Dap.I think she knows me. [Aside.
Lyd.But he does not do you justice, I believe; and you are so positively cock-sure of your wit, you would refer to a mere stranger your plea to the bay-tree.
Dap.She jeers me, let me perish! [Aside.
Vin.Dapperwit, a little of your aid; for my lady's invincibly dumb.
Dap.Would mine had been so too! [Aside.
Vin.I have used as many arguments to make her speak, as are requisite to make other women hold their tongues.
Dap.Well, I am ready to change sides.—Yet before I go, madam, since the moon consents now I should see your face, let me desire you to pull off your mask; which to a handsome lady is a favour, I'm sure.
Lyd.Truly, sir, I must not be long in debt to you for the obligation; pray let me hear you recite some of your verses; which to a wit is a favour, I'm sure.
Dap.Madam, it belongs to your sex to be obliged first; pull off your mask, and I'll pull out my paper.—[Aside.] Brisk again, of my side.
Lyd.'Twould be in vain, for you would want a candle now.
Dap.[Aside.] I dare not make use again of the lustre of her face.—[ToLydia.] I'll wait upon you home then, madam.
Lyd.Faith, no; I believe it will not be much to our advantages to bring my face or your poetry to light: for I hope you have yet a pretty good opinion of my face, and so have I of your wit. But if you are for proving your wit, why do not you write a play?
Dap.Because 'tis now no more reputation to write a play, than it is honour to be a knight. Your true wit despises the title of poet, as much as your true gentleman the title of knight; for as a man may be a knight and no gentleman, so a man may be a poet and no wit, let me perish!
Lyd.Pray, sir, how are you dignified or distinguished amongst the rates of wits? and how many rates are there?
Dap.There are as many degrees of wits as of lawyers: as there is first your solicitor, then your attorney, then your pleading-counsel, then your chamber-counsel, and then your judge; so there is first your court-wit, your coffee-wit, your poll-wit, or politic-wit, your chamber-wit, or scribble-wit, and last of all, your judge-wit, or critic.
Lyd.But are there as many wits as lawyers? Lord, what will become of us!—What employment can they have? how are they known?
Dap.First, your court-wit is a fashionable, insinuating, flattering, cringing, grimacing fellow—and has wit enough to solicit a suit of love; and if he fail, he has malice enough to ruin the woman with a dull lampoon:—but he rails still at the man that is absent, for you must know all wits rail; and his wit properly lies in combing perukes,matching ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon other people's clothes.
Lyd.Now, what is the coffee-wit?
Dap.He is a lying, censorious, gossiping, quibbling wretch, and sets people together by the ears over that sober drink, coffee: he is a wit, as he is a commentator, upon the Gazette; and he rails at the pirates of Algier, the Grand Signior of Constantinople, and the Christian Grand Signior.
Lyd.What kind of man is your poll-wit?
Dap.He is a fidgetting, busy, dogmatical, hot-headed fop, that speaks always in sentences and proverbs, (as other in similitudes,) and he rails perpetually against the present government. His wit lies in projects and monopolies, and penning speeches for young parliament men.
Lyd.But what is your chamber-wit, or scribble-wit?
Dap.He is a poring, melancholy, modest sot, ashamed of the world: he searches all the records of wit, to compile a breviate of them for the use of players, printers, booksellers, and sometimes cooks, tobacco-men; he employs his railing against the ignorance of the age, and all that have more money than he.
Lyd.Now your last.
Dap.Your judge-wit, or critic, is all these together, and yet has the wit to be none of them: he can think, speak, write, as well as the rest, but scorns (himself a judge) to be judged by posterity: he rails at all the other classes of wits, and his wit lies in damning all but himself:—he is your true wit.
Lyd.Then, I suspect you are of his form.
Dap.I cannot deny it, madam.
Vin.Dapperwit, you have been all this time on the wrong side; for you love to talk all, and here's a lady would not have hindered you.
Dap.A pox! I have been talking too long indeed here; for wit is lost upon a silly weak woman, as well as courage. [Aside.
Vin.I have used all common means to move a woman's tongue and mask; I called her ugly, old, and old acquaintance, and yet she would not disprove me:—but here comes Ranger, let him try what he can do; for, since my mistress is dogged, I'll go sleep alone. [Exit.
Re-enterRanger.
Lyd.[Aside.] Ranger! 'tis he indeed: I am sorry he is here, but glad I discovered him before I went. Yet he must not discover me, lest I should be prevented hereafter in finding him out. False Ranger!—[ToLadyFlippant.] Nay, if they bring fresh force upon us, madam, 'tis time to quit the field. [ExeuntLydiaandLadyFlippant.
Ran.What, play with your quarry till it fly from you!
Dap.You frighten it away.
Ran.Ha! is not one of those ladies in mourning?
Dap.All women are so by this light.
Ran.But you might easily discern. Don't you know her?
Dap.No.
Ran.Did you talk with her?
Dap.Yes, she is one of your brisk silly baggages.
Ran.'Tis she, 'tis she!—I was afraid I saw her before; let us follow 'em: prithee make haste.—[Aside.] 'Tis Lydia. [Exeunt.
Re-enter, on the other side,LydiaandLadyFlippant—DapperwitandRangerfollowing them at a distance.
Lyd.They follow us yet, I fear.
L. Flip.You do not fear it certainly; otherwise you would not have encouraged them.
Lyd.For Heaven's sake, madam, waive your quarrel a little, and let us pass by your coach, and so on foot to your acquaintance in the old Pall-mall[33]: for I would not be discovered by the man that came up last to us. [Exeunt.
EnterChristinaandIsabel.
Isa.For Heaven's sake, undress yourself, madam! They'll not return to-night: all people have left the Park an hour ago.
Chris.What is't o'clock?
Isa.'Tis past one.
Chris.It cannot be!
Isa.I thought that time had only stolen from happy lovers:—the disconsolate have nothing to do but to tell the clock.
Chris.I can only keep account with my misfortunes.
Isa.I am glad they are not innumerable.
Chris.And, truly, my undergoing so often your impertinency is not the least of them.
Isa.I am then more glad, madam, for then they cannot be great; and it is in my power, it seems, to make you in part happy, if I could but hold this villainous tongue of mine: but then let the people of the town hold their tongues if they will, for I cannot but tell you what they say.
Chris.What do they say?
Isa.Faith, madam, I am afraid to tell you, now I think on't.
Chris.Is it so ill?
Isa.O, such base, unworthy things!
Chris.Do they say I was really Clerimont's wench, as he boasted; and that the ground of the quarrel betwixt Valentine and him was not Valentine's vindication of my honour, but Clerimont's jealousy of him?
Isa.Worse, worse a thousand times! such villainous things to the utter ruin of your reputation!
Chris.What are they?
Isa.Faith, madam, you'll be angry: 'tis the old trick of lovers to hate their informers, after they have made 'em such.
Chris.I will not be angry.
Isa.They say then, since Mr. Valentine's flying into France you are grown mad, have put yourself into mourning, live in a dark room, where you'll see nobody, nor take any rest day or night, but rave and talk to yourself perpetually.
Chris.Now, what else?
Isa.But the surest sign of your madness is, they say, because you are desperately resolved (in case my Lord Clerimont should die of his wounds) to transport yourself and fortune into France to Mr. Valentine, a man that has not a groat to return you in exchange.
Chris.All this, hitherto, is true; now to the rest.
Isa.Indeed, madam, I have no more to tell you. I was sorry, I'm sure, to hear so much of any lady of mine.
Chris.Insupportable insolence!
Isa.[Aside.] This is some revenge for my want of sleep to-night.—[Knocking at the door.] So, I hope my old second is come; 'tis seasonable relief. [Exit.
Chris.Unhappy Valentine! couldst thou but see how soon thy absence and misfortunes have disbanded all thy friends, and turned thy slaves all renegadoes, thou sure wouldst prize my only faithful heart!
EnterLadyFlippant, Lydia,andIsabel.
L. Flip.Hail, faithful shepherdess! but, truly, I had not kept my word with you, in coming back to-night, if it had not been for this lady, who has her intrigues too with the fellows as well as you.
Lyd.Madam, under my Lady Flippant's protection, I am confident to beg yours; being just now pursued out of the Park by a relation of mine, by whom it imports meextremely not to be discovered:—[Knocking at the door.] but I fear he is now at the door.—[ToIsabel,who goes out.] Let me desire you to deny me to him courageously;—for he will hardly believe he can be mistaken in me.
Chris.In such an occasion, where impudence is requisite, she will serve you as faithfully as you can wish, madam.
L. Flip.Come, come, madam, do not upbraid her with her assurance, a qualification that only fits her for a lady's service. A fine woman of the town can be no more without a woman that can make an excuse with assurance, than she can be without a glass, certainly.
Chris.She needs no advocate.
L. Flip.How can any one alone manage an amorous intrigue? though the birds are tame, somebody must help draw the net. If 'twere not for a woman that could make an excuse with assurance, how should we wheedle, jilt, trace, discover, countermine, undermine, and blow up the stinking fellows? which is all the pleasure I receive, or design by them; for I never admitted a man to my conversation, but for his punishment, certainly.
Chris.Nobody will doubt that, certainly.
Re-enterIsabel.
Isa.Madam, the gentleman will not be mistaken: he says you are here, he saw you come in; he is your relation, his name's Ranger, and is come to wait upon you home. I had much ado to keep him from coming up.
Lyd.[ToChristina.] Madam, for Heaven's sake, help me! 'tis yet in your power; if but, while I retire into your dining-room, you will please to personate me, and own yourself for her he pursued out of the Park: you are in mourning too, and your stature so much mine it will not contradict you.
Chris.I am sorry, madam, I must dispute any command of yours. I have made a resolution to see the faceof no man, till an unfortunate friend of mine, now out of the kingdom, return.
Lyd.By that friend, and by the hopes you have to see him, let me conjure you to keep me from the sight of mine now. Dear madam, let your charity prevail over you superstition.
Isa.He comes, he comes, madam! [Lydiawithdraws, and stands unseen at the door.
EnterRanger.
Ran.Ha! this is no Lydia. [Aside.
Chris.What, unworthy defamer, has encouraged you to offer this insolence?
Ran.She is liker Lydia in her style than her face. I see I am mistaken; but to tell her I followed her for another, were an affront rather than an excuse. She's a glorious creature! [Aside.
Chris.Tell me, sir, whence had you reason for this your rude pursuit of me, into my lodgings, my chamber? why should you follow me?
Ran.Faith, madam, because you ran away from me.
Chris.That was no sign of an acquaintance.
Ran.You'll pardon me, madam.
Chris.Then, it seems, you mistook me for another, and the night is your excuse, which blots out all distinctions. But now you are satisfied in your mistake, I hope you will seek out your woman in another place.
Ran.Madam, I allow not the excuse you make for me. If I have offended, I will rather be condemned for my love, than pardoned for my insensibility.
Lyd.How's that? [Aside.
Chris.What do you say?
Ran.Though the night had been darker, my heart would not have suffered me to follow any one but you:—he has been too long acquainted with you to mistake you.
Lyd.What means this tenderness? he mistook me for her sure. [Aside.
Chris.What says the gentleman? did you know me then, sir?
Ran.[Aside.] Not I, the devil take me! but I must on now.—[Aloud.] Could you imagine, madam, by the innumerable crowd of your admirers, you had left any man free in the town, or ignorant of the power of your beauty?
Chris.I never saw your face before, that I remember.
Ran.Ah, madam! you would never regard your humblest slave; I was till now a modest lover.
Lyd.Falsest of men! [Aside.
Chris.My woman said, you came to seek a relation here, not a mistress.
Ran.I must confess, madam, I thought you would sooner disprove my dissembled error, than admit my visit, and was resolved to see you.
Lyd.'Tis clear! [Aside.
Ran.Indeed, when I followed you first out of the Park, I was afraid you might have been a certain relation of mine, for your statures and habits are the same; but when you entered here, I was with joy convinced. Besides, I would not for the world have given her troublesome love so much encouragement, to have disturbed my future addresses to you; for the foolish woman does perpetually torment me to make our relation nearer; but never more in vain than since I have seen you, madam.
Lyd.How! shall I suffer this? 'tis clear he disappointed me to-night for her, and made me stay at home that I might not disappoint him of her company in the Park. [Aside.
Chris.I am amazed! but let me tell you, sir, if the lady were here, I would satisfy her the sight of me should never frustrate her ambitious designs upon her cruel kinsman.
Lyd.I wish you could satisfy me. [Aside.
Ran.If she were here, she would satisfy you she were not capable of the honour to be taken for you:—though in the dark. Faith, my cousin is but a tolerable woman to a man that had not seen you.
Chris.Sure, to my plague, this is the first time you ever saw me!
Ran.Sure, to the plague of my poor heart, 'tis not the hundredth time I have seen you! For, since the time I saw you first, you have not been at the Park, playhouse, Exchange,[34]or other public place, but I saw you; for it was my business to watch and follow.
Chris.Pray, when did you see me last at the Park, playhouse, or Exchange?
Ran.Some two, three days, or a week ago.
Chris.I have not been this month out of this chamber.
Lyd.That is to delude me. [Aside.
Chris.I knew you were mistaken.
Ran.You'll pardon a lover's memory, madam.—[Aside.] A pox! I have hanged myself in my own line. One would think my perpetual ill-luck in lying should break me of the quality; but, like a losing gamester, I am still for pushing on, till none will trust me.
Chris.Come, sir, you run out of one error into a greater: you would excuse the rudeness of your mistake, and intrusion at this hour into my lodgings, with your gallantry to me,—more unseasonable and offensive.
Ran.Nay, I am in love I see, for I blush and have not a word to say for myself.
Chris.But, sir, if you will needs play the gallant, pray leave my house before morning, lest you should be seengo hence, to the scandal of my honour. Rather than that should be, I'll call up the house and neighbours to bear witness I bid you begone.
Ran.Since you take a night visit so ill, madam, I will never wait upon you again but by day. I go, that I may hope to return; and, for once, I wish you a good night without me.
Chris.Good night, for as long as I live. [ExitRanger.
Lyd.And good night to my love, I'm sure. [Aside.
Chris.Though I have done you an inconsiderable service, I assure you, madam, you are not a little obliged to me.—[Aside.] Pardon me, dear Valentine!
Lyd.I know not yet whether I am more obliged than injured: when I do, I assure you, madam, I shall not be insensible of either.
Chris.I fear, madam, you are as liable to mistakes as your kinsman.
Lyd.I fear I am more subject to 'em: it may be for want of sleep, therefore I'll go home.
Chris.My Lady Flippant, good night.
L. Flip.Good night, or rather good morrow, faithful shepherdess.
Chris.I'll wait on you down.
Lyd.Your coach stays yet, I hope.
L. Flip.Certainly. [Exeunt.
EnterRangerandDapperwit.
Dap.I was a faithful sentinel: nobody came out, let me perish!
Ran.No, no, I hunted upon a wrong scent; I thought I had followed a woman, but found her an angel.
Dap.What is her name?
Ran.That you must tell me. What very fine woman is there lives hereabouts?
Dap.Faith, I know not any. She is, I warrant you, some fine woman of a term's standing or so in the town; such as seldom appear in public, but in their balconies, where they stand so constantly, one would think they had hired no other part of the house.
Ran.And look like the pictures which painters expose to draw in customers;—but I must know who she is. Vincent's lodging is hard by, I'll go and inquire of him, and lie with him to-night: but if he will not let me, I'll lie with you, for my lodging is too far off.
Dap.Then I will go before, and expect you at mine. [Exeunt.
EnterVincentandValentinein a riding habit, as newly from a journey.
Vin.Your mistress, dear Valentine, will not be more glad to see you! but my wonder is no less than my joy, that you would return ere you were informed Clerimont were out of danger. His surgeons themselves have not been assured of his recovery till within these two days.
Val.I feared my mistress, not my life. My life I could trust again with my old enemy Fortune; but no longer my mistress in the hands of my greater enemies, her relations.
Vin.Your fear was in the wrong place, then: for though my Lord Clerimont live, he and his relations may put you in more danger of your life than your mistress's relations can of losing her.
Val.Would any could secure me her! I would myself secure my life, for I should value it then.
Vin.Come, come; her relations can do you no hurt. I dare swear, if her mother should but say, "Your hat did not cock handsomely," she would never ask her blessing again.
Val.Prithee leave thy fooling, and tell me if, since my departure, she has given evidences of her love, to clear those doubts I went away with:—for as absence is the bane of common and bastard love, 'tis the vindication of that which is true and generous.
Vin.Nay, if you could ever doubt her love, you deserve to doubt on; for there is no punishment great enough for jealousy—but jealousy.
Val.You may remember, I told you before my flight I had quarrelled with the defamer of my mistress, but I thought I had killed my rival.
Vin.But pray give me now the answer which the suddenness of your flight denied me;—how could Clerimont hope to subdue her heart by the assault of her honour?
Val.Pish! it might be the stratagem of a rival to make me desist.
Vin.For shame! if 'twere not rather to vindicate her, than satisfy you, I would not tell you how like a Penelope she has behaved herself in your absence.
Val.Let me know.
Vin.Then know, the next day you went she put herself in mourning, and—
Val.That might be for Clerimont, thinking him dead, as all the world besides thought.
Vin.Still turning the dagger's point on yourself! hear me out. I say she put herself into mourning for you—locked herself in her chamber this month for you—shut out her barking relations for you—has not seen the sun or the face of man since she saw you—thinks and talks of nothing but you—sends to me daily to hear of you—and,and, in short, (I think,) is mad for you. All this I can swear; for I am to her so near a neighbour, and so inquisitive a friend for you—
EnterServant.
Serv.Mr. Ranger, sir, is coming up.
Vin.What brings him now? he comes to lie with me.
Val.Who, Ranger?
Vin.Yes. Pray retire a little, till I send him off:—unless you have a mind to have your arrival published to-morrow in the coffee houses. [Valentineretires to the door behind.
EnterRanger.
Ran.What! not yet a-bed? your man is laying you to sleep with usquebaugh or brandy; is he not so?
Vin.What punk[35]will not be troubled with you to-night, therefore I am?—is it not so?
Ran.I have been turned out of doors, indeed, just now, by a woman,—but such a woman, Vincent!
Vin.Yes, yes, your women are always such women!
Ran.A neighbour of yours, and I'm sure the finest you have.
Vin.Prithee do not asperse my neighbourhood with your acquaintance; 'twould bring a scandal upon an alley.
Ran.Nay, I do not know her; therefore I come to you.
Vin.'Twas no wonder she turned you out of doors, then; and if she had known you, 'twould have been a wonder she had let you stay. But where does she live?
Ran.Five doors off, on the right hand.
Vin.Pish! pish!—
Ran.What's the matter?
Vin.Does she live there, do you say?
Ran.Yes; I observed them exactly, that my account from you might be exact. Do you know who lives there?
Vin.Yes, so well, that I know you are mistaken.
Ran.Is she not a young lady scarce eighteen, of extraordinary beauty, her stature next to low, and in mourning?
Val.What is this? [Aside.
Vin.She is; but if you saw her, you broke in at window.
Ran.I chased her home from the Park, indeed, taking her for another lady who had some claim to my heart, till she showed a better title to't.
Vin.Hah! hah! hah!
Val.Was she at the Park, then? and have I a new rival? [Aside.
Vin.From the Park did you follow her, do you say?—I knew you were mistaken.
Ran.I tell you I am not.
Vin.If you are sure it was that house, it might be perhaps her woman stolen to the Park, unknown to her lady.
Ran.My acquaintance does usually begin with the maid first, but now 'twas with the mistress, I assure you.
Vin.The mistress!—I tell you she has not been out of her doors since Valentine's flight. She is his mistress,—the great heiress, Christina.
Ran.I tell you then again, I followed that Christina from the Park home, where I talked with her half an hour, and intend to see her to morrow again.
Val.Would she talk with him too! [Aside.
Vin.It cannot be.
Ran.Christina do you call her? Faith I am sorry she is an heiress, lest it should bring the scandal of interest, and the design of lucre, upon my love.
Vin.No, no, her face and virtues will free you from that censure. But, however, 'tis not fairly done to rival your friend Valentine in his absence; and when he ispresent you know 'twill be dangerous, by my Lord Clerimont's example. Faith, if you have seen her, I would not advise you to attempt it again.
Ran.You may be merry, sir, you are not in love; your advice I come not for, nor will I for your assistance;—Good night. [Exit.
Val.Here's your Penelope! the woman that had not seen the sun, nor face of man, since my departure! for it seems she goes out in the night, when the sun is absent, and faces are not distinguished.
Vin.Why! do you believe him?
Val.Should I believe you?
Vin.'Twere more for your interest, and you would be less deceived. If you believe him, you must doubt the chastity of all the fine women in town, and five miles about.
Val.His reports of them will little invalidate his testimony with me.
Vin.He spares not the innocents in bibs and aprons. I'll secure you, he has made (at best) some gross mistake concerning Christina, which to-morrow will discover; in the meantime let us go to sleep.
Val.I will not hinder you, because I cannot enjoy it myself:—
Hunger, Revenge, to sleep are petty foes,But only Death the jealous eyes can close.
[Exeunt.
EnterMrs.JoynerandMrs.Crossbite.
Mrs. Joyn.Good morrow, gossip.
Mrs. Cros.Good morrow;—but why up so early, good gossip?
Mrs. Joyn.My care and passionate concern for you and yours would not let me rest, in truly.
Mrs. Cros.For me and mine?
Mrs. Joyn.You know we have known one another long; I think it be some nine-and-thirty years since you were married.
Mrs. Cros.Nine-and thirty years old, mistress! I'd have you to know, I am no far-born child; and if the register had not been burned in the last great fire, alas!—but my face needs no register sure; nine-and-thirty years old, said you?
Mrs. Joyn.I said you had been so long married; but, indeed, you bear your years as well as any she in Pepper-alley.
Mrs. Cros.Nine-and-thirty, mistress!
Mrs. Joyn.This it is; a woman, now-a-days, had rather you should find her faulty with a man, I warrant you, than discover her age, I warrant you.
Mrs. Cros.Marry, and 'tis the greatest secret far. Tell a miser he is rich, and a woman she is old,—youwill get no money of him, not kindness of her. To tell me I was nine-and-thirty—(I say no more) 'twas un-neighbourly done of you, mistress.
Mrs. Joyn.My memory confesses my age, it seems, as much as my face; for I thought—
Mrs. Cros.Pray talk nor think no more of any one's age; but say what brought you hither so early.
Mrs. Joyn.How does my sweet god-daughter, poor wretch?
Mrs. Cros.Well, very well.
Mrs. Joyn.Ah, sweet creature! Alas! alas!—I am sorry for her.
Mrs. Cros.Why, what has she done to deserve your sorrow, or my reprehension?
EnterLucy,and stands unseen at the door.
Lucy.What, are they talking of me? [Aside.
Mrs. Joyn.In short, she was seen going into the meeting-house of the wicked, otherwise called the playhouse, hand in hand with that vile fellow Dapperwit.
Mrs. Cros.Mr. Dapperwit! let me tell you, if 'twere not for Master Dapperwit, we might have lived all this vacation upon green cheese, tripe, and ox cheek. If he had it, we should not want it; but, poor gentleman! it often goes hard with him,—for he's a wit.
Mrs. Joyn.So, then, you are the dog to be fed, while the house is broken up! I say, beware! The sweet bits you swallow will make your daughter's belly swell, mistress; and, after all your junkets, there will be a bone for you to pick, mistress.
Mrs. Cros.Sure, Master Dapperwit is no such manner of man!
Mrs. Joyn.He is a wit, you say; and what are wits, but contemners of matrons, seducers, or defamers of married women, and deflowerers of helpless virgins, even in the streets, upon the very bulks[36]; affronters ofmidnight magistracy, and breakers of windows? in a word—
Mrs. Cros.But he is a little wit, a modest wit, and they do no such outrageous things as your great wits do.
Mrs. Joyn.Nay, I dare say, he will not say himself he is a little wit if you ask him.
Lucy.Nay, I cannot hear this with patience.—[Comes forward.] With your pardon, mother, you are as much mistaken as my godmother in Mr. Dapperwit; for he is as great a wit as any, and in what he speaks or writes as happy as any. I can assure you, he contemns all your tearing wits, in comparison of himself.
Mrs. Joyn.Alas, poor young wretch! I cannot blame thee so much as thy mother, for thou art not thyself. His bewitching madrigals have charmed thee into some heathenish imp with a hard name.
Lucy.Nymph, you mean, godmother.
Mrs. Joyn.But you, gossip, know what's what. Yesterday, as I told you, a fine old alderman of the city, seeing your daughter in so ill hands as Dapperwit's, was zealously, and in pure charity, bent upon her redemption; and has sent me to tell you, he will take her into his care and relieve your necessities, if you think good.
Mrs. Cros.Will he relieve all our necessities?
Mrs. Joyn.All.
Mrs. Cros.Mine, as well as my daughter's?
Mrs. Joyn.Yes.
Mrs. Cros.Well fare his heart!—D'ye hear, daughter, Mrs. Joyner has satisfied me clearly; Dapperwit is a vile fellow, and, in short, you must put an end to that scandalous familiarity between you.
Lucy.Leave sweet Mr. Dapperwit!—oh furious ingratitude! Was he not the man that gave me my first Farrendon[37]gown, put me out of worsted stockings and handkerchiefs, taught me to dress, talk, and move well?
Mrs. Cros.He has taught you to talk indeed; but, huswife, I will not have my pleasure disputed.
Mrs. Joyn.Nay, indeed, you are too tart with her, poor sweet soul.
Lucy.He taught me to rehearse, too,—would have brought me into the playhouse, where I might have had as good luck as others: I might have had good clothes, plate, jewels, and things so well about me, that my neighbours, the little gentlemen's wives of fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds a year, should have retired into the country, sick with envy of my prosperity and greatness.
Mrs. Joyn.If you follow your mother's counsel, you are like to enjoy all you talk of sooner than by Dapperwit's assistance:—a poor wretch that goes on tick for the paper he writes his lampoons on, and the very ale and coffee that inspire him, as they say.
Mrs. Cros.I am credibly informed so, indeed, Madam Joyner.
Mrs. Joyn.Well, I have discharged my conscience; good morrow to you both. [Exeunt severally.
EnterDapperwitandRanger.
Dap.This is the cabinet in which I hide my jewel; a small house, in an obscure, little, retired street, too.
Ran.Vulgarly, an alley.
Dap.Nay, I hide my mistress with as much care as a spark of the town does his money from his dun after a good hand at play; and nothing but you could have wrought upon me for a sight of her, let me perish.
Ran.My obligation to you is great; do not lessen it by delays of the favour you promised.
Dap.But do not censure my honour; for if you had not been in a desperate condition,—for as one nail mustbeat out another, one poison expel another, one fire draw out another, one fit of drinking cure the sickness of another,—so, the surfeit you took last night of Christina's eyes shall be cured by Lucy's this morning; or as—
Ran.Nay, I bar more similitudes.
Dap.What, in my mistress's lodging? that were as hard as to bar a young parson in the pulpit, the fifth of November, railing at the Church of Rome; or as hard as to put you to bed to Lucy and defend you from touching her; or as—
Ran.Or as hard as to make you hold your tongue.—I shall not see your mistress, I see.
Dap.Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!—[Knocks at the door and returns.]—The devil take me, if good men (I say no more) have not been upon their knees to me, to see her, and you at last must obtain it.
Ran.I do not believe you.
Dap.'Tis such as she; she is beautiful without affectation; amorous without impertinency; airy and brisk without impudence; frolic without rudeness; and, in a word, the justest creature breathing to her assignation.
Ran.You praise her as if you had a mind to part with her; and yet you resolve, I see, to keep her to yourself.
Dap.Keep her! poor creature, she cannot leave me; and rather than leave her, I would leave writing lampoons or sonnets almost.
Ran.Well, I'll leave you with her then.
Dap.What, will you go without seeing her?
Ran.Rather than stay without seeing her.
Dap.Yes, yes, you shall see her; but let me perish if I have not been offered a hundred guineas for a sight of her; by—I say no more.
Ran.[Aside.] I understand you now.—[Aloud.] If the favour be to be purchased, then I'll bid all I have about me for't.
Dap.Fy, fy, Mr. Ranger! you are pleasant, i'faith. Do you think I would sell the sight of my rarity?—like thosegentlemen who hang out flags at Charing Cross, or like—
Ran.Nay, then I'm gone again.
Dap.What, you take it ill I refuse your money? rather than that should be, give us it; but take notice I will borrow it. Now I think on't, Lucy wants a gown and some knacks.
Ran.Here.
Dap.But I must pay it you again: I will not take it unless you engage your honour I shall pay it you again.
Ran.You must pardon me; I will not engage my honour for such a trifle. Go, fetch her out.
Dap.Well, she's a ravishing creature: such eyes and lips, Mr. Ranger!
Ran.Prithee go.
Dap.Such neck and breasts, Mr. Ranger!
Ran.Again, prithee go.
Dap.Such feet, legs, and thighs, Mr. Ranger!
Ran.Prithee let me see 'em.
Dap.And a mouth no bigger than your ring!—I need say no more.
Ran.Would thou wert never to speak again!
Dap.And then so neat, so sweet a creature in bed, that, to my knowledge, she does not change her sheets in half a year.
Ran.I thank you for that allay to my impatience.
Dap.Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy! Miss!—[Knocking at the door.
Ran.Will she not open? I am afraid my pretty miss is not stirring, and therefore will not admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's Conduit?[38]
Dap.Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in a morning!What if she should hear us? would you lose a mistress for a quibble? that's more than I could do, let me perish!—She's within, I hear her.
Ran.But she will not hear you; she's as deaf as if you were a dun or a constable.
Dap.Pish! give her but leave to gape, rub her eyes, and put on her day pinner; the long patch under the left eye; awaken the roses on her cheeks with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath with some lemon-peel; the doors fly off the hinges, and she into my arms. She knows there is as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain it; and 'tis a sign she values the conquest of my heart.
Ran.I thought her beauty had not stood in need of art.
Dap.Beauty's a coward still without the help of art, and may have the fortune of a conquest but cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no more be asunder than love and honour.
Ran.Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and judgment.
Dap.Don't you hear the door wag yet?
Ran.Not a whit.
Dap.Miss! miss! 'tis your slave that calls. Come, all this tricking for him!—Lend me your comb, Mr. Ranger.
Ran.No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are to set me off. You are in possession, I will not lend you arms to keep me out.
Dap.A pox! don't let me be ungrateful; if she has smugged herself up for me, let me prune and flounce my peruke a little for her. There's ne'er a young fellow in the town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse.
Ran.A wit's wig has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence.
Dap.But not in the presence of his mistress; 'tis a greater neglect of her than himself. Pray lend me your comb.
Ran.I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop's mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.
Dap.But don't you see every day, though a man have never so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and comb perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and will not receive you my partner.
Ran.Therefore you see I am setting up for myself. [Combs his peruke.
Dap.She comes, she comes!—pray, your comb. [SnatchesRanger'scomb.
EnterMrs.Crossbite.
Mrs. Cros.Bargain!—what, are you offering us to sale?
Dap.A pox! is't she?—Here take your comb again, then. [Returns the comb.
Mrs. Cros.Would you sell us? 'tis like you, y'fads.
Dap.Sell thee!—where should we find a chapman? Go, prithee, mother, call out my dear Miss Lucy.
Mrs. Cros.Your Miss Lucy! I do not wonder you have the conscience to bargain for us behind our backs, since you have the impudence to claim a propriety in us to my face.
Ran.How's this, Dapperwit?
Dap.Come, come, this gentleman will not think the worse of a woman for my acquaintance with her. He has seen me bring your daughter to the lure with a chiney-orange, from one side of the playhouse to the other.
Mrs. Cros.I would have the gentleman and you to know my daughter is a girl of reputation, though she has been seen in your company; but is now so sensible of her past danger, that she is resolved never more to venture her pitcher to the well, as they say.
Dap.How's that, widow? I wonder at your confidence.
Mrs. Cros.I wonder at your old impudence, that where you have had so frequent repulses you should provokeanother, and bring your friend here to witness your disgrace.
Dap.Hark you, widow, a little.
Mrs. Cros.What, have you mortgaged my daughter to that gentleman; and now would offer me a snip to join in the security!
Dap.[Aside.] She overhead me talk of a bargain;—'twas unlucky.—[Aloud.] Your wrath is grounded upon a mistake; Miss Lucy herself shall be judge; call her out, pray.
Mrs. Cros.She shall not; she will not come to you.
Dap.Till I hear it from her own mouth, I cannot believe it.
Mrs. Cros.You shall hear her say't through the door.
Dap.I shall doubt it unless she say it to my face.
Mrs. Cros.Shall we be troubled with you no more then?
Dap.If she command my death, I cannot disobey her.
Mrs. Cros.Come out, child.
EnterLucy,holding down her head.
Dap.Your servant, dearest miss: can you have—
Mrs. Cros.Let me ask her.
Dap.No, I'll ask her.
Ran.I'll throw up cross or pile[39]who shall ask her.
Dap.Can you have the heart to say you will never more break a cheese-cake with me at New Spring Garden,[40]the Neat-house, or Chelsea? never more sit in my lap ata new play? never more wear a suit of knots of my choice? and, last of all, never more pass away an afternoon with me again in the Green Garret?—do not forget the Green Garret.
Lucy.I wish I had never seen the Green Garret.—Damn the Green Garret!
Dap.Damn the Green Garret!—You are strangely altered!
Lucy.'Tis you are altered.
Dap.You have refused Colby's Mulberry-garden, and the French houses, for the Green Garret; and a little something in the Green Garret pleased you more than the best treat the other places could yield; and can you of a sudden quit the Green Garret?
Lucy.Since you have a design to pawn me for the rent, 'tis time to remove my goods.
Dap.Thou art extremely mistaken.
Lucy.Besides, I have heard such strange things of you this morning.
Dap.What things?
Lucy.I blush to speak 'em.
Dap.I know my innocence, therefore take my charge as a favour. What have I done?
Lucy.Then know, vile wit, my mother has confessed just now thou wert false to me, to her too certain knowledge; and hast forced even her to be false to me too.
Dap.Faults in drink, Lucy, when we are not ourselves, should not condemn us.
Lucy.And now to let me out to hire like a hackney!—I tell you my own dear mother shall bargain for me no more; there are as little as I can bargain for themselves now-a-days, as well as properer women.
Mrs. Cros.Whispering all this while!—Beware of his snares again: come away, child.
Dap.Sweet, dear miss—
Lucy.Bargain for me!—you have reckoned without your hostess, as they say. Bargain for me! bargain for me! [Exit.
Dap.I must return, then, to treat with you.
Mrs. Cros.Treat me no treatings, but take a word for all. You shall no more dishonour my daughter, nor molest my lodgings, as you have done at all hours.
Dap.Do you intend to change 'em, then, to Bridewell, or Long's powdering-tub?[41]
Mrs. Cros.No, to a bailiff's house, and then you'll be so civil, I presume, as not to trouble us.
Ran.Here, will you have my comb again, Dapperwit?
Dap.A pox! I think women take inconstancy from me worse than from any man breathing.
Mrs. Cros.Pray, sir, forget me before you write your next lampoon. [Exit.
EnterSirSimon Addleplotin the dress of aClerk.—Rangerretires to the background.
Sir Sim.Have I found you? have I found you in your by-walks, faith and troth? I am almost out of breath in following you. Gentlemen when they get into an alley walk so fast, as if they had more earnest business there than in the broad streets.
Dap.[Aside.]—How came this sot hither? Fortune has sent him to ease my choler.—You impudent rascal, who are you, that dare intrude thus on us? [Strikes him.
Sir Sim.Don't you know me, Dapperwit? sure you know me. [Softly.
Dap.Will thou dishonour me with thy acquaintance too? thou rascally, insolent, pen-and-ink man. [Strikes him again.
Sir Sim.Oh! oh! sure you know me! pray know me. [Softly.
Dap.By thy saucy familiarity, thou shouldst be a marker at a tennis-court, a barber, or a slave that fills coffee.
Sir Sim.Oh! oh!
Dap.What art thou? [Kicks him.
Sir Sim.Nay, I must not discover myself to Ranger for a kick or two. Oh, pray hold, sir: by that you will know me. [Delivers him a letter.
Dap.How, Sir Simon!
Sir Sim.Mum, mum, make no excuses, man; I would not Ranger should have known me for five hundred—kicks.
Dap.Your disguise is so natural, I protest, it will excuse me.
Sir Sim.I know that, prithee make no excuses, I say. No ceremony between thee and I, man:—read the letter.
Dap.What, you have not opened it!
Sir Sim.Prithee, don't be angry, the seal is a little cracked: for I could not help kissing Mrs. Martha's letter. The word is, now or never. Her father she finds will be abroad all this day, and she longs to see your friend Sir Simon Addleplot:—faith 'tis a pretty jest; while I am with her, and praising myself to her at no ordinary rate. Let thee and I alone at an intrigue.
Dap.Tell her I will not fail to meet her at the place and time. Have a care of your charge; and manage your business like yourself, for yourself.
Sir Sim.I warrant you.
Dap.The gaining Gripe's daughter will make me support the loss of this young jilt here. [Aside.
Ran.[Coming forward.] What fellow's that?
Dap.A servant to a friend of mine.
Ran.Methinks he something resembles our acquaintanceSir Simon; but it is no compliment to tell him so: for that knight is the most egregious coxcomb that ever played with lady's fan.
Sir Sim.So! thanks to my disguise, I know my enemies! [Aside.
Ran.The most incorrigible ass, beyond the reproof of a kicking rival or a frowning mistress. But, if it be possible, thou dost use him worse than his mistress or rival can; thou dost make such a cully of him.
Sir Sim.Does he think so too? [Aside.
Dap.Go, friend, go about your business.—[ExitSirSimon.] A pox! you would spoil all, just in the critical time of projection. He brings me here a summons from his mistress, to meet her in the evening; will you come to my wedding?
Ran.Don't speak so loud, you'll break poor Lucy's heart. Poor creature, she cannot leave you; and, rather than leave her, you would leave writing of lampoons or sonnets—almost.
Dap.Come, let her go, ungrateful baggage!—But now you talk of sonnets, I am no living wit if her love has not cost me two thousand couplets at least.
Ran.But what would you give, now, for a new satire against women, ready made?—'Twould be as convenient to buy satires against women ready made, as it is to buy cravats ready tied.
Dap.Or as—
Ran.Hey, come away, come away, Mr., or as—[Exeunt.
EnterMrs.JoynerandGripe.
Gripe.Peace, plenty, and pastime be within these walls!
Mrs. Joyn.'Tis a small house, you see, and mean furniture; for no gallants are suffered to come hither. She might have had ere now as good lodgings as any in town; her Mortlake[42]hangings, great glasses, cabinets, china, embroidered beds, Persia carpets, gold-plate, and the like, if she would have put herself forward. But your worship may please to make 'em remove to a place fit to receive one of your worship's quality; for this is a little scandalous, in truly.
Gripe.No, no; I like it well enough:—I am not dainty. Besides, privacy, privacy, Mrs. Joyner! I love privacy in opposition to the wicked, who hate it. [Looks about.
Mrs. Joyn.What do you look for, sir?
Gripe.Walls have ears; but, besides, I look for a private place to retire to, in time of need. Oh! here's one convenient. [Turns up a hanging, and discovers the slender provisions of the family.]
Mrs. Joyn.But you see, poor innocent souls, to what use they put it;—not to hide gallants.
Gripe.Temperance is the nurse of chastity.
Mrs. Joyn.But your worship may please to mend their fare; and, when you come, may make them entertain you better than, you see, they do themselves.
Gripe.No, I am not dainty, as I told you. I abominate entertainments;—no entertainments, pray, Mrs. Joyner.
Mrs. Joyn.No! [Aside.
Gripe.There can be no entertainment to me more luscious and savoury than communion with that little gentlewoman.—Will you call her out? I fast till I see her.
Mrs. Joyn.But, in truly, your worship, we should have brought a bottle or two of Rhenish and some Naples biscuit, to have entertained the young gentlewoman. 'Tis the mode for lovers to treat their mistresses.
Gripe.Modes! I tell you, Mrs. Joyner, I hate modes and forms.
Mrs. Joyn.You must send for something to entertain her with.
Gripe.Again entertaining!—we will be to each other a feast.
Mrs. Joyn.I shall be ashamed, in truly, your worship.—Besides, the young gentlewoman will despise you.
Gripe.I shall content her, I warrant you; leave it to me.
Mrs. Joyn.[Aside.] I am sure you will not content me, if you will not content her; 'tis as impossible for a man to love and be a miser, as to love and be wise, as they say.
Gripe.While you talk of treats, you starve my eyes; I long to see the fair one; fetch her hither.
Mrs. Joyn.I am ashamed she should find me so abominable a liar; I have so praised you to her, and, above all your virtues, your liberality; which is so great a virtue, that it often excuses youth, beauty, courage, wit, or anything.
Gripe.Pish, pish! 'tis the virtue of fools; every fool can have it.
Mrs. Joyn.And will your worship want it, then? I told her—
Gripe.Why would you tell her anything of me? you know I am a modest man. But come, if you will have me as extravagant as the wicked, take that and fetch us a treat, as you call it.
Mrs. Joyn.Upon my life a groat! what will this purchase?
Gripe.Two black pots of ale and a cake, at the cellar.—Come, the wine has arsenic in't.
Mrs. Joyn.[Aside.] Well, I am mistaken, and my hopes are abused: I never knew any man so mortified a miser, that he would deny his lechery anything; I must be even with thee then another way. [Exit.
Gripe.These useful old women are more exorbitant and craving in their desires than the young ones in theirs. These prodigals in white perukes spoil 'em both; and that's the reason, when the squires come under my clutches, I make 'em pay for their folly and mine, and 'tis but conscience:—oh, here comes the fair one at last!
Re-enterMrs.Joynerleading inLucy,who hangs backwards as she enters.
Lucy.Oh Lord, there's a man, godmother!
Mrs. Joyn.Come in, child, thou art so bashful—
Lucy.My mother is from home too, I dare not.
Mrs. Joyn.If she were here, she'd teach you better manners.
Lucy.I'm afraid she'd be angry.
Mrs. Joyn.To see you so much an ass.—Come along, I say.
Gripe.Nay, speak to her gently; if you won't, I will.
Lucy.Thank you, sir.
Gripe.Pretty innocent! there is, I see, one left of her age; what hap have I! Sweet little gentlewoman, come sit down by me.
Lucy.I am better bred, I hope, sir.
Gripe.You must sit down by me.
Lucy.I'd rather stand, if you please.
Gripe.To please me, you must sit, sweetest.
Lucy.Not before my godmother, sure.
Gripe.Wonderment of innocence!
Mrs. Joyn.A poor bashful girl, sir: I'm sorry she is not better taught.
Gripe.I am glad she is not taught; I'll teach her myself.
Lucy.Are you a dancing-master then, sir? But if I should be dull, and not move as you would have me, you would not beat me, sir, I hope?
Gripe.Beat thee, honeysuckle! I'll use thee thus, and thus, and thus. [Kisses her.] Ah, Mrs. Joyner, prithee go fetch our treat now.
Mrs. Joyn.A treat of a groat! I will not wag.
Gripe.Why don't you go? Here, take more money, and fetch what you will; take here, half-a-crown.
Mrs. Joyn.What will half-a-crown do?
Gripe.Take a crown then, an angel, a piece;[43]—begone!
Mrs. Joyn.A treat only will not serve my turn; I must buy the poor wretch there some toys.
Gripe.What toys? what? speak quickly.
Mrs. Joyn.Pendants, necklaces, fans, ribbons, points, laces, stockings, gloves—
Gripe.Hold, hold! before it comes to a gown.
Mrs. Joyn.Well remembered, sir; indeed she wants a gown, for she has but that one to her back. For your own sake you should give her a new gown, for variety of dresses rouses desire, and makes an old mistress seem every day a new one.
Gripe.For that reason she shall have no new gown; for I am naturally constant, and as I am still the same, I love she should be still the same. But here, take half a piece for the other things.
Mrs. Joyn.Half a piece!—
Gripe.Prithee, begone!—take t'other piece then—two pieces—three pieces—five! here, 'tis all I have.
Mrs. Joyn.I must have the broad-seal ring too, or I stir not.
Gripe.Insatiable woman! will you have that too! Prithee spare me that, 'twas my grandfather's.
Mrs. Joyn.That's false, he had ne'er a coat.—So! now I go; this is but a violent fit, and will not hold. [Aside.
Lucy.Oh! whither do you go, godmother? will you leave me alone?
Mrs. Joyn.The gentleman will not hurt you; you may venture yourself with him alone.
Lucy.I think I may, godmother.—[ExitMrs.Joyner.] What! will you lock me in, sir? don't lock me in, sir. [Gripe,fumbling at the door, locks it.
Gripe.'Tis a private lesson, I must teach you, fair.
Lucy.I don't see your fiddle, sir; where is your little kit?
Gripe.I'll show it thee presently, sweetest.—[Sets a chair against the door.]—Necessity, mother of invention!—Come, my dearest. [Takes her in his arms.
Lucy.What do you mean, sir? don't hurt me, sir, will you—Oh! oh! you will kill me! Murder! murder!—Oh! oh!—help! help! oh!
The door is broken open; enterMrs.Crossbite,and herLandlord,and his'Prentice,in aprons.
Mrs. Cros.What, murder my daughter, villain!
Lucy.I wish he had murdered me.—Oh! oh!
Mrs. Cros.What has he done?
Lucy.Why would you go out, and leave me alone? unfortunate woman that I am!