Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  3rd Whore. O law, where, daddy, where? O dear, a lord!

  1st Whore. Well, you are the purest papa; but where be dey mun, papa?

  Sir Jol. I won’t tell you, you gipsies, so I won’t — except you tickle me: ‘sbud they are brave fellows, all tall, and not a bit small; odd, one of ’em has a devilish deal of money.

  1st Whore. Oh, dear! but which is he, papa?

  2nd Whore. Shan’t I be in love with him, daddy?

  Sir Jol. What, nobody tickle me! nobody tickle me! — not yet? Tickle me a little, Mally — tickle me a little, Jenny — do! he, he, he, he, he, he! [They tickle him.] No more, O dear, O dear! poor rogues! so, so, no more, — nay, if you do, if you do, odd I’ll, I’ll, I’ll —

  3rd Whore. What, what will you do, trow?

  Sir Jol. Come along with me, come along with me; sneak after me at a distance, that nobody take notice: swingeing fellows, Mally — swingeing fellows, Jenny; a devilish deal of money: get you afore me then, you little didappers, ye wasps, ye wagtails, get you gone, I say; swingeing fellows! [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — A Room in Sir Davy Dunce’s House.

  Enter Lady Dunce and Sylvia.

  L. Dunce. Die a maid, Sylvia, fie, for shame! what a scandalous resolution’s that! Five thousand pounds to your portion, and leave it all to hospitals, for the innocent recreation hereafter of leading apes in hell? fie, for shame!

  Sylv. Indeed, such another charming animal as your consort, Sir Davy, might do much with me; ’tis an unspeakable blessing to lie all night by a horseload of diseases; a beastly, unsavoury, old, groaning, grunting, wheezing wretch, that smells of the grave he’s going to already. From such a curse, and haircloth next my skin, good Heaven deliver me!

  L. Dunce. Thou mistakest the use of a husband, Sylvia: they are not meant for bedfellows; heretofore, indeed, ’twas a fulsome fashion, to lie o’ nights with a husband; but the world’s improved, and customs altered.

  Sylv. Pray instruct me then what the use of a husband is.

  L. Dunce. Instead of a gentleman-usher for ceremony’s sake, to be in waiting on set days and particular occasions; but the friend, cousin, is the jewel unvaluable.

  Sylv. But Sir Davy, madam, will be difficult to be so governed; I am mistaken if his nature is not too jealous to be blinded.

  L. Dunce. So much the better; of all, the jealous fool is easiest to be deceived: for observe, where there’s jealousy there’s always fondness; which if a woman, as she ought to do, will make the right use of, the husband’s fears shall not so awake him on one side, as his dotage shall blind him on the other.

  Sylv. Is your piece of mortality such a doting doodle? is he so very fond of you?

  L. Dunce. No, but he has the vanity to think that I am very fond of him; and if he be jealous, ’tis not so much for fear I do abuse, as that in time I may, and therefore imposes this confinement on me; though he has other divertisements that take him off from my enjoyment, which make him so loathsome no woman but must hate him.

  Sylv. His private divertisements I am a stranger to.

  L. Dunce. Then for his person, ’tis incomparably odious; he has such a breath, one kiss of him were enough to cure the fits of the mother; ’tis worse than assafœtida.

  Sylv. Oh, hideous!

  L. Dunce. Everything that’s nasty he affects: clean linen he says is unwholesome; and to make him more charming, he’s continually eating of garlic and chewing tobacco.

  Sylv. Faugh! this is love! this is the blessing of matrimony!

  L. Dunce. Rail not so unreasonably against love, Sylvia. As I have dealt freely, and acknowledged to thee the passion I have for Beaugard, so methinks Sylvia need not conceal her good thoughts of her friend. Do not I know Courtine sticks in your stomach?

  Sylv. If he does, I’ll assure you he shall never get to my heart. But can you have the conscience to love another man now you are married? What do you think will become of you?

  L. Dunce. I tell thee, Sylvia, I was never married to that engine we have been talking of; my parents indeed made me say something to him after a priest once, but my heart went not along with my tongue; I minded not what it was: for my thoughts, Sylvia, for these seven years, have been much better employed — Beaugard! Ah, curse on the day that first sent him into France!

  Sylv. Why so, I beseech you?

  L. Dunce. Had he stayed here, I had not been sacrificed to the arms of this monument of man, for the bed of death could not be more cold than his has been: he would have delivered me from the monster, for even then I loved him, and was apt to think my kindness not neglected.

  Sylv. I find indeed your ladyship had good thoughts of him.

  L. Dunce. Surely ’tis impossible to think too well of him, for he has wit enough to call his good-nature in question, and yet good-nature enough to make his wit suspected.

  Sylv. But how do you hope ever to get sight of him? Sir Davy’s watchfulness is invincible. I dare swear he would smell out a rival if he were in the house, only by natural instinct; as some that always sweat when a cat’s in the room. Then again, Beaugard’s a soldier, and that’s a thing the old gentleman, you know, loves dearly.

  L. Dunce. There lies the greatest comfort of my uneasy life; he is one of those fools, forsooth, that are led by the nose by knaves to rail against the king and the government, and is mightily fond of being thought of a party. I have had hopes this twelve-month to have heard of his being in the Gatehouse for treason.

  Sylv. But I find only yourself the prisoner all this while.

  L. Dunce. At present indeed I am so; but fortune I hope will smile, wouldst thou but be my friend, Sylvia.

  Sylv. In any mischievous design, with all my heart.

  L. Dunce. The conclusion, madam, may turn to your satisfaction. But you have no thoughts of Courtine?

  Sylv. Not I, I’ll assure you, cousin.

  L. Dunce. You don’t think him well shaped, straight, and proportionable?

  Sylv. Considering he eats but once a week, the man is well enough.

  L. Dunce. And then he wears his clothes, you know, filthily, and like a horrid sloven.

  Sylv. Filthily enough of all conscience, with a threadbare red coat, which his tailor duns him for to this day, over which a great, broad, greasy, buff-belt, enough to turn any one’s stomach but a disbanded soldier; a peruke tied up in a knot, to excuse its want of combing; and then, because he has been a man at arms, he must wear two tuffles of a beard, forsooth, to lodge a dunghill of snuff upon, to keep his nose in good humour.

  L. Dunce. Nay, now I am sure that thou lovest him.

  Sylv. So far from it, that I protest eternally against the whole sex.

  L. Dunce. That time will best demonstrate; in the mean while to our business.

  Sylv. As how, madam?

  L. Dunce. To-night must I see Beaugard; they are this minute at dinner in the Haymarket; now to make my evil genius, that haunts me everywhere, my thing called a husband, himself to assist his poor wife at a dead lift, I think would not be unpleasant.

  Sylv. But ‘twill be impossible.

  L. Dunce. I am apt to be persuaded rather very easy. You know our good and friendly neighbour, Sir Jolly.

  Sylv. Out on him, beast! he’s always talking filthily to a body; if he sits but at the table with one, he’ll be making nasty figures in the napkins.

  L. Dunce. He and my sweet yoke-fellow are the most intimate friends in the world; so that partly out of neighbourly kindness, as well as the great delight he takes to be meddling in matters of this nature, with a great deal of pains and industry he has procured me Beaugard’s picture, and given him to understand how well a friend of his in petticoats, called myself, wishes him.

  Sylv. But what’s all this to the making the husband instrumental? for I must confess, of all creatures, a husband’s the thing that’s odious to me.

  L. Dunce. That must be done this night: I’ll instantly to my chamber, take my bed in a pet, and send for Sir Davy.

  Sylv. But which way then must the lov
er come?

  L. Dunce. Nay, I’ll betray Beaugard to him, show him the picture he sent me, and beg of him, as he tenders his own honour and my quiet, to take some course to secure me from the scandalous solicitations of that innocent fellow.

  Sylv. And so make him the property, the go-between, to bring the affair to an issue the more decently.

  L. Dunce. Right, Sylvia; ’tis the best office a husband can do a wife; I mean an old husband. Bless us, to be yoked in wedlock with a paralytic, coughing, decrepit dotterel; to be a dry-nurse all one’s life-time to an old child of sixty-five; to lie by the image of death a whole night, a dull immoveable, that has no sense of life but through its pains! the pigeon’s as happy that’s laid to a sick man’s feet, when the world has given him over: for my part, this shall henceforth be my prayer: —

  Curst be the memory, nay double curst,

  Of her that wedded age for interest first!

  Though worn with years, with fruitless wishes full,

  ’Tis all day troublesome, and all night dull.

  Who wed with fools, indeed, lead happy lives;

  Fools are the fittest, finest things for wives:

  Yet old men profit bring, as fools bring ease,

  And both make youth and wit much better please. [Exeunt.

  ACT THE SECOND.

  SCENE I. — The Street before Whitehall.

  Enter Sir Jolly Jumble, Beaugard, Courtine, and Fourbin.

  Cour. Sir Jolly is the glory of the age.

  Sir Jol. Nay, now, sir, you honour me too far.

  Beau. He’s the delight of the young, and wonder of the old.

  Sir Jol. I swear, gentlemen, you make me blush.

  Cour. He deserves a statue of gold, at the charge of the kingdom.

  Sir Jol. Out upon’t, fie for shame! I protest I’ll leave your company if you talk so. But faith they were pure whores, daintily dutiful strumpets: ha! uddsbud, they’d — have stripped for t’other bottle.

  Beau. Truly, Sir Jolly, you are a man of very extraordinary discipline: I never saw whores under better command in my life.

  Sir Jol. Pish, that’s nothing, man, nothing; I can send for forty better when I please; doxies that will skip, strip, leap, trip, and do anything in the world, anything, old soul!

  Cour. Dear, dear Sir Jolly, where and when?

  Sir Jol. Odd! as simply as I stand here, her father was a knight.

  Beau. Indeed, Sir Jolly! a knight, say you?

  Sir Jol. Ay, but a little decayed: I’ll assure you she’s a very good gentlewoman born.

  Cour. Ay, and a very good gentlewoman bred too.

  Sir Jol. Ay, and so she is.

  Beau. But, Sir Jolly, how goes my business forward? when shall I have a view of the quarry I am to fly at?

  Sir Jol. Alas-a-day, not so hasty; soft and fair, I beseech you. Ah, my little son of thunder, if thou hadst her in thy arms now between a pair of sheets, and I under the bed to see fair play, boy; gemini! what would become of me? what would become of me? there would be doings! O lawd, I under the bed!

  Beau. Or behind the hangings, Sir Jolly, would not that do as well?

  Sir Jol. Ah no, under the bed against the world, and then it would be very dark, ha!

  Beau. Dark to choose?

  Sir Jol. No, but a little light would do well; a small glimmering lamp, just enough for me to steal a peep by; oh, lamentable! oh, lamentable! I won’t speak a word more! there would be a trick! O rare! you friend, O rare! Odds-so, not a word more, odds-so, yonder comes the monster that must be the cuckold-elect; step, step aside and observe him; if I should be seen in your company, ’twould spoil all.

  [Exeunt Sir Jolly and Courtine.

  Beau. For my part, I’ll stand the meeting of him; one way to promote a good understanding with a wife, is first to get acquainted with her husband. [Retires.

  Enter Sir Davy Dunce.

  Sir Dav. Well, of all blessings, a discreet wife is the greatest that can light upon a man of years: had I been married to anything but an angel now, what a beast had I been by this time! well, I am the happiest old fool! ’tis a horrid age that we live in, so that an honest man can keep nothing to himself. If you have a good estate, every covetous rogue is longing for’t (truly I love a good estate dearly myself); if you have a handsome wife, every smooth-faced coxcomb will be combing and cocking at her: flesh-flies are not so troublesome to the shambles as those sort of insects are to the boxes in the play-house. But virtue is a great blessing, an unvaluable treasure: to tell me herself that a villain had tempted her, and give me the very picture, the enchantment that he sent to bewitch her! it strikes me dumb with admiration. Here’s the villain in effigy. [Pulls out the picture.] Odd! a very handsome fellow, a dangerous rogue, I’ll warrant him: such fellows as these now should be fettered like unruly colts, that they might not leap into other men’s pastures. Here’s a nose now, I could find it in my heart to cut it off. Damned dog, to dare to presume to make a cuckold of a knight! — bless us! what will this world come to? Well, poor Sir Davy, down, down on thy knees, and thank thy stars for this deliverance.

  Beau. ‘Sdeath! what’s that I see? sure ’tis the very picture which I sent by Sir Jolly; if so, by this light, I am damnably jilted.

  Sir Dav. But now if —

  Beau. Surely he does not see us yet.

  Four. See you, sir! why he has but one eye, and we are on his blind side; I’ll dumb-found him. [Strikes him on the shoulder.

  Sir Dav. Who the devil’s this? Sir, sir, sir, who are you, sir?

  Beau. Ay, ay, ’tis the same; now a pox of all amorous adventures! ‘sdeath, I’ll go beat the impertinent pimp that drew me into this fooling.

  Sir Dav. Sir, methinks you are very curious.

  Beau. Sir, perhaps I have an extraordinary reason to be so.

  Sir Dav. And perhaps, sir, I care not for you, nor your reasons neither.

  Beau. Sir, if you are at leisure, I would beg the honour to speak with you.

  Sir Dav. With me, sir? what’s your business with me?

  Beau. I would not willingly be troublesome, though it may be I am so at this time.

  Sir Dav. It may be so too, sir.

  Beau. But to be known to so worthy a person as you are, would be so great an honour, so extraordinary a happiness, that I could not avoid taking this opportunity of tendering you my service.

  Sir Dav. [Aside.] Smooth rogue! who the devil is this fellow? But, sir, you were pleased to nominate business, sir; I desire with what speed you can to know your business, sir, that I may go about my business.

  Beau. Sir, if I might with good manners, I should be glad to inform myself whose picture that is which you have in your hand; methinks it is a very fine painting.

  Sir Dav. Picture, friend, picture! sir, ’tis a resemblance of a very impudent fellow; they call him Captain Beaugard, forsooth, but he is in short a rake-hell, a poor, lousy, beggarly, disbanded devil; do you know him, friend?

  Beau. I think I have heard of such a vagabond: the truth on’t is, he is a very impudent fellow.

  Sir Dav. Ay, a damned rogue.

  Beau. Oh, a notorious scoundrel.

  Sir Dav. I expect to hear he’s hanged by next sessions.

  Beau. The truth on’t is, he has deserved it long ago. But did you ever see him, Sir Davy?

  Sir Dav. Sir! — does he know me? [Aside.

  Beau. Because I fancy that miniature is very like him. Pray, sir, whence had it you?

  Sir Dav. Had it, friend? had it? whence had it I? [Aside.] Bless us! [Compares the picture with Beaugard’s face.] what have I done now! this is the very traitor himself; if he should be desperate now, and put his sword in my guts! — slitting my nose will be as bad as that, I have but one eye left neither, and may be — Oh, but this is the King’s Court; odd, that’s well remembered; he dares not but be civil here. I’ll try to out-huff him. Whence had it you?

  Beau. Ay, sir, whence had it you? that’s English in my country, sir.

  Sir Dav. Go, sir, you are
a rascal.

  Beau. How!

  Sir Dav. Sir, I say you are a rascal, a very impudent rascal; nay, I’ll prove you to be a rascal, if you go to that —

  Beau. Sir, I am a gentleman and a soldier.

  Sir Dav. So much the worse; soldiers have been cuckold-makers from the beginning: sir, I care not what you are; for aught I know you may be a — come, sir, did I never see you? Answer me to that; did I never see you? for aught I know you may be a Jesuit; there were more in the last army beside you.

  Beau. Of your acquaintance, and be hanged!

  Sir Dav. Yes, to my knowledge there were several at Hounslow-heath, disguised in dirty petticoats, and cried brandy. I knew a sergeant of foot that was familiar with one of them all night in a ditch, and fancied him a woman; but the devil is powerful.

  Beau. In short, you worthy villain of worship, that picture is mine, and I must have it, or I shall take an opportunity to kick your worship most inhumanly.

  Sir Dav. Kick, sir!

  Beau. Ay, sir, kick; ’tis a recreation I can show you.

  Sir Dav. Sir, I am a free-born subject of England, and there are laws, look you, there are laws; so I say you are a rascal again, and now how will you help yourself, poor fool?

  Beau. Hark you, friend, have not you a wife?

  Sir Dav. I have a lady, sir — oh, and she’s mightily taken with this picture of yours; she was so mightily proud of it, she could not forbear showing it me, and telling too who it was sent it her.

  Beau. And has she been long a jilt? has she practised the trade for any time?

  Sir Dav. Trade! humph, what trade? what trade, friend?

  Beau. Why the trade of whore and no whore, caterwauling in jest, putting out Christian colours, when she’s a Turk under deck. A curse upon all honest women in the flesh, that are whores in the spirit!

  Sir Dav. Poor devil, how he rails! ha, ha, ha! Look you, sweet soul, as I told you before, there are laws, there are laws, but those are things not worthy your consideration: beauty’s your business. But, dear vagabond, trouble thyself no further about my spouse; let my doxy rest in peace, she’s meat for thy master, old boy; I have my belly-full of her every night.