by Thomas Otway
Mal. Ever since your ladyship has been off from the hooks with Mr. Valentine. [In his own voice aloud.
Lady Squ. Uh! gud, I always thought Mr. Malagene had been better bred than to upbraid me with any such base thing to my face, whatever he might say of me behind my back: but there is no honour, no civility in the world, that I am satisfied of.
Val. Can your ladyship take any thing ill from Mr. Malagene? A woman should bear with the unlucky jerks of her buffoon or coxcomb, as well as with the ill-manners of her monkey sometimes: the fools and rascals your sex delights in, ought to have the privilege of saying, as well as they have of doing any thing.
Lady Squ. Which you men of wit (as you think yourselves!) are very angry you should be debarred of: Lord, what pity ’tis your good parts should be your misfortune.
Val. Ay, madam, I feel the curse of it: I who had just sense enough to fall in love with so much beauty and merit, yet could not be able to keep the Paradise I was so happily possest of.
Lady Squ. This malice and ill-nature shall not serve your turn; I shall know all your proceedings and intrigues with Camilla, and be revenged on your love to her, for all the affronts and injuries you have done to mine.
Enter CAPER and SAUNTER.
Cap. Oh dear madam, we are utterly undone for want of your ladyship’s company, I’ll vow. Madam Goodvile is coming with the fiddles to wait on you here. [Cuts backwards.
Clum. Sir, are you a dancing-master! You are very nimble, methinks.
Cap. Ay, sir, I hate to stand still. But, sir Noble, I thought you had known me. I doubt you may be a little overtaken; faith, dear heart, I am glad to see thee so merry.
Clum. Yes, I do love dearly to be drunk once a year or so, ’tis good for my bodily health. But do you never drink!
Cap. No, sir Noble, that is not my province, you know: I mind dancing altogether.
Clam. Nor you! can’t you drink, ha!
Saunt. No, I make love and sing to ladies.
Clum. Whores to my knowledge, arrant rank, common whores. A pox on your woman of quality that you carried me to in the Mall.
Tru. Why, what was the matter, sir Noble!
Clum. By yea, and by nay, a foul over-grown strumpet, with a running-bawd instead of a waiting-woman; a great deal of paint, variety of old clothes, and nothing to eat.
Lady Squ. O dear, let me die, if that was not extravagantly pleasant.
Tru. I believe sir Noble is much in the right; for I never came near these giddy, intriguing blockheads, but they were talking of love and ladies; nor ever met with a hackney stripping whore that did not know ’em.
Cap. Ned Valentine, I have a kindness to beg of you.
Val. Sir, you may command me any thing.
Cap. Why, you must know I am in love with Camilla.
Val. Very good.
Cap. Now I would have you speak to Frank Goodvile, not to make love to her as he does, i’faith I can’t bear it; for, to tell you the truth on’t, I intend to marry her; I catched him at it but now: faith it made my heart ache, never stir if it did not.
Val. In troth, sir, ’tis very uncivil. Truman, this Goodvile has a mind to oblige us both; he’s providing a wife for me too as fast as he can. Camilla’s his quarry now, I understand; and by that time he has played as fair a game with her, as he has done with your mistress Victoria, I may stand fair to put in for the rubbers.
Tru. Valentine, thou art upon’ too sure grounds for him there; Camilla has both too much wit and virtue, and each with as little affectation as the other.
Val. Jack, after this I cannot but be very free with you. I know there is some love hatching between you and his wife: both our revenge lies in thy hands; and if thou durst not thyself and me justice, I’ll disown thee for ever.
Tru. See where he comes, with a heart as gay and light, as if there were nothing but honesty in it.
Enter GOODVILE, singing.
When beauty can’t move, and our passions grow cold,
Wine still keeps its charms, and we drink when we’re old.
Good. — Jack Truman, yonder have I and Victoria been laughing at thee till we were weary. She swears thou art so very modest, she would not for all the world marry thee, for fear of spoiling that virtue.
Tru. Nay, then I doubt I have lost her for ever; for if she complains of my modesty, she has found a fault which I never thought I had been guilty of before.
Good. But that is a quality, which though they hate ever so much in a gallant, they are apt for many reasons to value in a husband: fear not, dissimulation is the natural adjunct of their sex; and I would no more despair of a woman, though she swore she hated me, than I would believe her, though she swore she loved me.
Enter Lady SQUEAMISH and the rest of the Company, with the Fiddles.
Lady Squ. Oh a country dance, a country dance! Mr. Caper, where are you? you shall dance with madam Camilla. Mr. Saunter, wait, on Victoria; Mr. Goodvile, your humble servant. Dear Mr. Truman, won’t you oblige me! Madam Goodvile — ha, ha, ha! I’ll swear I had utterly forgotten Mr. Valentine.
Val. Your ladyship knows me to be a civil person; if you please, I’ll keep good orders.
[All take out the women.
Mal. Faith Ned do, and I’ll keep the music in tune: away with it: [Music plays.] Hold, hold — what insufferable rascals are these! why ye scurvy, thrashing, scraping mongrels, ye make a worse noise than crampt hedge-hogs. An old gouty dancing-master, that teaches to dance with his spectacles on, makes better music on his ‘ cracked kit— ‘Sdeath, ye dogs, can’t you play now as a gentleman sings? ha —
Good. Sir, will you never leave this nauseous humour of your’s! I can never be with you but I must be forced to use you ill, or endure the perpetual torment of your impertinence.
Mal. Well, sir, I have done, sir, I have done: but ’tis very hard a man can’t be permitted to shew his parts. ‘Sdeath, Frank, dost thou think thou understandest music?
Good. Sir, I understand it so well, that I won’t have it interrupted in my company by you.
Mal. I am glad on’t with all my heart; I never thought you had understood any thing before — I think there I was pretty even with you.
Good. Sauciness and ill-manners are so much your province, that nothing but kicking is fit for you.
Mal. Sir, you may use your pleasure; but I care no more for being kicked, than you do for kicking. But pr’ythee, Frank, why should you be out of humour so! The devil take me, if I shall not give thee such a jerk presently will make thee angry indeed.
Lady Squ. Lord, Mr. Goodvile, how can you be so ill-natured! I’ll swear, Mr. Malagene is in the right. These people have no manners in the least, play not at all to dancing: but I vow he himself sings a tune extreme prettily.
Good. Death, hell and the devil, how am I teazed! I shall have no opportunity to pursue my business with Camilla: I must remove this troublesome coxcomb, and that perhaps may put a stop at least to her impertinence. [Aside.
Lady Squ. Mr. Truman, Mr. Goodvile and ladies, I beseech you do me the favour to hear Mr. Malagene sing a Scotch song: I’ll swear I am a strange admirer of Scotch songs, they are the prettiest, soft, melting, gentle, harmless things —
Saunt. By dad, and so they are. — In January last —
[Sings.
Val. Deliver us! a Scotch song! I hate it worse than a Scotch bagpipe, which even the bears are grown weary of, and have better music. I wish I could see her ladyship dance a Scotch jig to one of ’em.
Mal. I must needs beg your ladyship’s pardon. I have forgotten the last new Scotch song: but if you please I’ll entertain you with one of another nature, which I am apt to believe will be as pleasant.
Lady Squ. Let me die, Mr. Malagene, you are eternally obliging me. [Malagene sings an Irish Cronon.
Mal. Well, madam, how like you it, madam, ha?
Lady Squ. Really it is very pretty now — the prettiest, odd, out-of-the-way notes. Don’t you admire it strangely?
Mal. I’ll assure your ladyship I le
arnt it of an Irish musician that’s lately come over, and intend to present it to an author of my acquaintance, to put it in his next play.
Lady Squ. Ha, ha, Mr. Valentine! I would have you learn it for a serenade to your mistress — ha, ha, ha!
Val. My page, madam, is docible, and has a pretty voice, he shall learn it, if you please; and if your ladyship has any further service for him —
Lady Squ. Ah Lord, wit, wit, wit, as I live! Come let’s dance.
Tru. Valentine, thou art something too rough; I am afraid her ladyship will he revenged: I see mischief in her eyes: ’tis safer provoking a Lancashire witch, than an old mistress; and she is as violent in her malice too.
Good. Malagene, a word with you — hark ye, come hither. [Goes to the door
Mal. Well, Frank, what’s the business now! I am clearly for mischief: shall I break the fiddles, and turn the rascals out of doors!
Good. No, sir; but I’ll be so civil to turn you Out of doors. Nay, sir, no struggling; I have footmen within.
Mal. Whoo! pr’ythee what’s all this for! What a pox, I know my lady well enough for a silly, affected, fantastical gipsy: I did all this but o’purpose to shew her — let me alone, I’ll abuse her worse.
Good. No, sir, but I’ll fake more care of your reputation, and turn you out to learn better manners. No resistance, as you tender your ears; but begone. ( Exit Mal.) So he’s gone, and now I hope I may have some little time to myself. — Fiddles strike up. [Dame.
Tru. Thus, madam, yon freely enjoy all the pleasures of a single life, and ease yourself of that wretched formal austerity which commonly attends a married one.
Mrs. Good. Who would not hate to be one of those simpering saints, that enter into marriage as they would go into a nunnery, where they keep very strict to their devotion for a-while, but at last turn as arrant sinners as ever they were. ‘
Tru. Marriages indeed should be repaired to, as commonly nunneries are, for handsome retreats and conveniences, not for prisons; where those that cannot live without ’em may be safe, yet sometimes venture too abroad a little.
Mrs. Good. But never, sir, without a lady abbess, or a confessor at least.
Tru. Might I, madam, have the honour to be your confessor, I should be very indulgent and lavish of absolution to so pretty a sinner.
Mrs. Good. See, Mr. Goodvile and madam Camilla I believe are at shrift already.
Tru. And poor Ned Valentine looks as pensively as if all the sins of the company were his own.
Mrs. Good. See, Mr. Caper, your mistress.
Cap. Ha, Camilla! Sir, your servant, may I have the honour to lead this lady a coranto?
Good. No, sir, death! surely I have fools that rest and harbour in my house, and they are a worse plague than bugs and moths: shall I never be quiet?
Val. Sir Noble, sir Noble, have a care of your mistress! do you see there? .
Clum. Hum — ha — where? oh — [Wakes and rises.
Saunt. Nay, faith madam, Harry Caper’s as pretty a fellow! ’Tis the wittiest rogue: he and I laugh at all the town. Harry, I shall marry her.
Clum. Marry, sir! whom will you marry, sir? you lie. Sweet-heart, come along with me, I’ll marry thee myself presently.
Vict. You, sir Noble! — what d’ye mean? [She squeaks.
Clum. Mean! honourably, honourably, I mean honourably. These are rogues, my dear, arrant rogues. Come along — [Ex. Sir Nob and Vict.
Cap. Ha, Saunter. —
Saunt. Ay, Caper, ha! let us follow this drunken knight.
Cap. I’faith, and so I will — I don’t value him this!
[Cuts. [Ex. Cap and Saunt.
Lady Squ. Ha, ha, ha! well, I’ll swear my cousin, sir Noble, is a strange pleasant creature. Dear madam, let us follow and see the sport. Mr. Truman, will you walk? O dear, ’tis violent hot.
[Ex. Lady Squ. Tru and Mrs. G.
Val. I’ll withdraw too, and at some distance observe how matters are carried between Goodvile and Camilla.
Good. Are you, then, madam, resolved to ruin me? why should all that stock of beauty be thrown away on one that can never be able to deserve the gleanings of ‘it? I love you —
Cam. And all the sex besides. That ever any man should take such pains to forswear himself to no purpose!
Good. Nay, then there’s hopes yet; if you pretend to doubt the truth of my love, ’tis a sign you have some inclinations at least that are my friends.
Cam. This Goodvile, I see, is one of those spruce polished fools who have so good an opinion of themselves, that they think no woman can resist ’em, norman of better sense despise ’em. I’ll seem at present to comply, and try how far ‘twill pass upon him. [Aside.
Good. Well, madam, have you considered on’t? will the stone in your heart give way?
Cam. No, sir, ’tis full as firm and hard as ever it was.
Good. And I may then go hang or drown, or do what I will with myself? ha!
Cam. At your own discretion, sir, though I should be loth to see so proper a handsome gentleman come to an ill end.
Good. Good charitable creature! but, madam, know I can be revenged on you for this; and my revenge shall be to love you still; gloat on, and loll after you, where’er I see you; in all public meetings haunt and vex you; write lamentable sonnets on you, and so plain, that every fop that sings ’em shall know ’tis you I mean.
Cam. So sir, this is something: could not you as well have told me you had been very ill-natured at first? you did not know how far it might have wrought upon me; besides, ’tis a thousand times better than vowing and bowing, and making a deal of love and noise, and all to as little purpose as any thing you say else.
Good. Right exquisite tyrant! I’ll set a watch and guard so strict upon you, you shall not entertain a well-dressed fool in private, but I’ll know it; then in a lewd lampoon publish it to the town; till you shall repent, and curse the hour you ever saw me.
Cam. Ah, would I could, ill-natured, cruel man! Good, Ha, how’s that? am I then mistaken? and have I wronged you all this while? I ask ten thousand pardons; curst damned sot that I was! I have ruined myself now for ever.
Cam. Well, sir, should I now forgive you all, could you consent to wrong your lady so far? you have not yet been married a full year; how must I then suspect your love to me, that can so soon forget your faith to her?
Good. Oh madam, what do you do? the name of a wife to a man in love is worse than cold water in a fever; ’tis enough to strike the distemper to my heart, and kill me quite: my lady, quoth-a!
Cam. Besides, Valentine you know is your friend.
Good. I grant it, lie is so; a friend is a thing I love to eat and drink and laugh withal: nay, more, I would on a good occasion Ipse my life for my friend, but not my pleasure. Say when and where it shall be.
Cam. Never; I dare not.
Good. You must by and by when ’tis a little darker, in the left-hand walk, in the lowest garden.
Cam. I won’t promise you; can’t you trust my good? nature?
Good. Charming creature, I do: now if I can but make up the match between Truman and Victoria, my hopes are completed.
Cam. Haste! haste! away sir, I see Valentine coming, [Exit Good, Enter VALENTINE.
Val. Madam, you are extremely merry; I am glad Mr. Goodvile has left you in so good a humour.
Cam. Ay, sir, and what may please you more, he is parted hence in as good a humour as he has left me here, Enter Lady SQUEAMISH, BRIDGET at the Door.
Lady Squ. Valentine and Camilla alone together! now for an opportunity to be revenged! ah, how I love malice!
Val. Ungratefullest of women!
Cam. Foolishest of men! can you be so very silly to be jealous? for I find you are so: what have you ever observed since first your knowledge of me, that might persuade you I should ever grow fond of a man, as notoriously false to all women, as you ate unworthy of me?
Lady Squ. Has Valentine been false to her too? nay, then there is some pleasure left yet, to think I am not the only
woman that has suffered by his baseness.
[Aside.
Val. What then, I’ll warrant you were alone together half au hour only for a little harmless raillery or so? an honour I could never obtain without bard suit and humble supplication.
Cam. Alas! how very politic you are grown! you would pretend displeasure to try your power. No — I shall henceforth think you never had a good opinion of me; but that your love was at first as ill-grounded, as your fantastical jealousy is now.
Val. What specious pretence can you urge? (I know a woman can never be without one;) come, I am easy and good-natured, willing to believe and he deceived — what, not a word!
Cam. Though I can hardly descend to satisfy your distrust, for which I hardly value you, and almost hate you; yet to torment you farther, know I did discourse with him, and of love too; nay more, granted him an appointment, but one I never meant to keep, and promised it only to get rid of him. This is more than I am obliged to tell you, but that I wanted such an opportunity as this to check your pretences, which I found too unruly to be kept at a distance.
Val. Though I had some reason to be in doubt, yet this true resentment and just proceeding has convinced me: for Goodvile is a man I have little reason to trust, as will appear hereafter, and ’twas my knowledge of his baseness made me run into so mean a distrust of you; but forgive me this, and when I fail again, discard me for ever.
Cam. Yes: but the next time I shall happen to discourse with a gentleman in private, I shall have you listening at the door, or eavesdropping under the window. What, distrust your friend, the honourable worthy Mr. Goodvile! fy, how can you be so ungenerous?
Val. There is not such another hypocrite in the world: he never made love but to delude, nor friendship but for his ends: — even his own kinswoman and charge, Victoria, he has long since corrupted, and now would put her on his best friend Truman for a wife.
Cam. I cannot but laugh to think how easily he swallowed the cheat: he could not be more transported at possession, than he was with expectation; and he went away in a greater triumph than if he bad conquered the Indies: