by John Dryden
[Shews the paper.
Sir Mart. What’s that you have in your hand there, sirrah?
Warn. Pox, what ill luck was this! what shall I say?
Sir Mart. Sometimes you have tongue enough; what, are you silent?
Warn. ’Tis an account, sir, of what money you have lost since you came to town.
Sir Mart. I am very glad on’t: Now I’ll make you all see the severity of my fortune —— give me the paper.
Warn. Heaven! what does he mean to do? It is not fair writ out, sir.
Sir John. Besides, I am in haste; another time, sir ——
Sir Mart. Pray, oblige me, sir; ’tis but one minute: All people love to be pitied in their misfortunes, and so do I: will you produce it, sirrah?
Warn. Dear master!
Sir Mart. Dear rascal! am I master, or you, you rogue?
Warn. Hold yet, sir, and let me read it: You cannot read my hand.
Sir Mart. This is ever his way to be disparaging me; but I’ll let you see, sirrah, that I can read your hand better than you yourself can.
Warn. You’ll repent it; there’s a trick in’t, sir.
Sir Mart. Is there so, sirrah? but I’ll bring you out of all your tricks with a vengeance to you —— [Reads.] How now! What’s this? A true particular of the estate of Sir John Swallow, knight, lying and situate in, &c.
Sir John. This is the very paper I had lost: I’m very glad on’t; [Takes the paper.] it has saved me a most unwelcome journey — but I will not thank you for the courtesy, which now I find you never did intend me — this is confederacy, I smoke it now — come, madam, let me wait on you to your father.
Mill. Well, of a witty man, this was the foolishest part that ever I beheld.
[Exeunt Sir John, Millisent, and Rose.
Sir Mart. I am a fool, I must confess it; and I am the most miserable one without thy help — but yet it was such a mistake as any man might have made.
Warn. No doubt of it.
Sir Mart. Pr’ythee chide me! this indifference of thine wounds me to the heart.
Warn. I care not.
Sir Mart. Wilt thou not help me for this once?
Warn. Sir, I kiss your hands, I have other business.
Sir Mart. Dear Warner!
Warn. I am inflexible.
Sir Mart. Then I am resolved I’ll kill myself.
Warn. You are master of your own body.
Sir Mart. Will you let me damn my soul?
Warn. At your pleasure, as the devil and you can agree about it.
Sir Mart. D’ye see, the point’s ready? Will you do nothing to save my life?
Warn. Not in the least.
Sir Mart. Farewell, hard-hearted Warner.
Warn. Adieu, soft-headed Sir Martin.
Sir Mart. Is it possible?
Warn. Why don’t you despatch, sir? why all these preambles?
Sir Mart. I’ll see thee hanged first: I know thou wouldst have me killed, to get my clothes.
Warn. I knew it was but a copy of your countenance; people in this age are not so apt to kill themselves.
Sir Mart. Here are yet ten pieces in my pocket; take ‘em, and let’s be friends.
Warn. You know the easiness of my nature, and that makes you work upon it so. Well, sir, for this once I cast an eye of pity on you; but I must have ten more in hand, before I can stir a foot.
Sir Mart. As I am a true gamester, I have lost all but these; but if thou’lt lend me them, I’ll give ‘em thee again.
Warn. I’ll rather trust you till to-morrow; Once more look up, I bid you hope the best. Why should your folly make your love miscarry, Since men first play the fools, and then they marry? [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enter Sir Martin Mar-all and Warner.
Sir Mart. But are they to be married this day in private, say you?
Warn. ’Tis so concluded, sir, I dare assure you.
Sir Mart. But why so soon, and in private?
Warn. So soon, to prevent the designs upon her; and in private, to save the effusion of Christian money.
Sir Mart. It strikes to my heart already; in fine, I am a dead man. Warner —
Warn. Well, go your ways, I’ll try what may be done. Look if he will stir now; your rival and the old man will see us together; we are just below the window.
Sir Mart. Thou canst not do it.
Warn. On the peril of my twenty pieces be it.
Sir Mart. But I have found a way to help thee out; trust to my wit but once.
Warn. Name your wit, or think you have the least grain of wit but once more, and I’ll lay it down for ever.
Sir Mart. You are a saucy, masterly companion; and so I leave you.
[Exit.
Warn. Help, help, good people! Murder, Murder!
Enter Sir John and Moody.
Sir John and Mood. How now, what’s the matter?
Warn. I am abused, I am beaten, I am lamed for ever.
Mood. Who has used thee so?
Warn. The rogue, my master.
Sir John. What was the offence?
Warn. A trifle, just nothing.
Sir John. That’s very strange.
Warn. It was for telling him he lost too much at play: I meant him nothing but well, heaven knows; and he, in a cursed damned humour, would needs revenge his losses upon me: and kicked me, took away my money, and turned me off; but, if I take it at his hands, —
Mood. By cox-nowns, it was an ill-natured part; nay, I thought no better would come on’t, when I heard him at his vow to gads, and in fines.
Warn. But, if I live, I’ll cry quittance with him: he had engaged me to get Mrs Millisent, your daughter, for him; but if I do not all I can to make her hate him! a great booby, an overgrown oaf, a conceited Bartlemew —
Sir John. Pr’ythee leave off thy choler, and hear me a little: I have had a great mind to thee a long time; if thou thinkest my service better than his, from this minute I entertain thee.
Warn. With all my heart, sir; and so much the rather, that I might spite him with it. This was the most propitious fate —
Mood. Propitious! and fate! what a damned scanderbag rogue art thou, to talk at this rate? Hark you, sirrah, one word more of this gibberish, and I’ll set you packing from your new service: I’ll have neither propitious nor fate come within my doors.
Sir John. Nay, pray, father —
Warn. Good old sir, be pacified; I was pouring out a little of the dregs that I had left in me of my former service, and now they are gone, my stomach’s clear of them.
Sir John. This fellow is come in a happy hour; for now, sir, you and I may go to prepare the licence, and, in the mean time, he may have an eye upon your daughter.
Warn. If you please I’ll wait upon her till she’s ready, and then bring her to what church you shall appoint.
Mood. But, friend, you’ll find she’ll hang an arse, and be very loath to come along with you, and therefore I had best stay behind and bring her myself.
Warn. I warrant you I have a trick for that, sir: She knows nothing of my being turned away; so I’ll come to her as from Sir Martin, and, under pretence of carrying her to him, conduct her to you.
Sir John. My better angel —
Mood. By the mass, ’twas well thought on; well, son, go you before, I’ll speak but one word for a dish or two at dinner, and follow you to the licence office. Sirrah, stay you here, till my return.
[Exeunt Sir John and Moody.
Warn. Was there ever such a lucky rogue as I? I had always a good opinion of my wit, but could never think I had so much as now I find. I have now gained an opportunity to carry away Mrs Millisent, for my master to get his mistress by means of his rival, to receive all his happiness, where he could expect nothing but misery: After this exploit, I will have Lilly draw me in the habit of a hero, with a laurel on my temples, and an inscription below it; This is Warner, the flower of serving-men.
Enter Messenger.
Mess. Pray do me the favou
r to help me to the speech of Mr Moody.
Warn. What’s your business?
Mess. I have a letter to deliver to him.
Warn. Here he comes, you may deliver it yourself to him.
Enter Moody.
Mess. Sir, a gentleman met me at the corner of the next street, and bid me give this into your own hands.
Mood. Stay, friend, till I have read it.
Mess. He told me, sir, it required no answer.
[Exit Mess.
Mood. reads. Sir, permit me, though a stranger, to give you counsel; some young gallants have had intelligence, that this day you intend privately to marry your daughter, the rich heiress; and, in fine, above twenty of them have dispersed themselves to watch her going out: Therefore, put it off, if you will avoid mischief, and be advised by
Your unknown servant.
Mood. By the mackings, I thought there was no good in’t, when I saw in fine there; there are some Papishes, I’ll warrant, that lie in wait for my daughter; or else they are no Englishmen, but some of your French Outalian-rogues; I owe him thanks, however, this unknown friend of mine, that told me on’t. Warner, no wedding to-day, Warner.
Warn. Why, what’s the matter, sir?
Mood. I say no more, but some wiser than some; I’ll keep my daughter at home this afternoon, and a fig for all these Outalians.
[Exit Moody.
Warn. So, here’s another trick of fortune, as unexpected for bad, as the other was for good. Nothing vexes me, but that I had made my game cock-sure, and then to be back-gammoned: It must needs be the devil that writ this letter; he owed my master a spite, and has paid him to the purpose: And here he comes as merry too! he little thinks what misfortune has befallen him; and, for my part, I am ashamed to tell him.
Enter Sir Martinlaughing.
Sir Mart. Warner, such a jest, Warner!
[Laughs again.
Warn. What a murrain is the matter, sir? Where lies this jest that tickles you?
Sir Mart. Let me laugh out my laugh, and I’ll tell thee.
[Laughs again.
Warn. I wish you may have cause for all this mirth.
Sir Mart. Hereafter, Warner, be it known unto thee, I will endure no more to be thy May-game: Thou shalt no more dare to tell me, I spoil thy projects, and discover thy designs; for I have played such a prize, without thy help, of my own mother-wit, (’tis true I am hasty sometimes, and so do harm; but when I have a mind to shew myself, there’s no man in England, though I say’t, comes near me as to point of imagination) I’ll make thee acknowledge I have laid a plot that has a soul in’t.
Warn. Pray, sir, keep me no longer in ignorance of this rare invention.
Sir Mart. Know then, Warner, that, when I left thee, I was possessed with a terrible fear, that my mistress should be married: Well, thought I to myself, — and mustering up all the forces of my wit, I did produce such a stratagem!
Warn. But what was it?
Sir Mart. I feigned a letter as from an unknown friend to Moody, wherein I gave him to understand, that if his daughter went out this afternoon, she would infallibly be snapped by some young fellows that lay in wait for her.
Warn. Very good.
Sir Mart. That which follows is yet better; for he I sent assures me, that in that very nick of time my letter came, her father was just sending her abroad with a very foolish rascally fellow, that was with him.
Warn. And did you perform all this, a’God’s name? Could you do this wonderful miracle without giving your soul to the devil for his help?
Sir Mart. I tell thee, man, I did it; and it was done by the help of no devil, but this familiar of my own brain; how long would it have been ere thou couldst have thought of such a project? Martin said to his man, Who’s the fool now?
Warn. Who’s the fool! why, who uses to be the fool? he that ever was since I knew him, and ever will be so.
Sir Mart. What a pox! I think thou art grown envious; not one word in my commendation?
Warn. Faith, sir, my skill is too little to praise you as you deserve; but if you would have it according to my poor ability, you are one that had a knock in your cradle, a conceited lack-wit, a designing ass, a hair-brained fop, a confounded busy-brain, with an eternal windmill in it; this, in short, sir, is the contents of your panegyric.
Sir Mart. But what the devil have I done, to set you thus against me?
Warn. Only this, sir: I was the foolish rascally fellow that was with Moody, and your worship was he to whom I was to bring his daughter.
Sir Mart. But how could I know this? I am no witch.
Warn. No, I’ll be sworn for you, you are no conjurer. Will you go, sir?
Sir Mart. Will you hear my justification?
Warn. Shall I see the back of you? speak not a word in your defence.
[Shoves him.
Sir Mart. This is the strangest luck now ——
[Exit.
Warn. I’m resolved this devil of his shall never weary me; I will overcome him, I will invent something that shall stand good in spite of his folly. Let me see —
Enter Lord.
Lord. Here he is — I must venture on him, for the tyranny of this old lady is unsupportable; since I have made her my confident, there passes not an hour, but she passes a pull at my purse-strings; I shall be ruined if I do not quit myself of her suddenly: I find, now, by sad experience, that a mistress is much more chargeable than a wife, and after a little time too, grows full as dull and insignificant. — Mr Warner! have you a mind to do yourself a courtesy, and me another?
Warn. I think, my lord, the question need not be much disputed, for I have always had a great service for your lordship, and some little kindness for myself.
Lord. What if you should propose mistress Christian as a wife to your master? You know he’s never like to compass t’other.
Warn. I cannot tell that, my lord.
Lord. Five hundred pounds are yours at the day of marriage.
Warn. Five hundred pounds! ’tis true, the temptation is very sweet and powerful; the devil, I confess, has done his part, and many a good murder and treason have been committed at a cheaper rate; but yet ——
Lord. What yet?
Warn. To confess the truth, I am resolved to bestow my master upon that other lady (as difficult as your lordship thinks it), for the honour of my wit is engaged in it: Will it not be the same to your lordship, were she married to any other?
Lord. The very same.
Warn. Come, my lord, not to dissemble with you any longer, I know where it is that your shoe wrings you: I have observed something in the house, betwixt some parties that shall be nameless: And know, that you have been taking up linen at a much dearer rate, than you might have had it in any draper’s in town.
Lord. I see I have not danced in a net before you.
Warn. As for that old lady, whom hell confound, she is the greatest jilt in nature; cheat is her study; all her joy to cozen; she loves nothing but herself; and draws all lines to that corrupted centre.
Lord. I have found her out, though late: First, I’ll undertake I ne’er enjoyed her niece under the rate of five hundred pounds a-time; never was woman’s flesh held up so high: Every night I find out for a new maidenhead, and she has sold it me as often as ever Mother Temple, Bennet, or Gifford, have put off boiled capons for quails and partridges.
Warn. This is nothing to what bills you’ll have when she’s brought to bed, after her hard bargain, as they call it; then crammed capons, pea-hens, chickens in the grease, pottages, and fricasees, wine from Shatling, and La-fronds, with New River, clearer by sixpence the pound than ever God Almighty made it; then midwife — dry nurse — wet nurse — and all the rest of their accomplices, with cradle, baby-clouts, and bearing-clothes — possets, caudles, broths, jellies, and gravies; and behind all these, glisters, suppositers, and a barbarous apothecary’s bill, more inhuman than a tailor’s.
Lord. I sweat to think on’t.
Warn. Well, my lord, cheer up! I have found a wa
y to rid you of it all; within a short time you shall know more; yonder appears a young lady, whom I must needs speak with; please you go in, and prepare the old lady and your mistress.
Lord. Good luck, and five hundred pounds attend thee.
[Exit.
Enter Millisent and Rose above.
Mill. I am resolved I’ll never marry him.
Rose. So far you are right, madam.
Mill. But how to hinder it, I cannot possibly tell; for my father presses me to it, and will take no denial: Would I knew some way!
Warn. Madam, I’ll teach you the very nearest, for I have just now found it out.
Rose. Are you there, Mr Littleplot?
Warn. Studying to deserve thee, Rose, by my diligence for thy lady; I stand here, methinks, just like a wooden Mercury, to point her out the way to matrimony.
Rose. Or, serving-man like, ready to carry up the hot meat for your master, and then to fall upon the cold yourself.
Warn. I know not what you call the cold, but I believe I shall find warm work on’t: In the first place, then, I must acquaint you, that I have seemingly put off my master, and entered myself into Sir John’s service.
Mill. Most excellent!
Warn. And thereupon, but base ——
Enter Moody.
Mill. Something he would tell us; but see what luck’s here!
Mood. How now, sirrah? Are you so great there already?
Mill. I find my father’s jealous of him still.
Warn. Sir, I was only teaching my young lady a new song, and if you please you shall hear it.
SINGS.
Make ready, fair lady, to-night, And stand at the door below; For I will be there, To receive you with care, And to your true love you shall go.
Mood. Ods bobs, this is very pretty.
Mill. Ay, so is the lady’s answer too, if I could but hit on’t.
SINGS.
And when the stars twinkle so bright, Then down to the door will I creep; To my love will I fly, E’er the jealous can spy, And leave my old daddy asleep.
Mood. Bodikins, I like not that so well, to cozen her old father: it may be my own case another time.
Rose. Oh, madam! yonder’s your persecutor returned.
Enter Sir John.
Mill. I’ll into my chamber, to avoid the sight of him as long as I can. Lord! that my old doating father should throw me away upon such an ignoramus, and deny me to such a wit as Sir Martin.