John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Sir Mart. I remember you as well as if I saw you but yesterday: A fine grey-headed — grey-bearded old gentleman, as ever I saw in all my life.

  Warn. aside.] Grey-bearded old gentleman! when he was a scholar at Cambridge!

  Mood. But do you remember where you were bred up?

  Sir Mart. O yes, sir, most perfectly, in the isle — stay — let me see, oh — now I have it — in the isle of Scilly.

  Mood. In the Isle of Ely, sure you mean?

  Warn. Without doubt, he did, sir; but this damn’d isle of Scilly runs in his head, ever since his sea voyage.

  Mood. And your mother’s name was — come, pray let me examine you — for that, I’m sure, you cannot forget.

  Sir Mart. Warner! what was it, Warner?

  [Aside.

  Warn. Poor Mrs Dorothy Draw-water, if she were now alive, what a joyful day would this be to her!

  Mood. Who the devil bid you speak, sirrah?

  Sir Mart. Her name, sir, was Mrs Dorothy Draw-water.

  Sir John. I’ll be hanged if this be not some cheat.

  Mill. He makes so many stumbles, he must needs fall at last.

  Mood. But you remember, I hope, where you were born?

  Warn. Well, they may talk what they will of Oxford for an university, but Cambridge for my money.

  Mood. Hold your tongue, you scanderbag rogue you; this is the second time you have been talking when you should not.

  Sir Mart. I was born at Cambridge; I remember it as perfectly as if it were but yesterday.

  Warn. How I sweat for him! he’s remembering ever since he was born.

  Mood. And who did you go over with to the East-Indies?

  Sir Mart. Warner!

  [Aside.

  Warn. ’Twas a happy thing, sir, you lighted upon so honest a merchant as Mr Bonaventure, to take care of him.

  Mood. Saucy rascal! This is past all sufferance.

  Rose. We are undone, Warner, if this discourse go on any further.

  Lord. Pray, sir, take pity on the poor gentleman; he has more need of a good supper, than to be asked so many questions.

  Sir John. These are rogues, sir, I plainly perceive it; pray let me ask him one question — Which way did you come home, sir?

  Sir Mart. We came home by land, sir.

  Warn. That is, from India to Persia, from Persia to Turkey, from Turkey to Germany, from Germany to France.

  Sir John. And from thence, over the narrow seas on horse-back.

  Mood. ’Tis so, I discern it now; but some shall smoke for it. Stay a little, Anthony, I’ll be with you presently.

  [Exit Mood.

  Warn. That wicked old man is gone for no good, I’m afraid; would I were fairly quit of him.

  [Aside.

  Mill. aside.] Tell me no more of Sir Martin, Rose; he wants natural sense, to talk after this rate: but for this Warner, I am strangely taken with him; how handsomely he brought him off!

  Enter Moody, with two cudgels.

  Mood. Among half a score tough cudgels I had in my chamber, I have made choice of these two, as best able to hold out.

  Mill. Alas! poor Warner must be beaten now, for all his wit; would I could bear it for him!

  Warn. But to what end is all this preparation, sir?

  Mood. In the first place, for your worship, and in the next, for this East-India apostle, that will needs be my son Anthony.

  Warn. Why, d’ye think he is not?

  Mood. No, thou wicked accomplice in his designs, I know he is not.

  Warn. Who, I his accomplice? I beseech you, sir, what is it to me, if he should prove a counterfeit? I assure you he has cozened me in the first place.

  Sir John. That’s likely, i’faith, cozen his own servant!

  Warn. As I hope for mercy, sir, I am an utter stranger to him; he took me up but yesterday, and told me the story, word for word, as he told it you.

  Sir Mart. What will become of us two now? I trust to the rogue’s wit to bring me off.

  Mood. If thou wouldst have me believe thee, take one of these two cudgels, and help me to lay it on soundly.

  Warn. With all my heart.

  Mood. Out, you cheat, you hypocrite, you impostor! Do you come hither to cozen an honest man?

  [Beats him.

  Sir Mart. Hold, hold, sir!

  Warn. Do you come hither, with a lye, to get a father, Mr Anthony of East India?

  Sir Mart. Hold, you inhuman butcher!

  Warn. I’ll teach you to counterfeit again, sir.

  Sir Mart. The rogue will murder me.

  [Exit Sir Mart.

  Mood. A fair riddance of ‘em both: Let’s in and laugh at ‘em.

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE II.

  Enter again Sir Martin and Warner.

  Sir Mart. Was there ever such an affront put upon a man, to be beaten by his servant?

  Warn. After my hearty salutations upon your backside, sir, may a man have leave to ask you, what news from the Mogul’s country?

  Sir Mart. I wonder where thou hadst the impudence to move such a question to me, knowing how thou hast used me.

  Warn. Now, sir, you may see what comes of your indiscretion and stupidity: I always give you warning of it; but, for this time, I am content to pass it without more words, partly, because I have already corrected you, though not so much as you deserve.

  Sir Mart. Do’st thou think to carry it off at this rate, after such an injury?

  Warn. You may thank yourself for’t; nay, ’twas very well I found out that way, otherwise I had been suspected as your accomplice.

  Sir Mart. But you laid it on with such a vengeance, as if you were beating of a stock-fish.

  Warn. To confess the truth on’t, you had angered me, and I was willing to evaporate my choler; if you will pass it by so, I may chance to help you to your mistress: No more words of this business, I advise you, but go home and grease your back.

  Sir Mart. In fine, I must suffer it at his hands: for if my shoulders had not paid for this fault, my purse must have sweat blood for’t: The rogue has got such a hank upon me ——

  Warn. So, so! here’s another of our vessels come in, after the storm that parted us.

  Enter Rose.

  What comfort, Rose? no harbour near?

  Rose. My lady, as you may well imagine, is most extremely incensed against Sir Martin; but she applauds your ingenuity to the skies. I’ll say no more, but thereby hangs a tale.

  Sir Mart. I am considering with myself about a plot, to bring all about again.

  Rose. Yet again plotting! if you have such a mind to’t, I know no way so proper for you, as to turn poet to Pugenello.

  Warn. Hark! is not that music in your house?

  [Music plays.

  Rose. Yes, Sir John has given my mistress the fiddles, and our old man is as jocund yonder, and does so hug himself, to think how he has been revenged upon you!

  Warn. Why, he does not know ’twas me, I hope?

  Rose. ’Tis all one for that.

  Sir Mart. I have such a plot! — I care not, I will speak, an I were to be hanged for’t. Shall I speak, dear Warner? let me now; it does so wamble within me, just like a clyster, i’faith la, and I can keep it no longer, for my heart.

  Warn. Well, I am indulgent to you; out with it boldly, in the name of nonsense.

  Sir Mart. We two will put on vizards, and with the help of my landlord, who shall be of the party, go a mumming there, and by some device of dancing, get my mistress away, unsuspected by them all.

  Rose. What if this should hit now, when all your projects have failed, Warner?

  Warn. Would I were hanged, if it be not somewhat probable: Nay, now I consider better on’t — exceedingly probable; it must take, ’tis not in nature to be avoided.

  Sir Mart. O must it so, sir! and who may you thank for’t?

  Warn. Now am I so mad he should be the author of this device! How the devil, sir, came you to stumble on’t?

  Sir Mart. Why should not my brains be as fruitful
as yours, or any man’s?

  Warn. This is so good, it shall not be your plot, sir; either disown it, or I will proceed no further.

  Sir Mart. I would not lose the credit of my plot, to gain my mistress: The plot’s a good one, and I’ll justify it upon any ground in England; an you will not work upon’t, it shall be done without you.

  Rose. I think the knight has reason.

  Warn. Well, I’ll order it however to the best advantage: Hark you, Rose.

  [Whispers.

  Sir Mart. If it miscarry by your ordering, take notice, ’tis your fault; ’tis well invented, I’ll take my oath on’t.

  Rose. I must into them, for fear I should be suspected; but I’ll acquaint my lord, my old lady, and all the rest, who ought to know it, with your design.

  Warn. We’ll be with you in a twinkling: You and I, Rose, are to follow our leaders, and be paired to night. ——

  Rose. To have, and to hold, are dreadful words, Warner; but, for your sake, I’ll venture on ‘em.

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE III.

  Enter Lord, Lady Dupe, and Christian.

  L. Dupe. Nay! good my lord, be patient.

  Lord. Does he think to give fiddles and treatments in a house, where he has wronged a lady? I’ll never suffer it.

  L. Dupe. But upon what ground will you raise your quarrel?

  Lord. A very just one, — as I am her kinsman.

  L. Dupe. He does not know yet why he was to be arrested; try that way again.

  Lord. I’ll hear of nothing but revenge.

  Enter Rose.

  Rose. Yes, pray hear me one word, my lord; Sir Martin himself has made a plot.

  Chr. That’s like to be a good one.

  Rose. A fool’s plot may be as lucky as a fool’s handsel; ’tis a very likely one, and requires nothing for your part, but to get a parson in the next room; we’ll find work for him.

  L. Dupe. That shall be done immediately; Christian, make haste, and send for Mr Ball, the non-conformist; tell him, here are two or three angels to be earned.

  Chr. And two or three possets to be eaten: May I not put in that, madam?

  L. Dupe. Surely you may.

  [Exit Chr.

  Rose. Then for the rest— ’tis only this — Oh! they are here! pray take it in a whisper: My lady knows of it already.

  Enter Moody, Sir John, and Mrs Millisent.

  Mill. Strike up again, fiddle, I’ll have a French dance.

  Sir John. Let’s have the brawls.

  Mood. No, good sir John, no quarrelling among friends.

  L. Dupe. Your company is like to be increased, sir; some neighbours, that heard your fiddles, are come a mumming to you.

  Mood. Let them come in, and we’ll be jovy; an I had but my hobby-horse at home ——

  Sir John. What, are they men, or women?

  L. Dupe. I believe some ‘prentices broke loose.

  Mill. Rose, go, and fetch me down two Indian gowns and vizard-masks —— you and I will disguise too, and be as good a mummery to them, as they to us.

  [Exit Rose.

  Mood. That will be most rare.

  Enter Sir Martin Mar-all, Warner, Landlord, disguised like a Tony.

  Mood. O here they come! Gentlemen maskers, you are welcome — [Warner signs to the music for a dance.] He signs for a dance, I believe; you are welcome. Mr Music, strike up; I’ll make one, as old as I am.

  Sir John. And I’ll not be out.

  [Dance.

  Lord. Gentlemen maskers, you have had your frolic, the next turn is mine; bring two flute-glasses and some stools, ho! we’ll have the ladies’ healths.

  Sir John. But why stools, my lord?

  Lord. That you shall see: the humour is, that two men at a time are hoisted up: when they are above, they name their ladies, and the rest of the company dance about them while they drink: This they call the frolic of the altitudes.

  Mood. Some highlander’s invention, I’ll warrant it.

  Lord. Gentlemen-maskers, you shall begin.

  [They hoist Sir Mart. and Warn.

  Sir John. They point to Mrs Millisent and Mrs Christian, A Lou’s touche! touche!

  [While they drink, the company dances and sings: They are taken down.

  Mood. A rare toping health this: Come, Sir John, now you and I will be in our altitudes.

  Sir John. What new device is this, trow?

  Mood. I know not what to make on’t.

  [When they are up, the company dances

  about them: They dance off. Tony dances a jigg.

  Sir John. Pray, Mr Fool, where’s the rest of your company? I would fain see ‘em again.

  [To Tony.

  Land. Come down, and tell them so, Cudden.

  Sir John. I’ll be hanged if there be not some plot in it, and this fool is set here to spin out the time.

  Mood. Like enough! undone! undone! my daughter’s gone! let me down, sirrah.

  Land. Yes, Cudden.

  Sir John. My mistress is gone, let me down first.

  Land. This is the quickest way, Cudden.

  [He offers to pull down the stools.

  Sir John. Hold! hold! or thou wilt break my neck.

  Land. An you will not come down, you may stay there, Cudden.

  [Exit Landlord, dancing.

  Mood. O scanderbag villains!

  Sir John. Is there no getting down?

  Mood. All this was long of you, Sir Jack.

  Sir John. ’Twas long of yourself, to invite them hither.

  Mood. O you young coxcomb, to be drawn in thus!

  Sir John. You old Scot you, to be caught so sillily!

  Mood. Come but an inch nearer, and I’ll so claw thee.

  Sir John. I hope I shall reach to thee.

  Mood. An ‘twere not for thy wooden breast-work there ——

  Sir John. I hope to push thee down from Babylon.

  Enter Lord, Lady Dupe, Sir Martin, Warner, Rose, Millisent veiled, and Landlord.

  Lord. How, gentlemen! what, quarrelling among yourselves!

  Mood. Cox-nowns! help me down, and let me have fair play; he shall never marry my daughter.

  Sir Mart. [Leading Rose.] No, I’ll be sworn that he shall not; therefore never repine, sir, for marriages, you know, are made in heaven; in fine, sir, we are joined together in spite of fortune.

  Rose. [Pulling off her mask.] That we are, indeed, Sir Martin, and these are witnesses; therefore, in fine, never repine, sir, for marriages, you know, are made in heaven.

  Omn. Rose!

  Warn. What, is Rose split in two? Sure I have got one Rose!

  Mill. Ay, the best Rose you ever got in all your life.

  [Pulls off her mask.

  Warn. This amazeth me so much, I know not what to say, or think.

  Mood. My daughter married to Warner!

  Sir Mart. Well, I thought it impossible that any man in England should have over-reached me: Sure, Warner, there is some mistake in this: Pr’ythee, Billy, let’s go to the parson to make all right again, that every man have his own, before the matter go too far.

  Warn. Well, sir! for my part, I will have nothing farther to do with these women, for, I find, they will be too hard for us; but e’en sit down by the loss, and content myself with my hard fortune: But, madam, do you ever think I will forgive you this, to cheat me into an estate of two thousand pounds a-year?

  Sir Mart. An I were as thee, I would not be so served, Warner.

  Mill. I have served him but right, for the cheat he put upon me, when he persuaded me you were a wit —— now, there’s a trick for your trick, sir.

  Warn. Nay, I confess you have outwitted me.

  Sir John. Let me down, and I’ll forgive all freely.

  [They let him down.

  Mood. What am I kept here for?

  Warn. I might in policy keep you there, till your daughter and I had been in private, for a little consummation: But for once, sir, I’ll trust your good nature.

  [Takes him down too.


  Mood. An thou wert a gentleman, it would not grieve me.

  Mill. That I was assured of before I married him, by my lord here.

  Lord. I cannot refuse to own him for my kinsman, though his father’s sufferings in the late times have ruined his fortunes.

  Mood. But yet he has been a serving man.

  Warn. You are mistaken, sir, I have been a master; and, besides, there is an estate of eight hundred pounds a year, only it is mortgaged for six thousand pounds.

  Mood. Well, we’ll bring it off; and, for my part, I am glad my daughter has missed in fine there.

  Sir John. I will not be the only man that must sleep without a bed-fellow to-night, if this lady will once again receive me.

  L. Dupe. She’s yours, sir.

  Lord. And the same parson, that did the former execution, is still in the next chamber; what with candles, wine, and quidding, which he has taken in abundance, I think he will be able to wheedle two more of you into matrimony.

  Mill. Poor Sir Martin looks melancholy! I am half afraid he is in love.

  Warn. Not with the lady that took him for a wit, I hope.

  Rose. At least, Sir Martin can do more than you, Mr Warner; for he can make me a lady, which you cannot my mistress.

  Sir Mart. I have lost nothing but my man, and, in fine, I shall get another.

  Mill. You’ll do very well, Sir Martin, for you’ll never be your own man, I assure you.

  Warn. For my part, I had loved you before, if I had followed my inclination.

  Mill. But now I am afraid you begin of the latest, except your love can grow up, like a mushroom, at a night’s warning.

  Warn. For that matter, never trouble yourself; I can love as fast as any man, when I am nigh possession; my love falls heavy, and never moves quick till it comes near the centre; he’s an ill falconer, that will unhood before the quarry be in sight.

  Love’s an high-mettled hawk that beats the air, But soon grows weary when the game’s not near.

  [Exeunt omnes.

  EPILOGUE.

  As country vicars, when the sermon’s done, Run headlong to the benediction; Well knowing, though the better sort may stay, The vulgar rout will run unblest away: So we, when once our play is done, make haste With a short epilogue to close your taste. In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly; But, when the curtain’s down, we peep, and see A jury of the wits, who still stay late, And in their club decree the poor play’s fate; Their verdict back is to the boxes brought, Thence all the town pronounces it their thought. Thus, gallants, we, like Lilly, can foresee; But if you ask us what our doom will be, We by to-morrow will our fortune cast, As he tells all things when the year is past.