by John Dryden
Queen. Your modesty shall not serve the turn; ask something.
Cel. Then I beg, madam, you will command Florimel never to be friends with me.
Flo. Ask again; I grant that without the queen: But why are you afraid on’t?
Cel. Because I am sure, as soon as ever you are, you’ll marry me.
Flo. Do you fear it?
Cel. No, ‘twill come with a fear.
Flo. If you do, I will not stick with you for an oath.
Cel. I require no oath till we come to church: and then after the priest, I hope; for I find it will be my destiny to marry thee.
Flo. If ever I say a word after the black gentleman for thee, Celadon —
Cel. Then, I hope, you’ll give me leave to bestow a faithful heart elsewhere.
Flo. Ay, but if you would have one, you must bespeak it, for I am sure you have none ready made.
Cel. What say you, shall I marry Flavia?
Flo. No, she’ll be too cunning for you.
Cel. What say you to Olinda, then? she’s tall, and fair, and bonny.
Flo. And foolish, and apish, and fickle.
Cel. But Sabina there’s pretty, and young, and loving, and innocent.
Flo. And dwarfish, and childish, and fond, and flippant: If you marry her sister, you will get may-poles; and if you marry her, you will get fairies to dance about them.
Cel. Nay, then, the case is clear, Florimel; if you take ‘em all from me, ’tis because you reserve me for yourself.
Flo. But this marriage is such a bugbear to me! much might be if we could invent but any way to make it easy.
Cel. Some foolish people have made it uneasy, by drawing the knot faster than they need; but we that are wiser will loosen it a little.
Flo. ’Tis true, indeed, there’s some difference betwixt a girdle and a halter.
Cel. As for the first year, according to the laudable custom of new-married people, we shall follow one another up into chambers, and down into gardens, and think we shall never have enough of one another. So far ’tis pleasant enough, I hope.
Flo. But after that, when we begin to live like husband and wife, and never come near one another — what then, sir?
Cel. Why, then, our only happiness must be to have one mind, and one will, Florimel.
Flo. One mind, if thou wilt, but pr’ythee let us have two wills; for I find one will be little enough for me alone. But how, if those wills should meet and clash, Celadon?
Cel. I warrant thee for that; husbands and wives keep their wills far enough asunder for ever meeting. One thing let us be sure to agree on, that is, never to be jealous.
Flo. No; but e’en love one another as long as we can; and confess the truth when we can love no longer.
Cel. When I have been at play, you shall never ask me what money I have lost.
Flo. When I have been abroad, you shall never enquire who treated me.
Cel. Item, I will have the liberty to sleep all night, without your interrupting my repose for any evil design whatsoever.
Flo. Item, Then you shall bid me goodnight before you sleep.
Cel. Provided always, that whatever liberties we take with other people, we continue very honest to one another.
Flo. As far as will consist with a pleasant life.
Cel. Lastly, whereas the names of husband and wife hold forth nothing, but clashing and cloying, and dulness and faintness, in their signification; they shall be abolished for ever betwixt us.
Flo. And instead of those, we will be married by the more agreeable names of mistress and gallant.
Cel. None of my privileges to be infringed by thee, Florimel, under the penalty of a month of fasting nights.
Flo. None of my privileges to be infringed by thee, Celadon, under the penalty of cuckoldom.
Cel. Well, if it be my fortune to be made a cuckold, I had rather thou should’st make me one, than any one in Sicily; and, for my comfort, I shall have thee oftener than any of thy servants.
Flo. Look ye now, is not such a marriage as good as wenching, Celadon?
Cel. This is very good; but not so good, Florimel.
Queen. Now set we forward to the assembly. — You promise, cousin, your consent?
Lys. But most unwillingly.
Queen. Philocles, I must beg your voice too.
Phil. Most joyfully I give it.
Lys. Madam, but one word more; —
Since you are so resolved,
That you may see, bold as my passion was,
’Twas only for your person, not your crown;
I swear no second love
Shall violate the flame I had for you,
But, in strict imitation of your oath,
I vow a single life.
Queen. Now, my Asteria, my joys are full;
[To ASTERIA.
The powers above, that see
The innocent love I bear to Philocles,
Have given its due reward; for by this means
The right of Lysimantes will devolve
Upon Candiope: and I shall have
This great content, to think, when I am dead,
My crown may fall on Philocles’s head.
[Exeunt.
EPILOGUE, WRITTEN BY A PERSON OF HONOUR.
Our poet, something doubtful of his fate,
Made choice of me to be his advocate,
Relying on my knowledge in the laws;
And I as boldly undertook the cause.
I left my client yonder in a rant,
Against the envious, and the ignorant,
Who are, he says, his only enemies:
But he condemns their malice, and defies
The sharpest of his censurers to say,
Where there is one gross fault in all his play.
The language is so fitted for each part,
The plot according to the rules of art,
And twenty other things he bid me tell you;
But I cried, e’en go do’t yourself for Nelly.
Reason with judges, urged in the defence
Of those they would condemn, is insolence;
I therefore wave the merits of his play,
And think it fit to plead this safer way.
If when too many in the purchase share,
Robbing’s not worth the danger nor the care;
The men of business must, in policy,
Cherish a little harmless poetry,
All wit would else grow up to knavery.
Wit is a bird of music, or of prey;
Mounting, she strikes at all things in her way.
But if this birdlime once but touch her wings,
On the next bush she sits her down and sings.
I have but one word more; tell me, I pray,
What you will get by damning of our play?
A whipt fanatic, who does not recant,
Is, by his brethren, called a suffering saint;
And by your hands should this poor poet die,
Before he does renounce his poetry,
His death must needs confirm the party more,
Than all his scribbling life could do before;
Where so much zeal does in a sect appear,
’Tis to no purpose, ‘faith, to be severe.
But t’other day, I heard this rhyming fop
Say, — Critics were the whips, and he the top;
For, as a top spins more, the more you baste her,
So, every lash you give, he writes the faster.
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MRS BOUTELL TO THE MAIDEN QUEEN, IN MAN’S CLOTHES.
The following prologue and epilogue occur in the “Covent-Garden Drollery” a publication which contains original copies of several of Dryden’s fugitive pieces. They appear to have been spoken upon occasion of the male characters in “The Maiden Queen” being represented by female performers. From our author’s connection both with the play and with Mrs Reeves, who spoke the epilogue, it is probable he wrote both that and the prologue; and therefore (althoug
h not much worth preserving) we have here added them. From the reference to Ravenscroft’s play of “The Citizen turned Gentleman,” in the last line of the epilogue, it would seem the prologue and epilogue were written and spoken in 1672.
Women, like us, (passing for men,) you’ll cry,
Presume too much upon your secrecy.
There’s not a fop in town, but will pretend
To know the cheat himself, or by his friend;
Then make no words on’t, gallants, ’tis e’en true,
We are condemn’d to look and strut, like you.
Since we thus freely our hard fate confess,
Accept us, these bad times, in any dress.
You’ll find the sweet on’t: now old pantaloons
Will go as far as, formerly, new gowns;
And from your own cast wigs, expect no frowns.
The ladies we shall not so easily please;
They’ll say, — What impudent bold things are these,
That dare provoke, yet cannot do us right,
Like men, with huffing looks, that dare not fight! —
But this reproach our courage must not daunt;
The bravest soldier may a weapon want;
Let her that doubts us still send her gallant.
Ladies, in us you’ll youth and beauty find:
All things — but one — according to your mind:
And when your eyes and ears are feasted here,
Rise up, and make out the short meal elsewhere.
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MRS REEVES TO THE MAIDEN QUEEN, IN MAN’S CLOTHES.
What think you, sirs, was’t not all well enough?
Will you not grant that we can strut and huff?
Men may be proud; but faith, for aught I see,
They neither walk, nor cock, so well as we;
And, for the fighting part, we may in time
Grow up to swagger in heroic rhyme;
For though we cannot boast of equal force,
Yet, at some weapons, men have still the worse.
Why should not then we women act alone?
Or whence are men so necessary grown?
Our’s are so old, they are as good as none.
Some who have tried them, if you’ll take their oaths,
Swear they’re as arrant tinsel as their clothes.
Imagine us but what we represent,
And we could e’en give you as good content.
Our faces, shapes, — all’s better then you see,
And for the rest, they want as much as we.
Oh, would the higher powers behind to us,
And grant us to set up a female house!
We’ll make ourselves to please both sexes then, —
To the men women, to the women men.
Here, we presume, our legs are no ill sight,
And they will give you no ill dreams at night:
In dreams both sexes may their passions ease,
You make us then as civil as you please.
This would prevent the houses joining too,
At which we are as much displeased as you;
For all our women most devoutly swear,
Each would be rather a poor actress here,
Then to be made a Mamamouchi there.
SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL
OR, THE FEIGN’D INNOCENCE
Sir Martin Mar-All is imitated from the French of Moliere: nor, even with that qualification, is it entirely the work of Dryden. William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, renowned for his loyalty and gallantry during the civil wars, whether in compliance with the general custom amongst the men of wit and honour at the court of Charles, or in order to place himself upon a level with that voluminous authoress, his Duchess, thought fit to compose several plays. Amongst other lucubrations, he translated Moliere’s “L’Etourdi,” and presented it to our author, by whom it was adapted for the stage. From respect to his Grace, it was published anonymously until 1697, when it appeared with Dryden’s name. The noble Duke being far more eminent as a soldier and an equestrian, than as an author, it may be readily allowed, that what is diverting in the piece has been inserted by our author. Upon the stage, indeed, the repeated and incorrigible blunders of Sir Martin must have appeared very diverting, since the play ran for no less than thirty-three nights, and was four times acted at court. Nokes, who acted this unfortunate coxcomb with inimitable humour, is said to have contributed much to this uncommon success. Moliere’s play is followed with considerable exactness, allowing for such variations as the change of the scene from Paris to London appeared naturally to demand. One remarkable difference occurs in the conclusion: Coelie is, in the original, at length united to her inconsiderate and blundering admirer. Mrs Millisent, the corresponding character in Sir Martin Mar-all, rewards, with her hand and fortune, the ingenious Warner, who has all along laboured to gain her for his master. The alternative was a little embarrassing; but the decorum of the French stage would not have permitted the union of a lady with an intriguing domestic, nor would an English audience have been less shocked with seeing her bestowed on a fool. Besides, Sir Martin Mar-all is a more contemptible character than Lelie, who is less conceited and foolish, than thoughtless and inconsequential. But although the character of a menial was not quite so low in the 17th as in the 18th century, — for pages, and the higher class of attendants in a nobleman’s family, were often men of some birth, — yet there is much grossness in the conduct of the lady, who, in pure admiration of wit, marries a man, who never thought of her.
“L’Amant Indiscret,” of Quinault, another French play, has also been consulted by Dryden in furbishing forth the Duke of Newcastle’s labours. In that part of the play, which occasions its second title of “The feigned Innocence,” the reader will hardly find wit enough to counterbalance the want of delicacy.
Sir Martin Mar-all was performed by the Duke of York’s servants, probably at the desire of the Duke of Newcastle, as Dryden was engaged to write for the other house. It seems to have been acted in 1667, and was published, but without the author’s name, in 1668.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
EPILOGUE.
PROLOGUE.
Fools, which each man meets in his dish each day, Are yet the great regalios of a play; In which to poets you but just appear, To prize that highest, which cost them so dear; Fops in the town more easily will pass; One story makes a statutable ass: But such in plays must be much thicker sown, Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one. Observing poets all their walks invade, As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade: And when they have enough for comedy, They stow their several bodies in a pye: The poet’s but the cook to fashion it, For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit. To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong; None welcome those who bring their cheer along.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Lord Dartmouth, in love with Mrs Christian.
Mr Moody, the Swash-buckler.
Sir Martin Mar-all, a fool.
Warner, his man.
Sir John Swallow, a Kentish knight.
Lady Dupe, the old lady.
Mrs Christian, her young niece.
Mrs Millisent, the Swash-buckler’s daughter.
Rose, her maid.
Mrs Preparation, woman to the old lady.
Other Servants, men and women, a Carrier, Bailiffs.
SCENE — Covent Garden.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Enter Warner solus.
Warn. Where the devil is this master of mine? he is ever out of the way, when he should do himself good! This ’tis to serve a coxcomb, one that has no more brains than just those I carry for him. Well! of all fops commend me to him for the greatest; he’s so opinioned of his own abilities, that he is ever designing somewhat, and yet he sows his stratagems so shallow, that every daw can pick
them up: From a plotting fool, the Lord deliver me. Here he comes; — O! it seems his cousin’s with him; then it is not so bad as I imagined.
Enter Sir Martin Mar-all, and Lady Dupe.
L. Dupe. I think ’twas well contrived for your access, to lodge her in the same house with you.
Sir Mart. ’Tis pretty well, I must confess.
Warn. Had he plotted it himself, it had been admirable.
[Aside.
L. Dupe. For when her father Moody writ to me to take him lodgings, I so ordered it, the choice seemed his, not mine.
Sir Mart. I have hit of a thing myself sometimes, when wiser heads have missed it; but that might be mere luck.
L. Dupe. Fortune does more than wisdom.
Sir Mart. Nay, for that you shall excuse me; I will not value any man’s fortune at a rush, except he have wit and parts to bear him out. But when do you expect them?
L. Dupe. This tide will bring them from Gravesend. You had best let your man go, as from me, and wait them at the stairs in Durham-yard.
Sir Mart. Lord, cousin, what a-do is here with your counsel! As though I could not have thought of that myself. I could find in my heart not to send him now —— stay a little —— I could soon find out some other way.
Warn. A minute’s stay may lose your business.
Sir Mart. Well, go then; but you must grant, if he had staid, I could have found a better way — you grant it.
L. Dupe. For once I will not stand with you. [Exit Warner.] ’Tis a sweet gentlewoman, this Mrs Millisent, if you can get her.
Sir Mart. Let me alone for plotting.
L. Dupe. But by your favour, sir, ’tis not so easy; her father has already promised her; and the young gentleman comes up with them: I partly know the man — but the old squire is humoursome; he’s stout, and plain in speech, and in behaviour; he loves none of the fine town tricks of breeding, but stands up for the old Elizabeth way in all things. This we must work upon.
Sir Mart. Sure you think you have to deal with a fool, cousin?
Enter Mrs Christian.
L. Dupe. O my dear niece, I have some business with you.
[Whispers.
Sir. Mart. Well, madam, I’ll take one turn here in the Piazzas; a thousand things are hammering in this head; ’tis a fruitful noddle, though I say it.