by Thomas Otway
Let. But he always visits your ladyship first.
Mrs. Good. That’s his policy, as great debtors are always very respectful and acknowledging where they never mean to pay. ’Tis true, he gives me what freedom I can desire, but God knows that’s all.
Let. And where’s the pleasure of going abroad and getting a stomach, to return and starve at home?
Mrs. Good. I laugh, though, to think what an easy fool he believes me: he thinks me the most contented, innocent, harmless turtle breathing; the very pattern of patience.
Let. A jewel of a wife.
Mrs. Good. And as blind with love as his own good opinion of himself has made him.
Let. And can you find in your heart to wrong so good a natured, complete, well-meaning, harmless husband, that has so good an opinion of you?
Mrs. Good. Ha, wrong him! what say you, Lettice? I wrong my husband! such another word forfeits my good opinion of thee for ever.
Let. What meant the billet to Mr. Truman then this morning?
Mrs. Good. To make him my friend perhaps, and discover if I can, Who it is that wrongs me in my husband’s affection; for I am sure I have a rival. And I am apt to believe Victoria deserves no better than ordinary of me, if the truth were known.
Let. Why, she is his near kinswoman, and lives here in the house with you; besides, he would never dishonour his own family, surely.
Mrs. Good. You area fool, Lettice; the nearness of blood is the least thing considered. Besides, as I have heard, ’tis almost the only way relations care to be kind to one another, now-a-days.
Let. Yes, madam, you never meet, but you are as kind and fond of him as if you had all the joys of love about you. Lord! how can you dissemble with him so? besides, Mr. Truman, madam, you know is his friend.
Mrs. Good. Oh, if I would ever consent to wrong my husband (which heaven forbid, Lettice!) it should be, to choose, with his friend. For such a one has a double obligation to secrecy, as well for his own honour, as mine. But I’ll swear, Lettice, you are an idle girl for talking so much of this, that you are: ’tis enough to put ill thoughts into one’s head, which I am the most averse to of all things in the world.
Let. But, madam, thoughts are free; and ’tis as hard not to think a little idly sometimes, as it is to be always in good humour. But it would make any one laugh, to think Mr. Truman should be in love with madam Victoria, if all be real which your ladyship suspects.
Mrs. Good. Ay, and with a design of marriage too: but a ranging gallant thinks he fathoms all, and counts it as much beneath his experience to doubt his security in a wife, as success in a mistress.
Let. Besides, after a little time, he is so very industrious in cuckolding others, that he never dreams how swimmingly his own affairs are managed at home.
Enter VICTORIA.
Mrs. Good. But hush — she’s here.
Vict. A happy day to you, madam.
Mrs. Good. Dear cousin, your humble servant: have you heard who are below?
Vict. Yes, young Truman, and his inseparable companion, Valentine.
Mrs. Good. Well, what will you do, cousin? Truman comes resolved on conquest: for with the advantages he has in your heart already, ’tis impossible you should be able to hold out against him.
Vict. Yes, powerful champaign, as they call it, may do much; a spark can no more refrain running into love after a bottle, than a drunken country vicar can avoid disputing of religion when his patron’s ale grows stronger than his reason.
Mrs. Good. Come, come, dissemble your inclinations as artfully as you please, I am sure they are not so indifferent but they may be easily discerned.
Vict. Truly, madam, you may be mistaken in your guess.
Mrs. Good. How! I doubt it is some other man then has caused this alteration in you. — Lord, Lettice, is she not extremely altered?
Vict. Altered, madam! what do you mean?
Mrs. Good. Nay, Lettice, fetch a glass, and let her see herself: Lord, you are paler than you used to be.
Let. Ay, and then that blueness under the eyes.
Mrs. Good. Besides, you are not so lively as I have known you: pardon me, cousin.
Let. Well, if there be a fault, marriage will cure all.
Vict. I’ll assure you, I have none that I know of stands in need of so desperate a remedy. Marriage! fault! what can all this tend to?
Enter Page.
Mrs. Good. Well, what now?
Page. Madam Camilla is coming to wait upon your ladyship.
Mrs. Good. Ha, Camilla! tell her I’ll attend her: won’t you go with me, Victoria? [Exit Page.
Vict. I’ll but step into my chamber, and follow you instantly. [Exeunt Mrs. Good, and Lettice.], Whit her can all this drive? Surely she has discovered something of Goodvile’s love and mine: if she has I am ruined.
Enter GOODVILE.
Good. Victoria! your cousin is not here, is she? What, in clouds? I stole this minute from my friends on purpose to see thee, and must not I have a look? Not a word?
Vict. Oh, I am ruined and lost for ever! I fear your wife has had some knowledge of our loves: and if it be so, what will then become of me?
Good. Pr’ythee no more: my wife! she has too good an opinion of herself, to have an ill one of me; and would as soon believe her glass could flatter her, as I be false to her: my wife — ha, ha.
Vict. Yes, I am sure it must be so; it can be no otherwise: but you are satisfied, and now have nothing more to do, but to leave me to be miserable.
Good. Leave thee! by heaven I’d sooner renounce my family, and own myself the bastard of a rascal: come, quiet thy doubts; Truman is here; and take my love for thy security, he shall be thine to-night.
Vict. I have great reason to expect it, indeed. That you would hazard your interest in so good a friend for the reparation of my honour, that so little concerns you, and which you have already made your best of.
Good. No more of that: love’s my province; and thine is too dear to me to be neglected. ’Tis true, I have made him my friend, and I hope he will deserve it, by doing thee that justice which I am incapable of.
Vict. You can promise easily.
Good. Ay, and as resolutely perform: when I have heated him with wine, prepare to receive him.
Enter Mrs. GOODVILE.
Ha, she here!
Mrs. Good. So, so, Mr. Goodvile, are you there indeed? I thought I should catch you.
Good. Faith, my dear, I have been speaking a good word for Jack Truman; my cousin Victoria’s too cruel.
Mrs. Good. Oh, fy, Victoria! can you be so hardhearted to deny any thing, when Mr. Goodvile is an advocate?
Vict. I must confess it is with some difficulty; but should I too easily comply upon Mr. Goodvile’s intercession, who knows but your ladyship might be jealous? for he that can prevail for another, may presume there’s hopes for himself.
Mrs. Good. Ay, but cousin, I know you are my friend, and would not, though but in regard of that, do me such an injury: besides, Mr. Goodvile knows I dare trust him: don’t you, love?
Good. Trust me! yes, for if you don’t, ’tis all one — Credulous innocence! [Aside.] Alas, my dear, were I as false as thou art good, thy generous confidence would shame me into honesty.
Enter CAMILLA running and squeaking; TRUMAN and VALENTINE after her.
Cam. For heaven’s sake, madam, save me! — Mr. Goodvile, ’tis safer travelling through the Deserts of Arabia, than entering your house: bad I not run hard for it, I had been devoured, that’s certain.
Val. Oh, madam, are you herded? It will be to little purpose; I am stanch, and never change my game.
Cam. But when you have lost it, if fresh start up, you can be as fully satisfied, who hunt more for the love of the sport, than for the sake of the prey.
Val. But, madam, should you chance to be taken, look to’t; for I shall touze and worry you most unmercifully, till I have revenged myself severely for the pains you cost me catching.
Cam. Therefore I am resolved to keep out of your. reac
h; Lord! what would become of such a poor little creature as I am, in the paws of so ravenous an animal?
Tru. But are you too, lady, so wild as Mrs. Camilla?
Vict. Ob, sir, to the full! but I hope you are not so unmerciful as Mr. Valentine.
Tru. No, madam, quite on the contrary, as soft and pliant as your pillow: you may mould me to your own ease and pleasure, which way you will.
Vict. ’Tis strange two of such different tempers should so well agree: methinks you look like two as roaring, ranting, tory-rory sparks as one would wish to meet withal.
Val. Yes, madam, at the playhouse in a vizor (The practice of females appearing masked at the theatre, had been introduced after the Restoration, and was common at this period. It grew at last into a nuisance; and having been partly the occasion of a duel, was prohibited by government about the year 1705.), when you come drest and prepared for the encounter; there indeed we can be as unanimously modish and impertinent as the pertest coxcombs of ’em all: till like them too, we lose our hearts, and never know what becomes of ’em.
Cam. But the comfort is, you are sure to find ’em again in the next bottle.
Mrs. Good. Then drink ’em down to the ladies’ healths, and they are as well at ease as ever they were.
Tru. Why, you would not be so unconscionable as to have us two such whining crop-sick lovers, as sigh away their hours, and write lamentable ditties, to be sung about the town by fools and bullies in taverns.
Good. Till some Smithfield doggrel, taking the hint, swells the sonnet to a ballad, and Chloris dwindles into a kitchen-wench.
Vict. ’Tis presumed then you are of that familiar tribe that never make love but by contraries, and rally our faults, when you pretend to admire our perfections.
Cam. As if the only way to raise a good opinion of yourselves, were to let us know how ill a one you have of us.
Tru. Faith, madam, ’tis a hard world; and when beauty is held at so dear a rate, ’tis the best way to beat down the market as much as we can.
Val. But you shall find, ladies, we’ll bid like chapmen for all that.
Vict. You had best have a care though lest you overreach yourselves, and repent of your purchase when ’tis too late.
Cam. Besides, I hate a Dutch bargain that’s made in heat of wine, for the love it raises is generally like the courage it gives, very extraordinary, but very shortlived.
Good. How, madam! have a care what you say: wine is the prince of love, and all ladies that speak against it, forfeit their charter. I must not have my favourite traduced. Boy, bring some wine: you shall prove it’s good effects, and then acknowledge it your friend. Well drink —
Cam. Till your brains are afloat, and all the rest sink.
Val. I find then, ladies, you have the like opinion of our heads, as you have of our hearts.
Cam. Really, sir, you are much in the right.
Tru. But if your ladyship should be in the wrong — Though love, like wine, be a good refresher, yet ’tis much more dangerous to be too busy withal. And though now and then I may over-heat my head with drinking; yet, confound me, I think I shall have a care never to break my heart with loving.
Mrs. Good. But, sir, if all men were of your cruel temper, what, would become of those tender-hearted creatures that cannot forbear saluting ye with a billet in a morning, though it comes without a name, and makes you as unsatisfied as they poor creatures are themselves?
Tru. Hah, this concerns me! Blockhead, dull leaden sot that I was, not to be sensible it must be she, and none but she could send mine this morning. Well, poor Jack Truman, look to thyself, snares are laid for thee; but the virtuous must suffer temptation; and heaven knows all flesh is frail. [Aside Enter Boy, with Wine.
Good. Now, boy, fill the glasses. But before we proceed, one thing is to be considered. My dear, you and I are to be no man and wife for this day, but be as indifferent, and take as little notice one of another, as we may chance to do seven years hence; but at night —
Val. A very fair proposal.
Mrs. Good. Agreed, sir, if you will have it so.
Good. The wine — now each man to his post.
[They separate, Good, to Cam. Val to Vict.
Trum. to Mrs. Goodvile.
The word. [All take glasses
Tru. Love and wine.
Good. Pass — [They drink.
Enter LETTICE.
Now that nothing may be wanting, Lettice, you must sing the song I brought home t’other morning; for music is as great an encouragement to drinking, as fighting.
LETTICE sings.
How blest he appears,
That revels and loves out his happy years;
That fiercely spurs on till he finish his race;
And knowing life’s short, chooses living apace!
To cares we were born, ‘twere a folly to doubt it:
Then love and rejoice, there’s no living without it.
Each day we grow older;
But as fate approaches, the brave still are bolder;
The joys of love with our youth slide away,
But yet there are pleasures that never decay:
When beauty grows dull, and our passions grow cold,
Wine still keeps it’s charms, and we drink when we’re old.
Good. So, now show me an enemy to divine harmonious drinking.
Boy. Sir, my lady Squeamish is below, just alighted out of her coach.
Good. Nay, then drinking will have the major vote against it. She is the most exact observer of decorums and decency alive. But she is not alone, I hope.
Boy. No, sir, there is Mr. Malagene with her, and three more gentlemen; one they call sir Noble Clumsey, a full portly gentleman.
Tru. That’s a hopeful animal, an elder brother, of a fair estate, and her kinsman, newly come up to town, whom her ladyship has undertaken to polish and make a fine gentleman.
Val. ’Tis such a fulsome overgrown rogue! yet hopes to be a fine spark, and a very courtly youth; he has been this half year endeavouring at a shape, which he loves eating and drinking too well ever to attain to. The other, I’ll warrant you, are the nimble Mr. Caper, and his polite companion, Mr. Saunter.
Good. She’s never without a kennel of fools at her heels ) and we may know as well when she is near, by the noise her coxcombs make, as we know when a certain spark of this town is at hand, by the new-fangled gingle of his coach. She comes — and woe be to the wretch whom she first lights upon.
Enter Lady SQUEAMISH, Sir NOBLE CLUMSEY, MALAGENE, CAPER, and SAUNTER.
Lady Squ. Dear madam Goodvile, ten thousand happinesses wait on you! Fair madam Victoria, sweet charming Camilla, which way shall I express my service to you? — Cousin, your honour, your honour to the ladies.
Clum. Ladies, as low as knee can bend, or head can bow, I salute you all. And, gallants, I am your most humble, most obliged, and most devoted servant. That I learned at the end of an epistle dedicatory.
Good. Sir Noble Clumsey is too great a courtier.
Clum. Yes, sir, I can compliment upon an occasion; my lady knows I am a pretty apt scholar.
Lady Squ. Gallants, you must pardon my cousin here, he is but as it were a novice yet, and has had little conversation but what I have had the honour to instruct him in.
Mal. But let me tell you, he is a man of parts, and one that I respect and honour. Pray, gentlemen, know my friend.
Val. Hark you, Malagene, how durst you venture hither, knowing that Goodvile and Truman care so little for your company?
Mal. O sir, your servant, your servant, sir; I guessed this was the duel you were going about. I should not have left you else; faith, Ned, I should not.
Good. But, madam, can the worthy knight, your kinsman, drink? What think you, sir Noble, of the ladies’ healths?
Chan. In a glass of small beer, if you please.
Lady Squ. Oh sweet Mr. Goodvile, don’t tempt him to drink, don’t! I’ll swear, I am so afraid he should spoil himself with drinking. Lord, how I should loa
th a fellow with a red nose!
Val. See, Truman, the two coxcombs are already boarding our mistresses.
Tru. Oh, ‘twere pity to interrupt ’em. A woman loves to play and fondle with a coxcomb sometimes, as naturally as with a lap-dog; and I could no more be jealous of one, than of the other.
Val. I am not of your opinion; they are too apt to love any thing that but makes ’em sport. And the familiarity of fools proceeds oftentimes from a privilege we are not aware of. For my part, I shall make bold to divert — Mr. Saunter, a word; have you any pretences with that lady? hah!
Saunt. Some small encouragement I have had, sir; but I never make my boast of those favours, never.
Val. No, sir, ‘twere your best course.
Saunt. Oh Lord, you are pleased to be merry. Sure he takes me for a fool; but no matter for that.
[Sings.
Would Phillis be mine, and for, &c.
Enter Boy.
Boy. Madam, the fiddles are below; shall I call ’em up?
Mrs. Good. No, let ’em stay a little, we’ll dance below.
Cap. Hah, the fiddles! Boy, where are you?
[Cap capers.
Boy. Here, sir.
Cap. Have you brought my dancing-shoes?
Boy, No, sir, you gave me no order: but your fiddle is below under the seat of the coach.
Cap. Rascal, dog, fool; when did you ever know me go abroad without my dancing-shoes? Sirrah, run home and fetch ’em quickly, or I’ll cut off both your ears, and have ’em fastened to the heels of those I have on.
Tru. It is an unpardonable fault, sir, that your boy should forget your dancing-shoes.
Cap. Ay, hang him, blockhead, he has no sense: I must get rid of him as soon as I can: I would no more dance in a pair of shoes that we commonly wear, than I would ride a race in a pair of Gambado’s.
Lady Squ. Mr. Valentine I hope is a better bred gentleman, than to leave his mistress for wine. I hear, sir, there is a love between you and madam Camilla! Thou monster of perjury. [To Val.
Val. Faith, madam, you are much in the right; there is abundance of love on my side, but I can find very little on her’s: if your ladyship would but stand my friend upon this occasion. — I think this is civil.