Flou.The happiness not to know us!
Flirt.The happiness not to know us!
Ger.Be not angry, ladies; 'tis rather happiness to have pleasure to come than to have it past, and therefore these gentlemen are happy in not knowing you.
Mar.I'd have you to know, I do know the ladies too, and I will not lose the honour of the ladies' acquaintance for anything.
Flou.Not for the pleasure of beginning an acquaintance with us, as Mr. Gerrard says: but it is the general vanity of you town fops to lay claim to all good acquaintance and persons of honour; you cannot let a woman pass in the Mall at midnight, but, damn you, you know her straight, you know her;—but you would be damned before you would say so much for one in a mercer's shop.
Ger.He has spoken it in a French-house, where he has very good credit, and I dare swear you may make him eat his words.
Mons.She does want a gown, indeed; she is in herdéshabillé. Thisdéshabilléis a great mode in England;the women love thedéshabilléas well as the men,ma foi![Peeping under her scarf.
Flirt.Well, if we should stay and sup with you, I warrant you would be bragging of it to-morrow amongst your comrades, that you had the company of two women of quality at the French-house, and name us.
Mar.Pleasant jilts! [Aside.
Ger.No, upon our honours, we would not brag of your company.
Flou.Upon your honours?
Mar.No, faith.
Flou.Come, we will venture to sit down then: yet I know the vanity of you men; you could not contain yourselves from bragging.
Ger.No, no; you women now-a-days have found out the pleasure of bragging, and will allow it the men no longer.
Mar.Therefore, indeed, we dare not stay to sup with you; for you would be sure to tell on't.
Ger.And we are young men who stand upon our reputations.
Flou.You are very pleasant, gentlemen.
Mar.For my part I am to be married shortly, and know 'twould quickly come to my mistress's ear.
Ger.And for my part I must go visit to-morrow betimes a new city mistress; and you know they are as inquisitive as precise in the city.
Flirt.Come, come; pray leave this fooling; sit down again, and let us bespeak supper.
Ger.No, faith, I dare not.
Mar.Besides, we have supped.
Flou.No matter, we only desire you should look on while we eat, and put the glass about, or so. [GerrardandMartinoffer to go.
Flirt.Pray, stay.
Ger.Upon my life I dare not.
Flou.Upon our honours we will not tell, if you are in earnest.
Ger.Pshaw! pshaw!—I know the vanity of you women; you could not contain yourselves from bragging.
Mons. Ma foi!is it certain? ha! ha! ha!—Hark you, madam, can't you fare well but you must cry roast-meat?
You spoil your trade by bragging of your gains;The silent sow (madam) does eat most grains.—da—
Flirt.Your servant, monsieur fop.
Flou.Nay, faith, do not go, we will no more tell—
Mons.Than you would of a clap, if you had it; dat's the only secret you can keep,jarni!
Mar.I am glad we are rid of these jilts.
Ger.And we have taken a very ridiculous occasion.
Mons.Wat! must we leave the lady then? dis is dam civility Englis,ma foi!
Flirt.Nay, sir, you have too much of the French air, to have so little honour and good breeding. [Pulling him back.
Mons.Dee you tinke so then, sweet madam, I have mush of de French eyre?
Flirt.More than any Frenchman breathing.
Mons.Auh, you are the curtoise dame;morbleu!I shall stay then, if you think so. Monsieur Gerrard, you will be certain to see the lady to-morrow? pray not forget, ha! ha! ha!
Ger.No, no, sir.
Mar.You will go then?
Ger.I will go on a fool's errand for once. [ExeuntGerrardandMartin.
Flou.What will you eat, sir?
Mons.Wat you please, madam.
Flou.D'ye hear, waiter? then some young partridge.
Wait.What else, madam?
Flirt.Some ruffs.
Wait.What else, madam?
Flirt.Some young pheasants.
Wait.What else, madam?
Flirt.Some young rabbits; I love rabbits.
Wait.What else, madam?
Flou.Stay—
Mans.Dis Englis waiter wit his "Wat else, madam," will ruin me,tête non![Aside.
Wait.What else, madam?
Mans."Wat else, madam," agen!—call up the French waiter.
Wait.What else, madam?
Mons.Again!—call up the French waiter orcuisinier, mort! tête! ventre! vite!—Auh, madam, the stupidity of the Englis waiter! I hate the Englis waiter,ma foi![ExitWaiter.
Flirt.Be not in passion, dear monsieur.
Mons.I kiss your hand,obligeantemadam.
Enter a FrenchScullion.
Cher Pierrot, serviteur, serviteur.—[Kisses theScullion.]—Or-ça à manger.
Scull. En voulez-vousde cram schiquin?
Flou.Yes.
Scull.De partrish, de faysan, de quailles?
Mons.[Aside.] Thisbougrevil ruine me too; but he speak wit datbeleyre and grace, I cannot bid him hold his tongue,ventre! C'est assez, Pierrot, va-t'en.[ExitScullion,and returns.
Scull.And de litel plate de—
Mons. Jarni! va-t'en.[ExitScullion,and returns.
Scull.And de litel plate de—
Mons. De grace, go dy way. [ExitScullion,and returns.
Scull.And de litel de—
Mons. De fromage de Brie, va-t'en!—go, go.
Flou.What's that? cheese that stinks?
Mons.Ay, ay, be sure it stinke extremente.Pierrot, va-t'en;but stay till I drink dy health:—here's to dat pretty fellow's health, madam.
Flirt.Must we drink the scullion's health?
Mons.Auh, you will not bedésobligeante, madam; he is thecuisinierfor a king, nay, for a cardinal or French abbot. [Drinks. ExitScullion.
Flou.But how shall we divertise ourselves till supper be ready?
Flirt.Can we have betterdivertissementthan this gentleman?
Flou.But I think we had better carry the gentleman home with us, and because it is already late, sup at home, and divertise the gentleman at cards, till it be ready.—D'ye hear, waiter? let it be brought, when 'tis ready, to my lodging hard by, in Mustard-Alley, at the sign of the Crooked-billet.
Mons.At the Crooked-billet!
Flirt.Come, sir, come.
Mons. Morbleu!I have take the vow (since my last clap) never to go again to thebourdel.
Flou.What is thebourdel?
Mons.How call you the name of your house?
Flirt.The Crooked-billet.
Mons.No, no, the—bawdy-house,vertandbleu!
Flirt.How, our lodging! we'd have you to know—
Mons.Auh,morbleu!I would not know it; de Crooked-billet, ha! ha!
Flirt.Come, sir.
Mons.Besides, if I go wit you to thebourdel, you will tell,morbleu!
Flou.Fy! fy! come along.
Mons.Beside, I am to be married within these two days; if you should tell now—
Flirt.Come, come along, we will not tell.
Mons.But you will promise then to have the care of my honour? pray, good madam, have de care of my honour, pray have de care of my honour. Will you have care of my honour? pray have de care of my honour, and do not tell if you can help it; pray, dear madam, do not tell. [Kneels to them.
Flirt.I would not tell for fear of losing you, my love for you will make me secret.
Mons.Why, do you love me?
Flirt.Indeed I cannot help telling you now, what my modesty ought to conceal, but my eyes would disclose it too:—I have a passion for you, sir.
Mons.A passion for me!
Flirt.An extreme passion, dear sir; you are so French, so mightily French, so agreeable French—but I'll tell you more of my heart at home: come along.
Mons.But is your pation sincere?
Flirt.The truest in the world.
Mons.Well then, I'll venture my body with thee for one night.
Flirt.For one night! don't you believe that; and so you would leave me to-morrow? but I love you so, I cannot part with you, you must keep me for good and all, if you will have me. I can't leave you for my heart.
Mons.How! keep,jarni!de whore Englis have notinge but keepe, keepe in dere mouths now-a-days,tête non!—Formerly 'twas enoughe to keep de shild,ma foi!
Flirt.Nay, I will be kept, else—but, come, we'll talk on't at home.
Mons.Umh—so, so, ver vel; de amour of de whore does alway end in keep, ha! keep,ma foi!keep, ha!—
The punk that entertains you wit her passion,Is like kind host who makes the invitation,At your own cost, to hisfort bonne collation.
[Exeunt.
EnterDonDiegoin a Spanish habit, andMrs.Caution.
Don.Have you had a Spanish care of the honour of my family? that is to say, have you kept my daughter close in my absence, as I directed?
Mrs. Caut.I have sir, but it was as much as I could do.
Don.I knew that; for 'twas as much as I could do to keep up her mother;—I that have been in Spain, look you.
Mrs. Caut.Nay 'tis a hard task to keep up an Englishwoman.
Don.As hard as it is for those who are not kept up to be honest, look you,con licencia, sister.
Mrs. Caut.How now, brother! I am sure my husband never kept me up.
Don.I knew that, therefore I criedcon licencia, sister, as the Spaniards have it.
Mrs. Caut.But you Spaniards are too censorious, brother.
Don.You Englishwomen, sister, give us too much cause, look you;—but you are sure my daughter has not seen a man since my departure?
Mrs. Caut.No, not so much as a churchman.
Don.As a churchman!voto!I thank you for that; not a churchman! not a churchman!
Mrs. Caut.No, not so much as a churchman; but of any, one would think one might trust a churchman.
Don.No, we are bold enough in trusting them with our souls, I'll never trust them with the body of my daughter, look you,guarda!You see what comes of trusting churchmen here in England; and 'tis because the women govern the families, that chaplains are so much in fashion. Trust a churchman!—trust a coward with your honour, a fool with your secret, a gamester with your purse, as soon as a priest with your wife or daughter; look you,guarda!I am no fool, look you.
Mrs. Caut.Nay, I know you are a wise man, brother.
Don.Why, sister, I have been fifteen years in Spain for it, at several times, look you: now in Spain, he is wise enough that is grave, politic enough that says little, and honourable enough that is jealous; and though I say it, that should not say it, I am as grave, grum, and jealous, as any Spaniard breathing.
Mrs. Caut.I know you are, brother.
Don.And will be a Spaniard in everything still, and will not conform, not I, to their ill-favoured English customs, for I will wear my Spanish habit still, I will stroke my Spanish whiskers still, and I will eat my Spanisholiostill; and my daughter shall go a maid to her husband's bed, let the English custom be what 'twill: I would fain see any finical, cunning, insinuating monsieur of the age, debauch, or steal away my daughter. But, well, has she seen my cousin? how long has he been in England?
Mrs. Caut.These three days.
Don.And she has seen him, has she? I was contented he should see her, intending him for her husband; but she has seen nobody else upon your certain knowledge?
Mrs. Caut.No, no, alas! how should she? 'tis impossible she should.
Don.Where is her chamber? pray let me see her.
Mrs. Caut.You'll find her, poor creature, asleep, I warrant you: or, if awake, thinking no hurt, nor of your coming this morning.
Don.Let us go to her, I long to see her, poor innocent wretch. [Exeunt.
EnterHippolita, Gerrard,andPrueat a distance.
Ger.Am I not come upon your own summons, madam? and yet receive me so?
Hip.My summons, sir! no, I assure you; and if you do not like your reception, I cannot help it; for I am not used to receive men, I'd have you to know.
Ger.She is beautiful beyond all things I ever saw. [Aside.
Hip.I like him extremely! [Aside.
Ger.Come, fairest, why do you frown?
Hip.Because I am angry.
Ger.I am come on purpose to please you, then; do not receive me so unkindly.
Hip.I tell you, I do not use to receive men.—There has not been a man in the house before, but my cousin, this twelvemonth, I'd have you to know.
Ger.Then you ought to bid me the more welcome, I'd have you to know.
Hip.What! do you mock me too? I know I am but a home-bred simple girl! but I thought you gallants of the town had been better bred than to mock a poor girl in her father's own house. I have heard, indeed, 'tis a part of good breeding to mock people behind their backs, but not to their faces.
Ger.[Aside.] Pretty creature! she has not only the beauty, but the innocency of an angel.—[ToHippolita.] Mock you, dear miss! no, I only repeated the words because they were yours, sweet miss; what we like we imitate.
Hip."Dear miss! sweet miss!" how came you and I so well acquainted? this is one of your confident tricks, too, as I have been told; you'll be acquainted with a woman in the time you can help her over a bench in the playhouse, or to her coach. But I need not wonder at your confidence, since you could come in at the great gallery window, just now. But, pray, who shall pay for the glass you have broken?
Ger.Pretty creature! your father might have made the window bigger then, since he has so fine a daughter, and will not allow people to come in at the door to her.
Hip.A pleasant man!—well, 'tis harder playing the hypocrite with him, I see, than with my aunt or father; and if dissimulation were not very natural to a woman, I'm sure I could not use it at this time: but the mask of simplicity and innocency is as useful to an intriguing woman as the mask of religion to a statesman, they say. [Aside.
Ger.Why do you look away, dearest miss?
Hip.Because you quarrelled with me just now for frowning upon you, and I cannot help it, if I look upon you.
Ger.O! let me see that face at any rate.
Hip.Would you have me frown upon you? for I shall be sure to do't.
Ger.Come, I'll stand fair: you have done your worst to my heart already.
Hip.Now I dare not look upon him, lest I should not be able to keep my word. [Aside.
Ger.Come, I am ready:—[Aside.] and yet I am afraid of her frowns.—[ToHippolita.] Come, look, Ih—am ready, Ih—am ready.
Hip.But I am not ready. [Aside.
Ger.Turn, dear miss, come, Ih—am ready.
Hip.Are you ready then? I'll look. [Turns upon him.]—No, faith, I cannot frown upon him, if I should be hanged. [Aside.
Ger.Dear miss, I thank you, that look has no terror in't.
Hip.No, I cannot frown for my heart for blushing, I don't use to look upon men, you must know.
Ger.If it were possible anything could, those blushes would add to her beauty: well, bashfulness is the only out-of-fashioned thing that is agreeable. [Aside.
Hip.Ih—h—like this man strangely, I was going to say loved him. Courage then, Hippolita! make use of the only opportunity thou canst have to enfranchise thyself. Women formerly (they say) never knew how to make use of their time till it was past; but let it not be said so of a young woman of this age.—My damned aunt will be stirring presently:—well, then, courage, I say, Hippolita!—thou art full fourteen years old,—shift for thyself. [Aside.
Ger.So! I have looked upon her so long, till I am grown bashful too. Love and modesty come together like money and covetousness, and the more we have, the less we can show it. I dare not look her in the face now, nor speak a word. [Aside.
Hip.What, sir, methinks you look away now!
Ger.Because you would not look upon me, miss.
Hip.Nay, I hope you can't look me in the face, since you have done so rude a thing as to come in at the window upon me. Come, come, when once we women find the men bashful, then we take heart. Now I can look upon you as long as you will; let's see if you can frown upon me now.
Ger.Lovely innocency! no, you may swear I can't frown upon you, miss.
Hip.So! I knew you were ashamed of what you havedone. Well, since you are ashamed, and because you did not come of your own head, but were sent by my cousin, you say—
Ger.Which I wonder at. [Aside.
Hip.For all these reasons, I do forgive you.
Ger.In token of your forgiveness then, dearest miss, let me have the honour to kiss your hand.
Hip.Nay, there 'tis; you men are like our little shock dogs:[57]if we don't keep you off from us, but use you a little kindly, you grow so fiddling and so troublesome, there is no enduring you.
Ger.O dear miss! if I am like your shock-dog, let it be in his privileges.
Hip.Why, I'd have you know he does not lie with me.
Ger.'Twas well guessed, miss, for one so innocent.
Hip.No, I always kick him off from the bed, and never will let him come near it; for of late, indeed, (I do not know what's the reason,) I don't much care for my shock-dog, nor my babies.
Ger.O then, miss, I may have hopes! for after the shock-dog and the babies, 'tis the man's turn to be beloved.
Hip.Why, could you be so good-natured as to come after my shock-dog in my love? it may be, indeed, rather than after one of your brother men.
GerHah, ha, ha! poor creature! a wonder of innocency! [Aside.
Hip.But I see you are humble, because you would kiss my hand.
Ger.No, I am ambitious therefore.
Hip.[Aside.] Well, all this fooling but loses time, I must make better use of it. [ToGerrard.] I could let you kiss my hand, but then I'm afraid you would take hold of me and carry me away.
Ger.Indeed I would not.
Hip.Come, I know you would.
Ger.Truly I would not.
Hip.You would! you would! I know you would.
Ger.I'll swear I wo' not—by—
Hip.Nay, don't swear, for you'll be the apter to do it then. [Aside.] I would not have him forswear it neither;—he does not like me, sure, well enough to carry me away.
Ger.Dear miss, let me kiss your hand.
Hip.I am sure you would carry me away if I should.
Ger.Be not afraid of it.
Hip.[Aside.] Nay, I am afraid of the contrary.—Either he dislikes me, and therefore will not be troubled with me, or what is as bad, he loves me and is dull, or fearful to displease me.
Ger.Trust me, sweetest! I can use no violence to you.
Hip.Nay, I am sure you would carry me away; what should you come in at the window for, if you did not mean to steal me.
Ger.If I should endeavour it, you might cry out, and I should be prevented.
Hip.[Aside.] Dull, dull man of the town! are all like thee? He is as dull as a country squire at questions and commands.—[ToGerrard.] No, if I should cry out never so loud, this is quite at the further end of the house, and there nobody could hear me.
Ger.I will not give you the occasion, dearest.
Hip.[Aside.] Well, I will quicken thy sense, if it be possible.—[ToGerrard.] Nay, I know you come to steal me away; because I am an heiress, and have twelve hundred pounds a year, lately left me by my mother's brother, which my father cannot meddle with, and which is the chiefest reason (I suppose) why he keeps me up so close.
Ger.Ha!
Hip.So!—this has made him consider. O money!powerful money! how the ugly, old, crooked, straight, handsome young women are beholding to thee! [Aside.
Ger.Twelve hundred pounds a year!
Hip.Besides, I have been told my fortune, and the woman said I should be stolen away, because she says 'tis the fate of heiresses to be stolen away.
Ger.Twelve hundred pounds a-year!—[Aside.
Hip.Nay, more, she described the man to me that was to do it, and he was as like you as could be. Have you any brothers?
Ger.Not any; 'twas I, I warrant you, sweetest.
Hip.So, he understands himself now. [Aside.
Ger.Well, madam, since 'twas foretold you, what do you think on't? 'tis in vain, you know, to resist fate.
Hip.I do know, indeed, they say 'tis to no purpose: besides, the woman that told me my fortune, or you, have bewitched me—Ih—think. [Sighs.
Ger.My soul! my life! 'tis you have charms powerful as numberless, especially those of your innocency irresistible, and do surprise the wariest heart. Such mine was, while I could call it mine, but now 'tis yours for ever.
Hip.Well, well, get you gone then. I'll keep it safe for your sake.
Ger.Nay, you must go with me, sweetest.
Hip.Well, I see you will part with the jewel; but you will have the keeping of the cabinet to which you commit it.
Ger.Come, come, my dearest, let us be gone: Fortune as well as women must be taken in the humour.
As they are going out,Prueruns hastily to them.
Prue.O miss, miss! your father, it seems, is just now arrived, and is here coming in upon you.
Hip.My father.
EnterDonDiegoandMrs.Caution.
Don.My daughter and a man!
Mrs. Caut.A man! a man in the house!
Ger.Ha! what mean these?—a Spaniard!
Hip.What shall I do? Stay—Nay, pray stir not from me; but lead me about, as if you led me a corant.[58][Leads her about.
Don.Is this your government, sister? and this your innocent charge, that hath not seen the face of a man this twelvemonth?en hora mala!
Mrs. Caut.O, sure, it is not a man! it cannot be a man! [Puts on her spectacles.
Don.It cannot be a man! if he be not a man, he's a devil. He has her lovingly by the hand too,valgame el cielo!
Hip.Do not seem to mind them, but dance on, or lead me about still.
Ger.What d'ye mean by it? [Apart toHippolita.
Don.Hey, they are frolic, a-dancing!
Mrs. Caut.Indeed, they are dancing, I think.—Why, niece!
Don.Nay, hold a little: I'll make 'em dance in the devil's name; but it shall not bela gallarda. [Draws his sword.
Mrs. Caut.O niece! why niece! [Mrs.Cautionholds him.
Ger.Do you hear her? what do you mean? [Apart toHippolita.
Hip.Take no notice of them; but walk about still, and sing a little, sing a corant.
Ger.I can't sing: but I'll hum, if you will.
Don.Are you so merry? well I'll be with you:en hora mala!
Mrs. Caut.O niece, niece! why niece! oh—
Don.Why, daughter, my dainty daughter! My shame! my ruin! my plague! [Struggling, gets fromMrs.Caution,goes towards them with his sword drawn.
Hip.Mind him not, but dance and sing on.
Ger.A pretty time to dance and sing, indeed, when I have a Spaniard with a naked Toledo at my tail! No, pray excuse me, miss, from fooling any longer.
Hip.[Turning about.] O, my father, my father! poor father! you are welcome; pray give me your blessing.
Don.My blessing,en hora mala!
Hip.What! am I not your daughter, sir?
Don.My daughter!mi mal! mi muerte!
Hip.My name's Hippolita, sir: I don't own your Spanish names. But, pray father, why do you frighten one so? you know I don't love to see a sword: what do you mean to do with that ugly thing out?
Don.I'll show you.Traidor! ladron de mi honra!thou diest. [Runs atGerrard.
Ger.Not if I can help it, good Don. But by the names you give me, I find you mistake your man: I suppose some Spaniard has affronted you. [Draws.
Don.None but thee,ladron!and thou diest for't. [Fight.
Mrs. Caut.Oh! oh! oh!—help! help! help!
Hip.O—what, will you kill my poor dancing-master? [Kneels.
Don.A dancing-master! he's a fencing-master rather, I think. But is he your dancing-master? umph—
Ger.So much wit and innocency were never together before. [Aside.
Don.Is he a dancing-master? [Pausing.
Mrs. Caut.Is he a dancing-master? He does not look like a dancing-master.
Hip.Pish!—you don't know a dancing-master: you have not seen one these threescore years, I warrant.
Mrs. Caut.No matter: but he does not look like a dancing-master.
Don.Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gentlemen enough, sister: but he's no dancing-master, by drawing a sword so briskly. Those tripping outsides of gentlemen are like gentlemen enough in everything but in drawing a sword; and since he is a gentleman, he shall die by mine. [They fight again.
Hip.Oh! hold! hold!
Mrs. Caut.Hold! hold!—Pray, brother, let's talk with him a little first; I warrant you I shall trap him; and if he confesses, you may kill him; but those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged—Let's see—
Ger.Poor Hippolita! I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring thy wit; I have increased my love, whilst I have lost my hopes; the common fate of poor lovers. [Aside.
Mrs. Caut.Come, you are guilty, by that hanging down of your head. Speak: are you a dancing-master? Speak, speak; a dancing-master?
Ger.Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing-master; ay, ay—
Don.How does it appear?
Hip.Why, there is his fiddle, there upon the table, father.
Mrs. Caut.No, busybody, but it is not:—that is my nephew's fiddle.
Hip.Why, he lent it to my cousin: I tell you it is his.
Mrs. Caut.Nay, it may be, indeed; he might lend it to him for aught I know.
Don.Ay, ay: but ask him, sister, if he be a dancing-master, where.
Mrs. Caut.Pray, brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask him, sure.
Don.What, will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if you are a dancing-master, where's your school?Donde? donde?
Mrs. Caut.Why, he'll say, may be, he has ne'er a one.
Don.Who asked you, nimble chaps? So you have put an excuse in his head.
Ger.Indeed, sir, 'tis no excuse: I have no school.
Mrs. Caut.Well; but who sent you? how came you hither?
Ger.There I am puzzled indeed. [Aside.
Mrs. Caut.How came you hither, I say? how—
Ger.Why, how, how should I come hither?
Don.Ay, how should he come hither? Upon his legs.
Mrs. Caut.So, so! now you have put an excuse in his head too, that you have, so you have; but stay—
Don.Nay, with your favour, mistress, I'll ask him now.
Mrs. Caut.Y'facks, but you shan't! I'll ask him, and ask you no favour, that I will.
Don.Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him! if you go there too, look you, you prattle-box you, I'll ask him.
Mrs. Caut.I will ask him, I say!—come!
Don.Where?
Mrs. Caut.What!
Don.Mine's a shrewd question.
Mrs. Caut.Mine's as shrewd as yours.
Don.Nay, then, we shall have it.—Come, answer me; where's your lodging? come, come, sir.
Mrs. Caut.A shrewd question, indeed! at the Surgeons'-arms, I warrant you; for 'tis spring-time, you know.
Don.Must you make lies for him?
Mrs. Caut.But come, sir; what's your name?—answer me to that; come.
Don.His name! why, 'tis an easy matter to tell you a false name, I hope.
Mrs. Caut.So! must you teach him to cheat us?
Don.Why did you say my questions were not shrewd questions, then?
Mrs. Caut.And why would you not let me ask him the question, then? Brother, brother, ever while you live,for all your Spanish wisdom, let an old woman make discoveries: the young fellows cannot cheat us in anything, I'd have you to know. Set your old woman still to grope out an intrigue, because, you know, the mother found her daughter in the oven. A word to the wise, brother.
Don.Come, come, leave this tattling: he has dishonoured my family, debauched my daughter; and what if he could excuse himself? The Spanish proverb says, excuses neither satisfy creditors nor the injured. The wounds of honour must have blood and wounds,St. Jago para mi![Kisses the cross of his sword, and runs atGerrard.
Hip.O hold, dear father! and I'll confess all.
Ger.She will not, sure, after all. [Aside.
Hip.My cousin sent him; because, as he said, he would have me recover my dancing a little before our wedding, having made a vow he would never marry a wife who could not dance a corant. I am sure I was unwilling; but he would have him come, saying I was to be his wife as soon as you came, and therefore expected obedience from me.
Don.Indeed, the venture is most his, and the shame would be most his; for I know here in England, 'tis not the custom for the father to be much concerned what the daughter does; but I will be a Spaniard still.
Hip.Did not you hear him say last night he would send me one this morning?
Mrs. Caut.No, not I, sure. If I had, he had never come here.
Hip.Indeed, aunt, you grow old I see; your memory fails you very much. Did not you hear him, Prue, say he would send him to me?
Prue.Yes, I'll be sworn did I.
Hip.Look you there, aunt.
Mrs. Caut.I wonder I should not remember it.
Don.Come, come, you are a doting old fool.
Mrs. Caut.So! So! the fault will be mine now. But pray, mistress, how did he come in? I am sure I had the keys of the doors, which, till your father came in, were not opened to-day.
Hip.He came in just after my father, I suppose.
Mrs. Caut.It might be, indeed, while the porters brought in the things, and I was talking with you.
Don.O, might he so, forsooth! you are a brave governante! Look you, you a duenna,voto!—and not know who comes in and out!
Mrs. CautSo! 'tis my fault, I know.
Don.Your maid was in the room with you; was she not, child?
Hip.Yes, indeed, and indeed, father, all the while.
Don.Well, child, I am satisfied then.—But I hope he does not use the dancing-master's tricks, of squeezing your hands, setting your legs and feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your legs.
Hip.No, indeed, father: I'd give him a box on the ear if he should.
Don.Poor innocent!—Well, I am contented you should learn to dance, since, for aught I know, you shall be married to-morrow, or the next day at farthest: by that time you may recover a corant—a saraband I would say.[59]And since your cousin, too, will have a dancing wife, it shall be so; and I'll see you dance myself. You shall be my charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the hand of any dancing-master, even a saucy French dancing-master, look you.
Mrs. Caut.Well, have a care, though; for this man is not dressed like a dancing master.
Don.Go, go, you dote; are they not (for the most part) better dressed and prouder than many a good gentleman? you would be wiser than I, would you,cuerno?
Mrs. Caut.Well, I say only, look to't, look to't.
Don.Hey, hey! Come, friend, to your business; teach her her lesson over again; let's see.
Hip.Come, master.
Don.Come, come, let's see your English method; I understand something of dancing myself—come.
Hip.Come, master.
Ger.I shall betray you yet, dearest miss; for I know not a step: I could never dance. [Apart toHippolita.
Hip.No!
Don.Come, come, child.
Hip.Indeed I'm ashamed, father.
Don.You must not be ashamed, child; you'll never dance well if you are ashamed.
Hip.Indeed, I can't help it, father.
Don.Come, come, I say, go to't.
Hip.Indeed I can't, father, before you: 'tis my first lesson, and I shall do it so ill.—Pray, good father, go into the next room for this once; and the next time my master comes, you shall see I shall be confident enough.
Don.Poor, foolish, innocent creature!—Well, well, I will, child. Who but a Spanish kind of a father could have so innocent a daughter in England?—Well, I would fain see any one steal or debauch my daughter from me.
Hip.Nay, won't you go, father?
Don.Yes, yes, I go, child: we will all go but your maid.—You can dance before your maid?
Hip.Yes, yes, father: a maid at most times with her mistress is nobody. [ExeuntDiegoandMrs.Caution.
Ger.He peeps yet at the door.
Hip.Nay, father, you peep; indeed you must not see me. When we have done, you shall come in. [She pulls the door to.
Prue.Indeed, little mistress, like the young kitten, you see you played with your prey till you had almost lost it.
Hip.'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had taken it up, and run away with it presently.
Ger.Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give you—[Going to embrace her.
Hip.No, no embracing, good master! that ought to be the last lesson you are to teach me, I have heard.
Ger.Though an aftergame be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis won, miss, with the more honour and pleasure: for all that, I repent we were put to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was the most unlucky thing that ever befel me.