by Thomas Otway
Frisk.
Fourbin, a Servant To Beaugard.
Bloody-Bones.
Vermin, a Servant To Sir Davy.
Will, Sylvia’s Footman.
A Constable, Watchmen, Whores, Bullies, Drawer, &c.
Lady Dunce.
Sylvia.
Maid.
SCENE — London.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. — The Mall in St. James’s Park.
Enter Beaugard, Courtine, and Fourbin.
Beau. A pox o’ fortune! Thou art always teasing me about fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth; nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned, since the world’s so wide!
Cour. As wide as it is, ’tis so thronged and crammed with knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in it.
Beau. Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.
Cour. At you I ought to rail; ’twas your fault we left our employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as loyally starve for it.
Beau. Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got such a trick of it in the king’s exile, that their posterity could never thrive since.
Cour. ’Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a —
Beau. Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.
Cour. My companions the worthy knights of the most noble order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the Temple-walks, rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.
Beau. I am ashamed to hear a soldier talk of starving.
Cour. Why, what shall I do? I can’t steal.
Beau. Though thou canst not steal, thou hast other vices enough for any industrious fellow to live comfortably upon.
Cour. What! wouldst thou have me turn rascal, and run cheating up and down the town for a livelihood? I would no more keep a blockhead company, and endure his nauseous nonsense, in hopes to get him, than I would be a drudge to an old woman with rheumatic eyes, hollow teeth, and stinking breath, for a pension: of all rogues, I would not be a fool-monger.
Beau. How well this niceness becomes thee! I’d fain see e’en thee turn parson in a pet, o’ purpose to rail at all those vices which I know thou naturally art fond of. Why, surely an old lady’s pension need not be so despicable in the eyes of a disbanded officer, as times go, friend.
Cour. I am glad, Beaugard, you think so.
Beau. Why thou shalt think so too, man; be ruled by me, and I’ll bring thee into good company, — families, Courtine, families; and such families, where formality’s a scandal, and pleasure is the business; where the women are all wanton, and the men all witty, you rogue.
Cour. What, some of your worship’s Wapping acquaintance, that you made last time you came over for recruits, and spirited away your landlady’s daughter a-volunteering with you into France?
Beau. I’ll bring thee, Courtine, where cuckoldom’s in credit, and lewdness laudable; where thou shalt wallow in pleasures and preferments, revel all day, and every night lie in the arms of melting beauty, sweet as roses, and as springs refreshing.
Cour. Pr’ythee don’t talk thus; I had rather thou wouldst tell me where new levies are to be raised: a pox of whores, when a man has not money to make ’em comfortable!
Beau. That shall shower upon us in abundance; and for instance, know, to thy everlasting amazement, all this dropped out of the clouds to-day.
Cour. Ha! gold, by this light!
Four. Out of the clouds?
Beau. Ay, gold! does it not smell of the sweet hand that sent it? Smell — smell, you dog!
[To Fourbin.
[Fourbin smells the handful of gold, and gathers up some pieces in his mouth.
Four. Truly, sir, of heavenly sweetness, and very refreshing.
Cour. Dear Beaugard, if thou hast any good-nature in thee, if thou wouldst not have me hang myself before my time, tell me where the devil haunts that helped thee to this, that I may go make a bargain with him presently: speak, speak, or I am a lost man.
Beau. Why, thou must know this devil, which I have given my soul to already, and must I suppose have my body very speedily, lives I know not where, and may, for aught I know, be a real devil; but if it be, ’tis the best natured devil under Beelzebub’s dominions, — that I’ll swear to.
Cour. But how came the gold, then?
Beau. To deal freely with my friend, I am lately happened into the acquaintance of a very reverend pimp, as fine a discreet, sober, grey-bearded old gentleman as one would wish; as good a natured public-spirited person as the nation holds; one that is never so happy as when he is bringing good people together, and promoting civil understanding betwixt the sexes: nay, rather than want employment, he will go from one end of the town to t’other, to procure my lord’s little dog to be civil to my lady’s little languishing bitch.
Cour. A very worthy member of the commonwealth!
Beau. This noble person one day — but Fourbin can give you a more particular account of the matter. Sweet sir, if you please, tell us the story of the first encounter betwixt you and Sir Jolly Jumble. You must know that’s his title.
Four. Sir, it shall be done. Walking one day upon the Piazza, about three of the clock i’ the afternoon, to get me a stomach to my dinner, I chanced to encounter a person of goodly presence and worthy appearance; his beard and hair white, grave, and comely; his countenance ruddy, plump, smooth, and cheerful; who perceiving me also equipped as I am, with a mien and air which might well inform him I was a person of no inconsiderable quality, came very respectfully up to me, and, after the usual ceremonies between persons of parts and breeding had passed, very humbly inquired of me “What is it o’clock?” I presently understanding by the question that he was a man of parts and business, told him I did presume it was at most but nicely turned of three.
Beau. Very court-like, civil, quaint, and new, I think.
Four. The freedom of commerce increasing, after some little inconsiderable questions pour passer le temps, and so, he was pleased to offer me the courtesy of a glass of wine: I told him I very seldom drank, but, if he so pleased, I would do myself the honour to present him with a dish of meat at an eating-house hard by, where I had an interest.
Cour. Very well: I think this squire of thine, Beaugard, is as accomplished a person as any of the employment I ever saw.
Beau. Let the rogue go on.
Four. In short, we agreed and went together. As soon as we entered the room, “I am your most humble servant, sir,” says he. “I am the meanest of your vassals, sir,” said I. “I am very happy in lighting into the acquaintance of so worthy a gentleman as you appear to be, sir,” said he again. “Worthy Sir Jolly,” — then came I upon him again on t’other side (for you must know by that time I had groped out his title), “I kiss your hands from the bottom of my heart, which I shall be always ready to lay at your feet.”
Cour. Well, Fourbin, and what replied the knight then?
Four. Nothing, he had nothing to say; his sense was transported with admiration of my parts: so we sat down, and after some pause, he desired to know by what title he was to distinguish the person that had so highly honoured him.
Beau. That is as much as to say, sir, whose rascal you were.
Four. Sir, you may make as bold with your poor slave as you please. — I told him those that knew me well were pleased to call me the Chevalier Fourbin; that I was a cadet of the ancient family of the Fourbinois; and that I had had the honour of serving the great monarch of France in his wars in Flanders, where I contracted great familiarity and intimacy with a gallant officer of t
he English troops in that service, one Captain Beaugard.
Beau. Oh, sir, you did me too much honour. What a true-bred rogue’s this!
Cour. Well, but the money, Fourbin, the money?
Four. “Beaugard, hum! Beaugard,” says he— “ay, it must be so, — a black man, is he not?” “Ay,” says I, “blackish — a dark brown.” “Full-faced?” “Yes.” “A sly, subtle, observing eye?” “The same.” “A strong-built, well-made man?” “Right.” “A devilish fellow for a wench, a devilish fellow for a wench, I warrant him; a thundering rogue upon occasion — Beaugard! a thundering fellow for a wench: I must be acquainted with him.”
Cour. But to the money, the money, man; that’s the thing I would be acquainted withal.
Beau. This civil gentleman of the chevalier’s acquaintance comes yesterday morning to my lodging, and seeing my picture in miniature upon the toilet, told me, with the greatest ecstasy in the world, that was the thing he came to me about: he told me there was a lady of his acquaintance had some favourable thoughts of me, and “I’gad,” says he, “she’s a hummer; such a bona roba, ah!” — So without more ado begs me to lend it him till dinner (for we concluded to eat together); so away he scuttled with as great joy as if he had found the philosopher’s stone.
Cour. Very well.
Beau. At Locket’s we met again; where after a thousand grimaces, to show how much he was pleased, instead of my picture, presents me with the contents aforesaid; and told me the lady desired me to accept of them for the picture, which she was much transported withal, as well as with the original.
Cour. Ha!
Beau. Now, whereabouts this taking quality lies in me, the devil take me, Ned, if I know; but the fates, Ned, the fates!
Cour. A curse on the fates! Of all strumpets, fortune’s the basest. ’Twas fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red, the grievance of the nation; fortune made the peace just when we were on the brink of a war; then fortune disbanded us, and lost us two months’ pay: fortune gave us debentures instead of ready money, and by very good fortune I sold mine, and lost heartily by it, in hopes the grinding ill-natured dog that bought it will never get a shilling for’t.
Beau. Leave off thy railing, for shame! it looks like a cur that barks for want of bones. Come, times may mend, and an honest soldier be in fashion again.
Cour. These greasy, fat, unwieldy, wheezing rogues that live at home, and brood over their bags, when a fit of fear’s upon them, then if one of us pass but by, all the family is ready at the door to cry, “Heavens bless you, sir! the Laird go along with you!”
Beau. “Ah, good men; what pity ’tis such proper gentlemen should ever be out of employment!”
Cour. But when the business is over, then every parish bawd that goes but to a conventicle twice a week, and pays but scot and lot to the parish, shall roar out, “Faugh, ye lousy red-coat rake-hells! hout, ye caterpillars, ye locusts of the nation! you are the dogs that would enslave us all, plunder our shops, and ravish our daughters, ye scoundrels!”
Beau. I must confess ravishing ought to be regulated; it would destroy commerce, and many a good sober matron about this town might lose the selling of her daughter’s maidenhead, which were a great grievance to the people, and a particular branch of property lost. Fourbin!
Four. Your worship’s pleasure?
Beau. Run, like a rogue as you are, and try to find Sir Jolly, and desire him to meet me at the Blue-Posts in the Haymarket about twelve; we’ll dine together. [Exit Fourbin.] I must inquire farther into yesterday’s adventure; in the mean time, Ned, here’s half the prize, to be doing withal: old friends must preserve correspondence; we have shared good fortune together, and bad shall never part us.
Cour. Well, thou wilt certainly die in a ditch for this: hast thou no more grace than to be a true friend? nay, to part with thy money to thy friend? I grant you, a gentleman may swear and lie for his friend, pimp for his friend, hang for his friend, and so forth; but to part with ready money is the devil.
Beau. Stand aside; either I am mistaken, or yonder’s Sir Jolly coming: now, Courtine, will I show thee the flower of knighthood. Ah, Sir Jolly!
Enter Sir Jolly Jumble.
Sir Jol. My hero! my darling! my Ganymede! how dost thou? Strong! wanton! lusty! rampant! ha, ah, ah! She’s thine, boy! odd, she’s thine; plump, soft, smooth, wanton! ha, ah, ah! Ah, rogue! ah, rogue! here’s shoulders! here’s shape! there’s a foot and leg, here’s a leg, here’s a leg — Qua-a-a-a-a!
[Squeaks like a cat, and tickles Beaugard’s legs.
Cour. What an old goat’s this!
Sir Jol. Child, child, child, who’s that? a friend of thine, a friend o’ thine? A pretty fellow, odd, a very pretty fellow, and a strong dog I’ll warrant him. How dost do, dear heart? pr’ythee let me kiss thee. I’ll swear and vow I will kiss thee; ha, ha, he, he, he, he, a toad, a toad, a toa-a-a-d!
Cour. Sir, I am your humble servant.
Beau. But the lady, Sir Jolly, the lady; how does the lady? what says the lady, Sir Jolly?
Sir Jol. What says the lady! why, she says — she says — odd, she has a delicate lip, such a lip, so red, so hard, so plump, so blub; I fancy I am eating cherries every time I think on’t — and for her neck and breasts, and her — odd’s life! I’ll say no more, not a word more; but I know, I know —
Beau. I am sorry for that with all my heart; do you know, say you, sir? and would you put off your mumbled orts, your offal, upon me?
Sir Jol. Hush, hush, hush! have a care; as I live and breathe, not I; alack and well-a-day, I am a poor old fellow, decayed and done: all’s gone with me, gentlemen, but my good-nature; odd, I love to know how matters go though now and then, to see a pretty wench and a young fellow touze and rouze and frouze and mouze; odd, I love a young fellow dearly, faith dearly!
Cour. This is the most extraordinary rogue I ever met withal.
Beau. But, Sir Jolly, in the first place, you must know I have sworn never to marry.
Sir Jol. I would not have thee, man: I am a bachelor myself and have been a whore-master all my life; — besides, she’s married already, man; her husband’s an old, greasy, untoward, ill-natured, slovenly, tobacco-taking cuckold; but plaguy jealous.
Beau. Already a cuckold, Sir Jolly?
Sir Jol. No, that shall be, my boy; thou shalt make him one, and I’ll pimp for thee, dear heart; and shan’t I hold the door? shan’t I peep, ha? shan’t I, you devil, you little dog, shan’t I?
Beau. What is it I’d not grant to oblige my patron!
Sir Jol. And then dost hear? I have a lodging for thee in my own house: dost hear, old soul? in my own house; she lives the very next door, man; there’s but a wall to part her chamber and thine; and then for a peep-hole — odd’s fish, I have a peep-hole for thee; ‘sbud, I’ll show thee, I’ll show thee —
Beau. But when, Sir Jolly? I am in haste, impatient.
Sir Jol. Why, this very night, man; poor rogue’s in haste, poor rogue; but hear you —
Cour. The matter?
Sir Jol. Shan’t we dine together?
Beau. With all my heart.
Sir Jol. The Mall begins to empty. Get you before, and bespeak dinner at the Blue-Posts; while I stay behind and gather up a dish of whores for a dessert.
Cour. Be sure that they be lewd, drunken, stripping whores, Sir Jolly, that won’t be affectedly squeamish and troublesome.
Sir Jol. I warrant you.
Cour. I love a well-disciplined whore, that shows all the tricks of her profession with a wink, like an old soldier that understands all his exercise by beat of drum.
Sir Jol. Ah, thief, sayest thou so? I must be better acquainted with that fellow; he has a notable nose; a hard brawny carle, true and trusty, and mettle, I’ll warrant him.
Beau. Well, Sir Jolly, you’ll not fail us?
Sir Jol. Fail ye! am I a knight? hark ye, boys: I’ll muster this evening such a regiment of rampant, roaring, roisterous whores, that shall make more noise than if all the cats in the Haymark
et were in conjunction; whores, ye rogues, that shall swear with you, drink with you, talk bawdy with you, fight with you, scratch with you, lie with you, and go to the devil with you. Shan’t we be very merry, ha?
Cour. As merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us.
Sir Jol. Odd, that’s well said again, very well said; as merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us. I love a fellow that’s very wicked dearly: methinks there’s a spirit in him, there’s a sort of tantara-rara; tantara-rara, ah, ah! well, and won’t ye, when the women come, won’t ye, and shall I not see a little sport amongst you? well, get ye gone; ah, rogues, ah, rogues, da, da, I’ll be with you, da, da!
[Exeunt Beaugard and Courtine.
Enter several Whores, and Three Bullies.
1st Bully. In the name of Satan, what whores are these in their copper trim, yonder?
1st Whore. Well, I’ll swear, madam, ’tis the finest evening; — I love the Mall mightily.
2nd Bully. Let’s huzza the bulkers.
2nd Whore. Really, and so do I; because there’s always good company, and one meets with such civilities from every body.
3rd Bully. Damned whores! hout, ye filthies!
3rd Whore. Ay, and then I love extremely to show myself here, when I am very fine, to vex those poor devils that call themselves virtues, and are very scandalous and crapish, I’ll swear. O crimine! who’s yonder? Sir Jolly Jumble, I vow.
1st Bully. Faugh! let’s leave the nasty sows to fools and diseases. [Exeunt Bullies.
1st Whore. Oh papa, papa! where have you been these two days, papa?
2nd Whore. You are a precious father indeed, to take no more care of your children! we might be dead for all you, you naughty daddy, you.
Sir Jol. Dead, my poor fubses! odd, I had rather all the relations I have were dead; a-dad, I had. Get you gone, you little devils! Bubbies! oh, law, there’s bubbies! — odd, I’ll bite ’em; odd, I will!
1st Whore. Nay, fie, papa! I’ll swear you’ll make me angry, except you carry us and treat us to-night; you have promised me a treat this week; won’t you, papa?
2nd Whore. Ay, won’t you, dad?
Sir Jol. Odds so, odds so, well remembered! get you gone, don’t stay talking: get you gone! Yonder’s a great lord, the Lord Beaugard, and his cousin the baron, the count, the marquis, the Lord knows what, Monsieur Courtine, newly come to town, odds so.