Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Beau. Sir, I wish all your noble family hanged from the bottom of my heart.

  Sir Dav. Moreover, Captain Swash, I must tell you my wife is a honest woman, of a virtuous disposition, one that I have loved from her infancy, and she deserves it by her faithful dealing in this affair, for that she has discovered loyally to me the treacherous designs laid against her chastity, and my honour.

  Beau. By this light, the beast weeps! [Aside.

  Sir Dav. Truly I cannot but weep for joy, to think how happy I am in a sincere, faithful, and loving yoke-fellow. She charged me too to tell you into the bargain, that she is sufficiently satisfied of the most secret wishes of your heart.

  Beau. I’m glad on’t.

  Sir Dav. And that ’tis her desire that you would trouble yourself no more about the matter.

  Beau. With all my heart.

  Sir Dav. But henceforward behave yourself with such discretion as becomes a gentleman.

  Beau. Oh, to be sure, most exactly!

  Sir Dav. And let her alone to make the best use of those innocent freedoms I allow her, without putting her reputation in hazard.

  Beau. As how, I beseech you?

  Sir Dav. By your impertinent and unseasonable address.

  Beau. And this news you bring me by a particular commission from your sweet lady?

  Sir Dav. Yea, friend, I do; and she hopes you’ll be sensible, dear heart, of her good meaning by it: these were her very words, I neither add nor diminish, for plain-dealing is my mistress’s friend.

  Beau. Then all the curses I shall think on this twelvemonth light on her, and as many more on the next fool that gives credit to the sex!

  Sir Dav. Well, certainly I am the happiest toad! How melancholy the monkey stands now! Poor pug, hast thou lost her?

  Beau. To be so sordid a jilt, to betray me to such a beast as that! Can she have any good thoughts of such a swine? Damn her, had she abused me handsomely it had never vexed me.

  Sir Dav. Now, sir, with your permission I’ll take my leave.

  Beau. Sir, if you were gone to the devil I should think you very well disposed of.

  Sir Dav. If you have any letter, or other commendation to the lady that was so charmed with your resemblance there, it shall be very faithfully conveyed by —

  Beau. Fool!

  Sir Dav. Your humble servant. Sir, I’m gone; I shall disturb you no further; your most humble servant, sir. [Exit.

  Beau. Now poverty, plague, pox, and prison fall thick upon the head of thee! — Fourbin!

  Four. Sir!

  Beau. Thou hast been an extraordinary rogue in thy time.

  Four. I hope I have lost nothing in your honour’s service, sir.

  Beau. Find out some way to revenge me on this old rascal, and if I do not make thee a gentleman —

  Four. That you have been pleased to do long ago, I thank you; for I am sure you have not left me one shilling in my pocket these two months.

  Beau. Here, here’s for thee to revel withal. [Gives money.

  Four. Will your honour please to have his throat cut?

  Beau. With all my heart.

  Four. Or would you have him decently hanged at his own door, and then give out to the world he did it himself?

  Beau. That would do very well.

  Four. Or I think (to proceed with more safety) a good stale jakes were a very pretty expedient.

  Beau. Excellent, excellent, Fourbin!

  Four. Leave matters to my discretion, and if I do not —

  Beau. I know thou wilt; go, go about it, prosper, and be famous. [Exit Fourbin.] Now ere I dare venture to meet Courtine again, will I go by myself, rail for an hour or two, and then be good company. [Exit.

  Enter Courtine and Sylvia.

  Sylv. Take my word, sir, you had better give this business over. I tell you, there’s nothing in the world turns my stomach so much as the man, that man that makes love to me. I never saw one of your sex in my life make love, but he looked so like an ass all the while, that I blushed for him.

  Cour. I am afraid your ladyship then is one of those dangerous creatures they call she-wits, who are always so mightily taken with admiring themselves that nothing else is worth their notice.

  Sylv. Oh, who can be so dull, not to be ravished with that roisterous mien of yours, that ruffling air in your gait, that seems to cry where’er you go, “Make room, here comes the captain!” that face which bids defiance to the weather? Bless us! if I were a poor farmer’s wife in the country now, and you wanted quarters, how would it fright me! But as I am young, not very ugly, and one you never saw before, how lovingly it looks upon me!

  Cour. Who can forbear to sigh, look pale, and languish, where beauty and wit unite both their forces to enslave a heart so tractable as mine is? First, for that modish swim of your body, the victorious motion of your arms and head, the toss of your fan, the glancing of the eyes — bless us! if I were a dainty fine-dressed coxcomb, with a great estate, and a little or no wit, vanity in abundance and good for nothing, how would they melt and soften me! but as I am a scandalous honest rascal, not fool enough to be your sport, nor rich enough to be your prey, how gloatingly they look upon me!

  Sylv. Alas, alas! what pity ’tis your honesty should ever do you hurt, or your wit spoil your preferment!

  Cour. Just as much, fair lady, as that your beauty should make you be envied at, or your virtue provoke scandal.

  Sylv. Well, the more I look, the more I’m in love with you.

  Cour. The more I look, the more I am out of love with you.

  Sylv. How my heart swells when I see you!

  Cour. How my stomach rises when I am near you!

  Sylv. Nay, then let’s bargain.

  Cour. With all my heart; what?

  Sylv. Not to fall in love with each other; I assure you, Monsieur Captain.

  Cour. But to hate one another constantly and cordially.

  Sylv. Always when you are drunk, I desire you to talk scandalously of me.

  Cour. Ay, and when I am sober too; in return whereof, whene’er you see a coquette of your acquaintance, and I chance to be named, be sure you spit at the filthy remembrance, and rail at me as if you loved me.

  Sylv. In the next place, whene’er we meet in the Mall, I desire you to “Humph!” put out your tongue, make ugly mouths, laugh aloud, and look back at me.

  Cour. Which, if I chance to do, be sure at next turning to pick up some tawdry fluttering fop or another.

  Sylv. That I made acquaintance withal at the music-meeting?

  Cour. Right, just such another spark to saunter by your side, with his hat under his arm.

  Sylv. Hearkening to all the bitter things I can say to be revenged.

  Cour. Whilst the dull rogue dare not so much as grin to oblige you, for fear of being beaten for it, when he is out of his waiting.

  Sylv. Counterfeit your letters from me.

  Cour. And you, to be even with me for the scandal, publish to all the world I offered to marry you.

  Sylv. O hideous marriage!

  Cour. Horrid, horrid marriage!

  Sylv. Name, name no more of it!

  Cour. At that sad word let’s part.

  Sylv. Let’s wish all men decrepit, dull, and silly.

  Cour. And every woman old and ugly.

  Sylv. Adieu!

  Cour. Farewell!

  Enter Frisk, a young fellow affectedly dressed, several others with him.

  Sylv. Ah me, Mr. Frisk!

  Frisk. Mademoiselle Sylvia! sincerely as I hope to be saved, the devil take me — damme, madam, who’s that?

  Sylv. Ha, ha, ha, hea! [Exit with Frisk.

  Cour. True to thy failings always, woman! how naturally is the sex fond of a rogue! What a monster was that for a woman to delight in! Now must I love her still, though I know I’m a blockhead for’t, and she’ll use me like a blockhead too, if I don’t prevent her. What’s to be done? I’ll have three whores a day, to keep love out of my head.

  Re-enter Beaugard.

&
nbsp; Beaugard, well met again; how go matters? handsomely?

  Beau. Oh, very handsomely! had you but seen how handsomely I was used just now, you would swear so. I have heard thee rail in my time; would thou wouldst exercise thy talent a little at present!

  Cour. At what?

  Beau. Why, canst thou ever want a subject? rail at thyself, rail at me — I deserve to be railed at. See there, what thinkest thou of that engine, that moving lump of filthiness, miscalled a man?

  A clumsy fellow marches over the Stage, dressed like an Officer.

  Cour. Curse on him for a rogue, I know him.

  Beau. So.

  Cour. The rascal was a retailer of ale but yesterday, and now he is an officer and be hanged; ’tis a dainty sight in a morning to see him with his toes turned in, drawing his legs after him, at the head of a hundred lusty fellows. Some honest gentleman or other stays now, because that dog had money to bribe some corrupt colonel withal.

  Enter another, gravely dressed.

  Beau. There, there’s another of my acquaintance; he was my father’s footman not long since, and has pimped for me oftener than he prayed for himself; that good quality recommended him to a nobleman’s service, which, together with flattering, fawning, lying, spying and informing, has raised him to an employment of trust and reputation, though the rogue can’t write his name, nor read his neck-verse, if he had occasion.

  Cour. ’Tis as unreasonable to expect a man of sense should be preferred, as ’tis to think a hector can be stout, a priest religious, a fair woman chaste, or a pardoned rebel loyal.

  Enter two others, seeming earnestly in discourse.

  Beau. That’s seasonably thought on. Look there, observe but that fellow on the right hand, the rogue with the busiest face of the two; I’ll tell thee his history.

  Cour. I hope hanging will be the end of his history, so well I like him at the first sight.

  Beau. He was born a vagabond, and no parish owned him: his father was as obscure as his mother public; everybody knew her, and nobody could guess at him.

  Cour. He comes of a very good family, Heaven be praised!

  Beau. The first thing he chose to rise by was rebellion; so a rebel he grew, and flourished a rebel; fought against his king, and helped to bring him to the block.

  Cour. And was he not religious too?

  Beau. Most devoutly! he could pray till he cried, and preach till he foamed; which excellent talent made him popular, and at last preferred him to be a worthy member of that never-to-be-forgotten Rump Parliament.

  Cour. Pray, sir, be uncovered at that, and remember it with reverence.

  Beau. In short, he was a committee-man, sequestrator and persecutor-general of a whole county, by which he got enough at the king’s return to secure himself in the general pardon.

  Cour. Nauseous vermin! that such a swine, with the mark of rebellion in his forehead, should wallow in his luxury, whilst honest men are forgotten!

  Beau. Thus forgiven, thus raised, and made thus happy, the ungrateful slave disowns the hand that healed him, cherishes factions to affront his master, and once more would rebel against the head which so lately saved his from a pole.

  Cour. What a dreadful beard and swinging sword he wears!

  Beau. ’Tis to keep his cowardice in countenance; the rascal will endure kicking most temperately for all that; I know five or six more of the same stamp, that never come abroad without terrible long spits by their sides, with which they will let you bore their own noses if you please. But let the villain be forgotten.

  Cour. His co-rogue I have some knowledge of; he’s a tattered worm-eaten case-putter; some call him lawyer; one that takes it very ill he is not made a judge.

  Beau. Yes, and is always repining that men of parts are not regarded.

  Cour. He has been a great noise-maker in factious clubs these seven years, and now I suppose is courting that worshipful rascal, to make him recorder of some factious town.

  Beau. To teach tallow-chandlers and cheesemongers how far they may rebel against their king by virtue of Magna Charta.

  Cour. But, friend Beaugard, methinks thou art very splenetic of a sudden: how goes the affair of love forward? prosperously, ha?

  Beau. Oh, I assure you most triumphantly; just now, you must know, I am parted with the sweet, civil, enchanted lady’s husband.

  Cour. Well, and what says the cuckold? is he very kind and good-natured, as cuckolds use to be?

  Beau. Why, he says, Courtine, in short, that I am a very silly fellow — and truly I am very apt to believe him — and that I have been jilted in this affair most unconscionably. A plague on all pimps, I say; a man’s business never thrives so well as when he is his own solicitor.

  Enter Sir Jolly Jumble and a Boy.

  Sir Jol. Hist, hist! Captain! Captain! Captain! — Boy.

  Boy. Sir.

  Sir Jol. Run and get two chairs presently; be sure you get two chairs, sirrah, do you hear? Here’s luck, here’s luck! now or never, captain; never if not now, captain! here’s luck!

  Beau. Sir Jolly, no more adventures, sweet Sir Jolly; I am like to have a very fine time on’t truly.

  Sir Jol. The best in the world, dear dog, the very best in the world; ‘sbud, she’s here hard by, man; stays on purpose for thee, finely disguised. The cuckold has lost her too; and nobody, knows anything of the matter but I, nobody but I; and I, you must know, I am I, ha! and I, you little toad, ha!

  Beau. You are a very fine gentleman.

  Sir Jol. The best-natured fellow in the world, I believe, of my years! Now does my heart so thump for fear this business should miscarry: why, I’ll warrant thee the lady is here, man; she’s all thy own; ’tis thy own fault if thou art not in terra incognita within this half-hour: come along, pr’ythee come along; fie for shame! what, make a lady lose her longing! come along, I say, you — out upon’t!

  Beau. Sir, your humble, I shan’t stir.

  Sir Jol. What, not go?

  Beau. No, sir, no lady for me.

  Sir Jol. Not go! I should laugh at that, faith!

  Beau. No, I will assure you, not go, sir.

  Sir Jol. Away, you wag! you jest, you jest, you wag; not go, quoth-a?

  Beau. No, sir, not go, I tell you; what the devil would you have more?

  Sir Jol. Nothing, nothing, sir, but I am a gentleman.

  Beau. With all my heart.

  Sir Jol. And do you think then that I’ll be used thus?

  Beau. Sir!

  Sir Jol. Take away my reputation, and take away my life: I shall be disgraced for ever.

  Beau. I have not wronged you, Sir Jolly.

  Sir Jol. Not wronged me! but you shall find you have wronged me, and wronged a sweet lady, and a fine lady — I shall never be trusted again! never have employment more! I shall die of the spleen. — Pr’ythee now be good-natured, pr’ythee be persuaded; odd, I’ll give thee this ring, I’ll give thee this watch, ’tis gold; I’ll give thee anything in the world; go.

  Beau. Not one foot, sir.

  Sir Jol. Now that I durst but murder him! — Well, shall I fetch her to thee? what shall I do for thee?

  Enter Lady Dunce.

  Odds fish! here she comes herself. Now, you ill-natured churl, now, you devil, look upon her; do but look upon her: what shall I say to her?

  Beau. E’en what you please, Sir Jolly.

  Sir Jol. ’Tis a very strange monster this! Madam, this is the gentleman, that’s he, though, as one may say, he’s something bashful, but I’ll tell him who you are. [Goes to Beaugard.] If thou art not more cruel than leopards, lions, tigers, wolves, or Tartars, don’t break my heart, don’t kill me; this unkindness of thine goes to the soul of me. [Goes to Lady Dunce.] Madam, he says he’s so amazed at your triumphant beauty, that he dares not approach the excellence that shines from you.

  L. Dunce. What can be the meaning of all this?

  Sir Jol. Art thou then resolved to be remorseless? canst thou be insensible? hast thou eyes? hast thou a heart? hast thou anything thou
shouldst have? Odd, I’ll tickle thee! get you to her, you fool; get you to her, to her, to her, to her, ha, ha, ha!

  L. Dunce. Have you forgot me, Beaugard?

  Sir Jol. So now, to her again, I say! to her, to her, and be hanged! ah, rogue! ah, rogue! now, now, have at her; now have at her! There it goes; there it goes, hey, boy!

  L. Dunce. Methinks this face should not so much be altered, as to be nothing like what I once thought it, the object of your pleasure, and subject of your praises.

  Sir Jol. Cunning toad! wheedling jade! you shall see now how by degrees she’ll draw him into the whirlpool of love: now he leers upon her, now he leers upon her. O law! there’s eyes! there’s eyes! I must pinch him by the calf of the leg.

  Beau. Madam, I must confess I do remember that I had once acquaintance with a face whose air and beauty much resembled yours; and, if I may trust my heart, you are called Clarinda.

  L. Dunce. Clarinda I was called, till my ill-fortune wedded me; now you may have heard of me by another title: your friend there, I suppose, has made nothing a secret to you.

  Beau. And are you then that kind enchanted fair one who was so passionately in love with my picture that you could not forbear betraying me to the beast your husband, and wrong the passion of a gentleman that languished for you, only to make your monster merry? Hark you, madam! had your fool been worth it, I had beaten him, and have a month’s mind to be exercising my parts that way upon your go-between, your male-bawd there.

  Sir Jol. Ah Lord! ah Lord! all’s spoiled again, all’s ruined; I shall be undone for ever! Why, what a devil is the matter now? what have I done? what sins have I committed? [Aside.

  L. Dunce. And are you that passionate adorer of our sex, who cannot live a week in London without loving? Are you the shark that sends your picture up and down to longing ladies, longing for a pattern of your person?

  Beau. Yes, madam, when I receive so good hostages as these are — [Shows the gold] — that it shall be well used. Could you find nobody but me to play the fool withal?

  Sir Jol. Alack-a-day!

  L. Dunce. Could you pitch upon nobody but that wretched woman that has loved you too well to abuse you thus?