John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Warn. Rose, where’s thy lady?

  Mill. [above.] What have you to say to her?

  Warn. Only to tell you, madam, I am going forward in the great work of projection.

  Mill. I know not whether you will deserve my thanks when the work’s done.

  Warn. Madam, I hope you are not become indifferent to my master?

  Mill. If he should prove a fool, after all your crying up his wit, I shall be a miserable woman.

  Warn. A fool! that were a good jest, i’faith: but how comes your ladyship to suspect it?

  Rose. I have heard, madam, your greatest wits have ever a touch of madness and extravagance in them, so perhaps has he.

  Warn. There’s nothing more distant than wit and folly; yet, like east and west, they may meet in a point, and produce actions that are but a hair’s breadth from one another.

  Rose. I’ll undertake he has wit enough to make one laugh at him a whole day together: He’s a most comical person.

  Mill. For all this, I will not swear he is no fool; he has still discovered all your plots.

  Warn. O, madam, that’s the common fate of your Machiavelians; they draw their designs so subtle, that their very fineness breaks them.

  Mill. However, I’m resolved to be on the sure side: I will have certain proof of his wit, before I marry him.

  Warn. Madam, I’ll give you one; he wears his clothes like a great sloven, and that’s a sure sign of wit; he neglects his outward parts; besides, he speaks French, sings, dances, plays upon the lute.

  Mill. Does he do all this, say you?

  Warn. Most divinely, madam.

  Mill. I ask no more; then let him give me a serenade immediately; but let him stand in view, I’ll not be cheated.

  Warn. He shall do’t, madam: — But how, the devil knows; for he sings like a screech-owl, and never touched the lute.

  [Aside.

  Mill. You’ll see’t performed?

  Warn. Now I think on’t, madam, this will but retard our enterprise.

  Mill. Either let him do’t, or see me no more.

  Warn. Well, it shall be done, madam; but where’s your father? will not he overhear it?

  Mill. As good hap is, he’s below stairs, talking with a seaman, that has brought him news from the East Indies.

  Warn. What concernment can he have there?

  Mill. He had a bastard son there, whom he loved extremely: but not having any news from him these many years, concluded him dead; this son he expects within these three days.

  Warn. When did he see him last?

  Mill. Not since he was seven years old.

  Warn. A sudden thought comes into my head, to make him appear before his time; let my master pass for him, and by that means he may come into the house unsuspected by your father, or his rival.

  Mill. According as he performs his serenade, I’ll talk with you —— make haste —— I must retire a little.

  [ExitMill. from above.

  Rose. I’ll instruct him most rarely, he shall never be found out; but, in the mean time, what wilt thou do for a serenade?

  Warn. Faith, I am a little non-plus’d on the sudden; but a warm consolation from thy lips, Rose, would set my wits a working again.

  Rose. Adieu, Warner.

  [Exit.

  Warn. Inhuman Rose, adieu! — Blockhead Warner, into what a premunire hast thou brought thyself; this ’tis to be so forward to promise for another; — but to be godfather to a fool, to promise and vow he should do any thing like a Christian —

  Enter Sir Martin Mar-all.

  Sir Mart. Why, how now, bully, in a brown study? For my good, I warrant it; there’s five shillings for thee. What! we must encourage good wits sometimes.

  Warn. Hang your white pelf: Sure, sir, by your largess, you mistake me for Martin Parker, the ballad-maker; your covetousness has offended my muse, and quite dulled her.

  Sir Mart. How angry the poor devil is! In fine, thou art as choleric as a cook by a fireside.

  Warn. I am overheated, like a gun, with continual discharging my wit: ‘Slife, sir, I have rarified my brains for you, ‘till they are evaporated; but come, sir, do something for yourself like a man: I have engaged you shall give to your mistress a serenade in your proper person: I’ll borrow a lute for you.

  Sir Mart. I’ll warrant thee I’ll do’t, man.

  Warn. You never learned: I do not think you know one stop.

  Sir Mart. ’Tis no matter for that, sir; I’ll play as fast as I can, and never stop at all.

  Warn. Go to, you are an invincible fool, I see. Get up into your window, and set two candles by you; take my landlord’s lute in your hand, and fumble on it, and make grimaces with your mouth, as if you sung; in the mean time, I’ll play in the next room in the dark, and consequently your mistress, who will come to her balcony over against you, will think it to be you; and at the end of every tune, I’ll ring the bell that hangs between your chamber and mine, that you may know when to have done.

  Sir Mart. Why, this is fair play now, to tell a man beforehand what he must do; gramercy, i’faith, boy, now if I fail thee ——

  Warn. About your business, then, your mistress and her maid appear already: I’ll give you the sign with the bell when I am prepared, for my lute is at hand in the barber’s shop.

  [Exeunt.

  Enter Mrs Millisent, and Rose, with a candle by

  them, above.

  Rose. We shall have rare music.

  Mill. I wish it prove so; for I suspect the knight can neither play nor sing.

  Rose. But if he does, you are bound to pay the music, madam.

  Mill. I’ll not believe it, except both my ears and eyes are witnesses.

  Rose. But ’tis night, madam, and you cannot see him; yet he may play admirably in the dark.

  Mill. Where’s my father?

  Rose. You need not fear him, he’s still employed with that same seaman; and I have set Mrs Christian to watch their discourse, that, betwixt her and me, Warner may have wherewithal to instruct his master.

  Mill. But yet there’s fear my father will find out the plot.

  Rose. Not in the least; for my old lady has provided two rare disguises for the master and the man.

  Mill. Peace, I hear them beginning to tune the lute.

  Rose. And see, madam, where your true knight, Sir Martin, is placed yonder like Apollo, with his lute in his hand, and his rays about his head. [Sir Martin appears at the adverse window; a tune is played; when it is done, Warner rings, and Sir Martin holds.] Did he not play most excellently, Madam?

  Mill. He played well, and yet methinks he held his lute but untowardly.

  Rose. Dear madam, peace; now for the song.

  THE SONG. Blind love, to this hour, Had never, like me, a slave under his power: Then blest be the dart, That he threw at my heart; For nothing can prove A joy so great, as to be wounded with love.

  My days, and my nights, Are filled to the purpose with sorrows and frights: From my heart still I sigh, And my eyes are ne’er dry; So that, Cupid be praised, I am to the top of love’s happiness raised.

  My soul’s all on fire, So that I have the pleasure to doat and desire: Such a pretty soft pain, That it tickles each vein; ’Tis the dream of a smart, Which makes me breathe short, when it beats at my heart.

  Sometimes, in a pet, When I am despised, I my freedom would get: But strait a sweet smile Does my anger beguile, And my heart does recal; Then the more I do struggle, the lower I fall.

  Heaven does not impart Such a grace, as to love, unto every ones heart; For many may wish To be wounded, and miss: Then blest be loves fire, And more blest her eyes, that first taught me desire.

  The Song being done, Warner rings again; but Sir Martin continues fumbling, and gazing on his Mistress.

  Mill. A pretty humoured song. But stay, methinks he plays and sings still, and yet we cannot hear him. Play louder, Sir Martin, that we may have the fruits on’t.

  Warn. [Peeping.] Death! this abominable fool will spoil all agai
n. Damn him, he stands making his grimaces yonder; and he looks so earnestly upon his mistress, that he hears me not.

  [Rings again.

  Mill. Ah, ah! have I found you out, sir? Now, as I live and breathe, this is pleasant: Rose, his man played and sung for him, and he, it seems, did not know when he should give over.

  [Mill. and Rose laugh.

  Warn. They have found him out, and laugh yonder, as if they would split their sides. Why, Mr Fool, Oaf, Coxcomb, will you hear none of your names?

  Mill. Sir Martin, Sir Martin, take your man’s counsel, and keep time with your music.

  Sir Mart. [Peeping.] Hah! What do you say, madam? How does your ladyship like my music?

  Mill. O most heavenly! just like the harmony of the spheres, that is to be admired, and never heard.

  Warn. You have ruined all, by your not leaving off in time.

  Sir Mart. What the devil would you have a man do, when my hand is in! Well, o’my conscience, I think there is a fate upon me.

  [Noise within.

  Mill. Look, Rose, what’s the matter.

  Rose. ’Tis Sir John Swallow pursued by the bailiffs, madam, according to our plot; it seems they have dogged him thus late to his lodging.

  Mill. That’s well; for though I begin not to love this fool, yet I am glad I shall be rid of him.

  [Exeunt Mill. and Rose.

  Enter Sir John, pursued by three Bailiffs over the stage.

  Sir Mart. Now I’ll redeem all again; my mistress shall see my valour, I’m resolved on’t. Villains, rogues, poltroons! What? three upon one? In fine, I’ll be with you immediately.

  [Exit.

  Warn. Why, sir, are you stark mad? have you no grain of sense left? He’s gone! now is he as earnest in the quarrel as Cokes among the puppets; ’tis to no purpose whatever I do for him.

  [Exit Warner.

  Enter Sir John and Sir Martin (having driven away the Bailiffs); Sir Martin flourishes his sword.

  Sir Mart. Victoria! Victoria! What heart, Sir John? you have received no harm, I hope?

  Sir John. Not the least; I thank you, sir, for your timely assistance, which I will requite with any thing, but the resigning of my mistress. Dear Sir Martin, a goodnight.

  Sir Mart. Pray let me wait upon you in, Sir John.

  Sir John. I can find my way to Mrs Millisent without you, sir, I thank you.

  Sir Mart. But pray, what were you to be arrested for?

  Sir John. I know no more than you; some little debts perhaps I left unpaid by my negligence: Once more, good night, sir.

  [Exit.

  Sir Mart. He’s an ungrateful fellow; and so, in fine, I shall tell him when I see him next — Monsieur ——

  Enter Warner.

  Warner, a propos! I hope you’ll applaud me now. I have defeated the enemy, and that in sight of my mistress; boy, I have charmed her, i’faith, with my valour.

  Warn. Ay, just as much as you did e’en now with your music; go, you are so beastly a fool, that a chiding is thrown away upon you.

  Sir Mart. Fool in your face, sir; call a man of honour fool, when I have just achieved such an enterprise — Gad, now my blood’s up, I am a dangerous person, I can tell you that, Warner.

  Warn. Poor animal, I pity thee!

  Sir Mart. I grant I am no musician, but you must allow me for a swordsman: I have beat them bravely; and, in fine, I am come off unhurt, save only a little scratch in the head.

  Warn. That’s impossible; thou hast a skull so thick, no sword can pierce it; but much good may it do you, sir, with the fruits of your valour: You rescued your rival, when he was to be arrested, on purpose to take him off from your mistress.

  Sir Mart. Why, this is ever the fate of ingenious men; nothing thrives they take in hand.

  Enter Rose.

  Rose. Sir Martin, you have done your business with my lady, she’ll never look upon you more; she says, she’s so well satisfied of your wit and courage, that she will not put you to any further trial.

  Sir Mart. Warner, is there no hopes, Warner?

  Warn. None that I know.

  Sir Mart. Let’s have but one civil plot more before we part.

  Warn. ’Tis to no purpose.

  Rose. Yet, if he had some golden friends, that would engage for him the next time ——

  Sir Mart. Here’s a Jacobus and a Carolus will enter into bonds for me.

  Rose. I’ll take their royal words for once.

  [She fetches two disguises.

  Warn. The meaning of this, dear Rose?

  Rose. ’Tis in pursuance of thy own invention, Warner; a child which thy wit hath begot upon me: But let us lose no time. Help! help! dress thy master, that he may be Anthony, old Moody’s bastard, and thou his, come from the East Indies.

  Sir Mart. Hey-tarock it — now we shall have Rose’s device too; I long to be at it, pray let’s hear more on it.

  Rose. Old Moody, you must know, in his younger years, when he was a Cambridge-scholar, made bold with a townsman’s daughter there, by whom he had a bastard, whose name was Anthony, whom you, Sir Martin, are to represent.

  Sir Mart. I warrant you; let me alone for Tony: But pray go on, Rose.

  Rose. This child, in his father’s time, he durst not own, but bred him privately in the isle of Ely, till he was seven years old, and from thence sent him with one Bonaventure, a merchant, for the East Indies.

  Warn. But will not this over-burden your memory, sir?

  Sir Mart. There’s no answering thee any thing; thou thinkest I am good for nothing.

  Rose. Bonaventure died at Surat within two years, and this Anthony has lived up and down in the Mogul’s country, unheard of by his father till this night, and is expected within these three days: Now if you can pass for him, you may have admittance into the house, and make an end of all the business before the other Anthony arrives.

  Warn. But hold, Rose, there’s one considerable point omitted; what was his mother’s name?

  Rose. That indeed I had forgot; her name was Dorothy, daughter to one Draw-water, a vintner at the Rose.

  Warn. Come, sir, are you perfect in your lesson? Anthony Moody, born in Cambridge, bred in the isle of Ely, sent into the Mogul’s country at seven years old, with one Bonaventure, a merchant, who died within two years; your mother’s name Dorothy Draw-water, the vintner’s daughter at the Rose.

  Sir Mart. I have it all ad unguem — what! do’st think I’m a sot? But stay a little, —— how have I lived all this while in that same country?

  Warn. What country? — Pox, he has forgot already!

  Rose. The Mogul’s country.

  Sir Mart. Ay, ay, the Mogul’s country. What the devil, any man may mistake a little; but now I have it perfect: But what have I been doing all this while in the Mogul’s country? — He’s a heathen rogue, I am afraid I shall never hit upon his name.

  Warn. Why, you have been passing your time there no matter how.

  Rose. Well, if this passes upon the old man, I’ll bring your business about again with my mistress, never fear it; stay you here at the door, I’ll go tell the old man of your arrival.

  Warn. Well, sir, now play your part exactly, and I’ll forgive all your former errors.

  Sir Mart. Hang them, they were only slips of youth. How peremptory and domineering this rogue is, now he sees I have need of his service! Would I were out of his power again, I would make him lie at my feet like any spaniel.

  Enter Moody, Sir John, Lord, Lady Dupe, Millisent, Christian, and Rose.

  Mood. Is he here already, say’st thou? Which is he?

  Rose. That sun-burned gentleman.

  Mood. My dear boy, Anthony, do I see thee again before I die? Welcome, welcome.

  Sir Mart. My dear father, I know it is you by instinct; for, methinks, I am as like you, as if I were spit out of your mouth.

  Rose. Keep it up, I beseech your lordship.

  [Aside to the Lord.

  Lord. He’s wonderous like indeed.

  L. Dupe. The very image o
f him.

  Mood. Anthony, you must salute all this company: This is my Lord Dartmouth, this my Lady Dupe, this her niece Mrs Christian.

  [He salutes them.

  Sir Mart. And that’s my sister; methinks I have a good resemblance of her too: Honest sister, I must needs kiss you, sister.

  Warn. This fool will discover himself; I foresee it already by his carriage to her.

  Mood. And now, Anthony, pray tell us a little of your travels.

  Sir Mart. Time enough for that, forsooth, father; but I have such a natural affection for my sister, that, methinks, I could live and die with her: Give me thy hand, sweet sister.

  Sir John. She’s beholden to you, sir.

  Sir Mart. What if she be, sir? what’s that to you, sir?

  Sir John. I hope, sir, I have not offended you?

  Sir Mart. It may be you have, and it may be you have not, sir; you see I have no mind to satisfy you, sir: What a devil! a man cannot talk a little to his own flesh and blood, but you must be interposing, with a murrain to you.

  Mood. Enough of this, good Anthony; this gentleman is to marry your sister.

  Sir Mart. He marry my sister! Ods foot, sir, there are some bastards, that shall be nameless, that are as well worthy to marry her, as any man; and have as good blood in their veins.

  Sir John. I do not question it in the least, sir.

  Sir Mart. ’Tis not your best course, sir; you marry my sister! what have you seen of the world, sir? I have seen your hurricanos, and your calentures, and your ecliptics, and your tropic lines, sir, an you go to that, sir.

  Warn. You must excuse my master; the sea’s a little working in his brain, sir.

  Sir Mart. And your Prester Johns of the East Indies, and your great Turk of Rome and Persia.

  Mood. Lord, what a thing it is to be learned, and a traveller! Bodikin, it makes me weep for joy; but, Anthony, you must not bear yourself too much upon your learning, child.

  Mill. Pray, brother, be civil to this gentleman for my sake.

  Sir Mart. For your sake, sister Millisent, much may be done, and here I kiss your hand on it.

  Warn. Yet again, stupidity?

  Mill. Nay, pray, brother, hands off; now you are too rude.

  Sir Mart. Dear sister, as I am a true East India gentleman ——

  Mood. But pray, son Anthony, let us talk of other matters; and tell me truly, had you not quite forgot me? And yet I made woundy much of you, when you were young.