by John Dryden
[Exit Alon.
Bel. So, once more I am at liberty: But this astrology is so troublesome a science — Would I were well rid on’t!
Enter Don Lopez, and a Servant.
Lop. Astrology, does he say? O, cavalier, is it you? not finding you at home, I came on purpose to seek you out: I have a small request to the stars by your mediation.
Bel. Sir, for pity let them shine in quiet a little; for what for ladies, and their servants, and younger brothers, they scarce get a holiday in a twelve-month.
Lop. Pray, pardon me, if I am a little curious of my destiny, since all my happiness depends on your answer.
Bel. Well, sir, what is it you expect?
Lop. To know whether my love to a lady will be successful.
Bel. ’Tis Aurelia, he means. [Aside.] — Sir, in one word I answer you, that your mistress loves another; one, who is your friend: But comfort yourself; the dragon’s tail is between him and home, he never shall enjoy her.
Lop. But what hope for me?
Bel. The stars have partly assured me, you shall be happy, if you acquaint her with your passion, and with the double-dealing of your friend, who is false to her.
Lop. You speak like an oracle. But, I have engaged my promise to that friend, to serve him in his passion to my mistress.
Bel. We English seldom make such scruples; women are not comprised in our laws of friendship. They are feræ naturæ; our common game, like hare and partridge: Every man has equal right to them, as he has to the sun and elements.
Lop. Must I then betray my friend?
Bel. In that case my friend is a Turk to me, if he will be so barbarous as to retain two women to his private use. I will be factious for all distressed damsels; who would much rather have their cause tried by a full jury, than a single judge.
Lop. Well, sir, I will take your counsel; and if I err, the fault be on love and you.
[Exit Lop.
Bel. Were it not for love, I would run out of the town, that’s the short on’t; for I have engaged myself in so many promises, for the sun and moon, and those little minced-meats of them, that I must hide before my day of payment comes. In the mean time I forget Theodosia; but now I defy the devil to hinder me.
As he is going out, he meets Aurelia, and almost justles her down. With her Camilla enters.
Aur. What rudeness is this?
Bel. Madam Aurelia, is it you?
Aur. Monsieur Bellamy!
Bel. The same, madam.
Aur. My uncle told me he left you here: And, indeed, I came hither to complain of you. For you have treated me so inhumanly, that I have some reason to resent it.
Bel. What occasion can I have given you for a complaint?
Aur. Don Melchor, as I am informed by my uncle, is effectively at Madrid: So that it was not his idea, but himself in person, whom I saw. And since you knew this, why did you conceal it from me?
Bel. When I spoke with you, I knew it not: But I discovered it in the erecting of my figure. Yet if, instead of his idea, I constrained himself to come, in spite of his resolution to remain concealed, I think I have shown a greater effect of my art than what I promised.
Aur. I render myself to so convincing an argument: But by over-hearing a discourse just now betwixt my cousin Theodosia and her maid, I find that he has concealed himself upon her account, which has given me jealousy to the last point; for, to avow an incontestible truth, my cousin is furiously handsome.
Bel. Madam, madam, trust not your ears too far; she talked on purpose, that you might hear her. But, I assure you, the true cause of Don Melchor’s concealment was not love of her, but jealousy of you. He staid in private to observe your actions: Build upon’t, madam, he is inviolably yours.
Aur. Then will he sacrifice my cousin to me?
Bel. ’Tis furiously true, madam.
Aur. O most agreeable assurance!
Cam. Albricias, madam, for my good news! Don Melchor is coming this way; I know him by his voice: but he is in company with another person.
Aur. It will not be convenient to give him any umbrage, by seeing me with another person; therefore, I will go before; do you stay here, and conduct him to my apartment. Good-night, sir.
[Exit.
Bel. I have promised Don Lopez, he shall possess her; and I have promised her, she shall possess Don Melchor: ’Tis a little difficult, I confess, as to the matrimonial part of it: But, if Don Melchor will be civil to her, and she be civil to Don Lopez, my credit is safe without the benefit of my clergy. But all this is nothing to Theodosia.
[Exit Bel.
Enter Don Alonzo and Don Melchor.
Cam. Don Melchor, a word in private.
Mel. Your pleasure, lady. — Sir, I will wait on you immediately.
Cam. I am sent to you from a fair lady, who bears you no ill will. You may guess whom I mean.
Mel. Not by my own merits, but by knowing whom you serve. But, I confess, I wonder at her late strange usage, when she fled from me.
Cam. That was only a mistake; but I have now, by her command, been in a thousand places in quest of you.
Mel. You overjoy me.
Cam. And where, amongst the rest, do you think I have been looking you?
Mel. Pray refresh my memory.
Cam. In that same street, by the same shop — you know where, by a good token.
Mel. By what token?
Cam. Just by that shop, where, out of your nobleness, you promised me a new silk gown.
Mel. O, now I understand you.
Cam. Not that I press you to a performance —
Mel. Take this, and please yourself in the choice of it.
[Gives her money.
Cam. Nay, dear sir, now you make me blush; in faith I — am ashamed — I swear, ’tis only because I would keep something for your sake; — but my lady expects you immediately in her apartment.
Mel. I’ll wait on her, if I can possibly. [Exit Cam.] But, if I can prevail with Don Alonzo for his daughter, then will I again consider, which of the ladies best deserves me. [Aside.] Sir, I beg your pardon for this rudeness in leaving you.
[To Alon.
Alon. I cannot possibly resolve with myself to tell him openly he is a thief; but I’ll gild the pill for him to swallow.
[Aside.
Mel. I believe he has discovered our amour: How he surveys me for a son-in-law!
[Aside.
Alon. Sir, I am sorry for your sake, that true nobility is not always accompanied with riches to support it in its lustre.
Mel. You have a just exception against the capriciousness of destiny; yet, if I were owner of any noble qualities, (which I am not) I should not much esteem the goods of fortune.
Alon. But pray conceive me, sir; your father did not leave you flourishing in wealth.
Mel. Only a very fair seat in Andalusia, with all the pleasures imaginable about it: That alone, were my poor deserts according, — which, I confess, they are not, — were enough to make a woman happy in it.
Alon. But give me leave to come to the point, I beseech you, sir. I have lost a jewel, which I value infinitely, and I hear it is in your possession: But I accuse your wants, not you, for it.
Mel. Your daughter is indeed a jewel; but she were not lost, were she in possession of a man of parts.
Alon. A precious diamond, sir ——
Mel. But a man of honour, sir ——
Alon. I know what you would say, sir, — that a man of honour is not capable of an unworthy action; and, therefore, I do not accuse you of the theft: I suppose the jewel was only put into your hands.
Mel. By honourable ways, I assure you, sir.
Alon. Sir, sir, will you restore my jewel?
Mel. Will you please, sir, to give me leave to be the unworthy possessor of her? I know how to use her with that respect ——
Alon. I know what you would say, sir; but if it belong to our family? otherwise, I assure you, it were at your service.
Mel. As it belongs to your family, I covet i
t; not that I plead my own deserts, sir.
Alon. Sir, I know your deserts; but, I protest, I cannot part with it: For, I must tell you, this diamond ring was originally my great-grandfather’s.
Mel. A diamond ring, sir, do you mean? ——
Alon. By your patience, sir; when I have done, you may speak your pleasure. I only lent it to my daughter; but, how she lost it, and how it came upon your finger, I am yet in tenebris.
Mel. Sir ——
Alon. I know it, sir; but spare yourself the trouble, I’ll speak for you; you would say you had it from some other hand; I believe it, sir.
Mel. But, sir ——
Alon. I warrant you, sir, I’ll bring you off without your speaking; — from another hand you had it; and now, sir, as you say, sir, and as I am saying for you, sir, you are loth to part with it.
Mel. Good sir, —— let me ——
Alon. I understand you already, sir, — that you have taken a fancy to it, and would buy it; but, to that I answer, as I did before, that it is a relick of my family: Now, sir, if you can urge aught farther, you have liberty to speak without interruption.
Mel. This diamond you speak of, I confess ——
Alon. But what need you confess, sir, before you are accused?
Mel. You promised you would hear me in my turn, sir, but ——
Alon. But, as you were saying, it is needless, because I have already spoken for you.
Mel. The truth is, sir, I was too presumptuous to take this pledge from Theodosia without your knowledge; but you will pardon the invincible necessity, when I tell you ——
Alon. You need not tell me; I know your necessity was the reason of it, and that place and opportunity have caused your error.
Mel. This is the goodest old man I ever knew; he prevents me in my motion for his daughter. [Aside. Since, sir, you know the cause of my errors, and are pleased to lay part of the blame upon youth and opportunity, I beseech you, favour me so far to accept me, as fair Theodosia already has ——
Alon. I conceive you, sir, — that I would accept of your excuse: Why, restore the diamond, and ’tis done.
Mel. More joyfully than I received it: And, with it, I beg the honour to be received by you as your son-in-law.
Alon. My son-in-law! this is the most pleasant proposition I ever heard.
Mel. I am proud you think it so; but, I protest, I think not I deserve this honour.
Alon. Nor I, I assure you, sir; marry my daughter — ha, ha, ha!
Mel. But, sir ——
Alon. I know what you would say, sir — that there is too much hazard in the profession of a thief, and therefore you would marry my daughter to become rich, without venturing your neck for’t. I beseech you, sir, steal on, be apprehended, and, if you please, be hanged, it shall make no breach betwixt us. For my part, I’ll keep your counsel, and so, good night, sir.
[Exit Alon.
Mel. Is the devil in this old man, first to give me occasion to confess my love, and, when he knew it, to promise he would keep my counsel? But who are these? I’ll not be seen; but to my old appointment with Theodosia, and desire her to unriddle it.
[Exit Mel.
SCENE III.
Enter Maskall, Jacintha, and Beatrix.
Mask. But, madam, do you take me for a man of honour?
Jac. No.
Mask. Why there’s it! if you had, I would have sworn that my master has neither done nor intended you any injury. I suppose you’ll grant he knew you in your disguise?
Beat. Nay, to know her, and use her so, is an aggravation of his crime.
Mask. Unconscionable Beatrix! would you two have all the carnival to yourselves? He knew you, madam, and was resolved to countermine you in all your plots. But, when he saw you so much piqued, he was too good natured to let you sleep in wrath, and sent me to you to disabuse you: for, if the business had gone on till to-morrow, when Lent begins, you would have grown so peevish (as all good Catholics are with fasting) that the quarrel would never have been ended.
Jac. Well; this mollifies a little: I am content he shall see me.
Mask. But that you may be sure he knew you, he will bring the certificate of the purse along with him.
Jac. I shall be glad to find him innocent.
Enter Wildblood, at the other end of the stage.
Wild. No mortal man ever threw out so often. It could not be me, it must be the devil that did it: He took all the chances, and changed them after I had thrown them. But, I’ll be even with him; for, I’ll never throw one of his dice more.
Mask. Madam, ’tis certainly my master; and he is so zealous to make his peace, that he could not stay till I called him to you. —— Sir.
Wild. Sirrah, I’ll teach you more manners than to leave me another time: You rogue, you have lost me two hundred pistoles, you and the devil your accomplice; you, by leaving me to myself, and he, by tempting me to play it off.
Mask. Is the wind in that door? Here’s like to be fine doings.
Wild. O mischief! am I fallen into her ambush? I must face it out with another quarrel.
[Aside.
Jac. Your man has been treating your accommodation; ’tis half made already.
Wild. Ay, on your part it may be.
Jac. He says you knew me.
Wild. Yes; I do know you so well, that my poor heart aches for’t. I was going to bed without telling you my mind; but, upon consideration, I am come ——
Jac. To bring the money with you.
Wild. To declare my grievances, which are great and many.
Mask. Well, for impudence, let thee alone.
Wild. As, in the first place ——
Jac. I’ll hear no grievances; where’s the money?
Beat. Ay, keep to that, madam.
Wild. Do you think me a person to be so used?
Jac. We will not quarrel; where’s the money?
Wild. By your favour we will quarrel.
Beat. Money, money! ——
Wild. I am angry, and can hear nothing.
Beat. Money, money, money, money!
Wild. Do you think it a reasonable thing to put on two disguises in a night, to tempt a man? (Help me, Maskall, for I want arguments abominably.) I thank heaven I was never so barbarously used in all my life.
Jac. He begins to anger me in good earnest.
Mask. A thing so much against the rules of modesty! So indecent a thing!
Wild. Ay so indecent a thing: Nay, now I do not wonder at myself for being angry. And then to wonder I should love her in those disguises! To quarrel at the natural desires of human kind, assaulted by powerful temptations; I am enraged at that.
Jac. Heyday! you had best quarrel too for my bringing you the money.
Wild. I have a grudging to you for’t: (Maskall, the money, Maskall! now help, or we are gone.)
Mask. Would she offer to bring money to you? first, to affront your poverty ——
Wild. Ay, to affront my poverty: But that’s no great matter; and then ——
Mask. And then to bring you money, sir. (I stick fast, sir.)
Wild. (Forward, you dog, and invent, or I’ll cut your throat.) And then, as I was saying, to bring me money ——
Mask. Which is the greatest and most sweet of all temptations; and to think you could resist it: Being also aggravated by her handsomeness, who brought it.
Wild. Resist it? No; I would she would understand it; I know better what belongs to flesh and blood than so.
Beat. to Jac. This is plain confederacy: I smoke it; he came on purpose to quarrel with you; break first with him, and prevent it.
Jac. If it be come to that once, the devil take the hindmost! I’ll not be last in love, for that will be a dishonour to my sex.
Wild. And then ——
Jac. Hold, sir, there needs no more; you shall fall out, and I’ll gratify you with a new occasion: I only tried you in hope you would be false; and, rather than fail of my design, brought gold to bribe you to’t.
Beat. As
people, when they have an ill bargain, are content to lose by it, that they may get it off their hands.
Mask. Beatrix, while our principals are engaged, I hold it not for our honour to stand idle.
Beat. With all my heart: Please you let us draw off to some other ground.
Mask. I dare meet you on any spot, but one.
Wild. I think we shall do well to put it to an issue: this is the last time you shall ever be troubled with my addresses.
Jac. The favour had been greater to have spared this too.
Mask. Beatrix, let us dispatch; or they’ll break off before us.
Beat. Break as fast as thou wilt; I am as brittle as thou art, for thy heart.
Wild. Because I will absolutely break off with you, I will keep nothing that belongs to you; therefore take back your picture, and your handkerchief.
Jac. I have nothing of yours to keep; therefore take back your liberal promises. Take them in imagination.
Wild. Not to be behindhand with you in your frumps, I give you back your purse of gold: Take you that — in imagination.
Jac. To conclude with you, take back your oaths and protestations; they are never the worse for the wearing, I assure you: Therefore take them, spick and span new, for the use of your next mistress.
Mask. Beatrix, follow your leader; here’s the six-penny whittle you gave me, with the mutton haft: I can spare it, for knives are of little use in Spain.
Beat. There’s your scissars with the stinking brass chain to them: ’Tis well there was no love betwixt us; for they had been too dull to cut it.
Mask. There’s the dandriff comb you lent me.
Beat. There’s your ferret-ribbanding for garters.
Mask. I would never have come so near as to have taken them from you.
Beat. For your letter, I have it not about me; but upon reputation I’ll burn it.
Mask. And for yours, I have already put it to a fitting employment. — Courage, sir; how goes the battle on your wing?