Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Beaug.

  Not a Tittle. I have Conscience, Ned, Conscience; tho I must confess ’tis not altogether so Gentleman-like a Companion: But what a Scandal would it be upon a Man of my sober Demeanour and Character, to have the unmerciful Tongue of thy Legitimate Spouse roaring against me, for Debauching her Natural Husband!

  Court.

  It has been otherwise, Sir.

  Beaug.

  Ay, ay, the time has been, Courtine, when thou wert in possession of thy Natural Freedom, and mightest be trusted with a Secret of this dear nature; when I might have open’d this Billet, and shew’d thee this bewitching Name at the bottom: But wo and alas! O Matrimony, Matrimony! what a Blot art thou in an honest Fellows Scutcheon!

  Court.

  No more to be said; I’ll into the Country again, like any discontented Statesman, get drunk every Night with an adjacent Schoolmaster, beat my Wife to a downright Housekeeper, get all my Maidservants every Year with Bastards, till I can command a Seraglio five Miles round my own Palace, and be beholden to no Man of Two thousand pound a year for a Whore, when I want one.

  Beaug.

  Good words, Ned, good words, let me advise you; none of your Mariage-qualities of Scolding and Railing, now you are got out of the turbulent Element. Come hither, come; but first let us capitulate: Will you promise me, upon your Conjugal Credit, to be very governable, and very civil?

  Court.

  As any made Spaniel, or hang me up for a Cur.

  Beaug.

  Then this Note, this very Billet, Ned, comes from a Woman, who, when I was strowling very pensively last Sunday to Church, watch’t her Opportunity, and poach’d me up for the Service of Satan.

  Court.

  Is she very handsom, Beaugard?

  Beaug.

  These Country Squires, when they get up to Town, are as termagant after a Wench, as a ty’d-up hungry Cur, got loose from Kennel, is after Crusts. Very handsom, said you? Let me see: No, not very handsom neither; but she’ll pass, Ned, she’ll pass.

  Court.

  Young?

  Beaug.

  About Eighteen.

  Court.

  Oh Lord!

  Beaug.

  Her Complexion fair, with a glowing Blush always ready in her Cheeks, that looks as Nature were watching every Opportunity to seize and run away with her.

  Court.

  Oh the Devil, the Devil! This is intolerable.

  Beaug.

  Her Eyes black, sparkling, spriteful, hot, and piercing.

  Court.

  The very Description of her shoots me through my Liver.

  Beaug.

  Her Hair of a delicate light Amber-brown, curling in huge Rings, and of a great Quantity.

  Court.

  So.

  Beaug.

  Her Forehead large, Majestick, and generous.

  Court.

  Very well.

  Beaug.

  Her Nose neat, and well-fashioned.

  Court.

  Good.

  Beaug.

  With a delicious, little, pretty, smiling Mouth.

  Court.

  Oh!

  Beaug.

  Plump, red, blub Lips.

  Court.

  Ah h —

  Beaug.

  Teeth whiter than so many little Pearls; a bewitching Neck, and tempting, rising, swelling Breasts.

  Court.

  Ah h h h h —

  Beaug.

  Then such a Proportion, such a Shape, such a Waste —

  Court.

  Hold: Go no lower, if thou lov’st me.

  Beaug.

  But, by your leave, Friend, I hope to go something lower, if she loves me.

  Court.

  But art thou certain, Beaugard, she is all this thou hast told me? So fair, so tempting, so lovely, so bewitching?

  Beaug.

  No; for, you must know, I never saw her Face in my Life: But I love my own Pleasure so well, that I’ll imagine all this, and ten times more, if it be possible.

  Court.

  Where lives she?

  Beaug.

  That I know not neither; but my Orders are to meet her fairly and squarely this Evening by Seven, at a certain Civil Persons Shop in the Upper Walk, at the New Exchange, where she promises to be very good natur’d, and let me know more of her Mind.

  Court.

  I’ll e’en go home, like a miserable Blockhead as I am, to my Lodging, and sleep.

  Beaug.

  No, Ned: Thou knowest my good Chances have always been luckie to thee: Who can tell but this Lady’s errant that has seis’d upon my Person, may have a stragling Companion, or so, not unworthy my Friend’s.

  Court.

  ’Tis impossible.

  Beaug.

  Not at all; for, to deal heartily with thee in this Business, tho I never saw her Face, or know who she is, yet thus far I am satisfied, she is a Woman very witty, very well bred, of a pleasant Conversation, with a generous Disposition, and, what is better than all, if I am not extremely misinform’d, of Noble Quality, and damnably Rich. Such a one cannot want good, pretty, little, Under-sinners, Ned, that a Man may fool away an Hour or two withal very comfortably.

  Court.

  Why then I’ll be a Man again. Wife, avaunt, and come not near my Memory; Impotence attends the very Thoughts of thee. At Seven, you say, this Evening?

  Beaug.

  Precisely.

  Court.

  And shall I go along with thee, for a small Venture in this Love-Voyage?

  Beaug.

  With all my Heart.

  Court.

  But how shall we dispose of the burdensom Time, till the happy Minute smile upon us?

  Beaug.

  With Love’s best Friend, and our own honest old Acquaintance, edifying Champagn, Ned; and for good Company, tho it be a Rarity, I’ll carry thee to dine with the best I can meet with, where we’ll warm our Blood and Thoughts with generous Glasses, and free-hearted Converse, till we forget the World, and think of nothing but Immortal Beauties, and Eternal Loving.

  Court.

  Then here I strike the League with thee: And now

  Methinks w’are both upon the Wing together,

  Bound for new Realms of Joy, and Lands of Pleasure;

  Where Men were never yet enslav’d by Wiving,

  But all their Cares are handsomly contriving

  T’improve the Noble Arts of Perfect Living.

  End of the First Act.

  ACT II.

  Courtine and Beaugard.

  Court.

  BUT was that thy Father?

  Beaug.

  Yes, that civil, sober, old Gentleman, Courtine, is my Father: And, to tell thee the truth, as Wicked and as Poor as ever his Son was. I sent him a Cordial of a hundred this Morning, which he will be sure to lose all before to morrow Morning, and not have a Shilling to help himself.

  Court.

  Methoughts, as I look’d into the Room, he ratled the Box with a great deal of Grace, and swore half a dozen Rappers very youthfully.

  Beaug.

  Prithee no more on’t, tis an irreverent Theme; and next to Atheism, I hate making merry with the Frailties of my Father.

  Court.

  But then as to the Lady, Beaugard.

  Beaug.

  ’Tis near the Hour appointed, and that’s the Shop we meet at; the Mistress of it, Courtine, is a hearty Well-wisher to the Mathematicks, and her Influence, I hope, may have no ill Effect o’re my Adventure.

  Court.

  Methinks this Place looks as it were made for Loving: The Lights on each hand of the Walk look stately; and then the Rusling of Silk Petticoats, the Din and the Chatter of the pretty little party-colour’d Parrots, that hop and flutter from one side to t’other, puts every Sense upon its proper Office, and sets the Wheels of Nature finely moving.

  Beaug.

  Would the Lady of my Motion would make haste, and be punctual; the Wheels of my Nature move so fast else,
that the Weight will be down before she comes.

  Woman.

  Gloves or Ribbands, Sir? Very good Gloves or Ribbands, Choice of fine Essences. Captain Beaugard, shall I fell you nothing to day?

  Beaug.

  Truly, Mistress Furnish, I am come to lay out a Heart at your Shop this Evening, if my pretty Merchant-Adventurer don’t fail to meet me here.

  Wom.

  What she that spoil’d your Devotion o’ Sunday last, Captain?

  Beaug.

  Dost thou know her, my little Furnish?

  Wom.

  There is a certain Lady in the World, Sir, that has done me the Honour to let me see her at my poor Shop sometimes.

  Enter Porcia masqu’d, and stands behind Beaugard.

  Beaug.

  And is she very lovely?

  Wom.

  What think you, Sir?

  Beaug.

  Faith, charitably enough.

  Wom.

  I’ll swear she is obliged to you.

  Beaug.

  And I would very fain be obliged to her too, if ‘twere possible. Will she be here to night?

  Porcia.

  Yes marry will she, Captain.

  Beaug.

  Are you there indeed, my little Picaroon? What, attaque a Man of War of my Burden in the Stern, Pirate!

  Porcia.

  Lord, how like a Soldier you are pleas’d to express your self now! I warrant you, to carry on the Metaphor, you have forty more merry-things to say to me upon this Occasion; as, plying your Chase-guns, laying your self athwart my Harser, boarding me upon the Forecastle, clapping all under Hatches, carrying of the Prize to the next Port of Security, and there rummaging and risling her. Alas, poor Captain!

  Court.

  Poor, Madam! He has Two thousand a year, and nothing but an old Father to provide for.

  Porcia.

  Sir, is this fine, sober, brown-bearded Gentleman to be your Steward, he understands your Affairs so well already?

  Beaug.

  The truth on’t is, Madam, he does wait for an Office under me, and may in time, if he behave himself handsomly, come to Preferment.

  Court.

  This I have got by my Beard already. If she should but know me now.

  Beaug.

  Well, Madam, are your Commands ready? May I know the Task I am to undertake, before I lay claim to the Happiness of seeing that handsom, homely, fair, black, young, ancient, tempting or frightful Face, which you conceal so maliciously? For hang me, as I have deserved long ago, if I know what to make of this extraordinary Proceeding of yours.

  Porcia.

  In the first place, Captain, this Face of mine, be it what it will, if you behave your self as you should do, shall never put you out of Countenance.

  Beaug.

  In troth, and that’s said kindly.

  Porcia.

  For I am young, Captain.

  Beaug.

  I am glad on’t with all my Heart.

  Porcia.

  And, if the World speaks truth, not very ugly.

  Beaug.

  So much the better still.

  Porcia.

  Next, I’m no Hypocrite.

  Beaug.

  Hah!

  Porcia.

  But love my Pleasures, and will hold my Liberty.

  Beaug.

  Noble.

  Porcia.

  I am rich too.

  Beaug.

  Better and better.

  Porcia.

  But what’s worst of all —

  Beaug.

  Out with’t.

  Porcia.

  I doubt I am sillily in Love.

  Court.

  With whom, dear Miracle?

  Porcia.

  Not with a Married-man, sweet Monsieur Courtine.

  Court.

  Confound her, but she knows me. — Why, good Madam —

  Beaug.

  Nay, Friend, no ruffling; keep your Articles, and keep your Distance.

  Porcia.

  Have you then made your Escape, Sir, from your dear Wife, the Lady-Tyrant of your Enchanted Castle in the Country, to run a wandring after new Adventures here? Oh all the Windmills about London, beware!

  Court.

  Ay, and the Watermills too, Madam. In the Devil’s name, what will become of me!

  Porcia.

  For the Quixot of the Country is abroad; Murder by his Side, Enterprises in his Head, and Horrour in his Face.

  Court.

  Oh Lord!

  Beaug.

  Do you know this Friend of mine then, Madam?

  Porcia.

  I have heard of such a Hero, that was very famous about two years since, for selling himself to a Plantation, the Country, for Five thousand pound: Was not that the Price, Sir?

  Court.

  Your Ladiship is pleas’d to be very free, Madam; that’s all.

  Porcia.

  So were you at that time, Sir, or you had ne’er parted with your dear Liberty on such reasonable Terms surely. Bless us! Had you but lookt about you a little, what a Market might have been made of that tall, proper, promising Person of yours! that —

  Court.

  Hell confound thee, heartily, heartily.

  Porcia.

  That Face, which now, o’re-grown with ruful Beard, looks as you had stole it from the Retinue of a Russian Embassie! Fough! I fancy all Fellows that are married smell of Train-oyl and Garlick.

  Beaug.

  And yet, twenty to one, that is a stinking Condition you’ll have a design to seduce some poor doating Monster or another into, one day.

  Porcia.

  Never, by that Badge of Slavery, his Beard there.

  Beaug.

  How that dear Protestation has charm’d me!

  Court.

  O’my Conscience I my self could be half reconcil’d to her again too.

  Porcia.

  In short, to give you one infallible Argument, that I never will marry, I have been married already, that is, sold: for being the Daughter of a very rich Merchant, who dying left me the onely Heiress of an immense Fortune, it was my ill luck to fall into the Hands of Guardians, that, to speak properly, were Raskals; for in a short time they conspired amongst themselves, and for base Bribes, betray’d, sold, and married me to a — Husband, that’s all.

  Beaug.

  In troth, and that’s enough of all conscience: But where is this Husband?

  Porcia.

  Heav’n be thanked, dead and buried, Captain.

  Beaug.

  Amen, with all my Heart.

  Court.

  A Widow, by my Manhood, a downright Bawdy Widow.

  Porcia.

  What would your Cream-pot in the Country give for that Title, think you?

  Court.

  Not more than I would, that thy Husband were alive agen, to revenge my Quarrel on thee.

  Beaug.

  And what’s to be done, thou dear One?

  Porcia.

  Look upon me as a Lady in distress, Captain; and by the Honour of a Soldier consider on some way for my Deliverance.

  Beaug.

  From what? Where is the Danger?

  Porcia.

  Every way it threatens me: For into the very Hands my ill Fortune threw me before, has it betray’d me again, Friend.

  Beaug.

  Hah!

  Porcia.

  The Principal is an Uncle, old, jealous, tyrannical, and covetous.

  Beaug.

  Hell confound him for it.

  Porcia.

  My Fortune lying most in his Hands, obliged me upon my Widowhood to give up my self again there too, where he has secured and confin’d me with more Tyranny, than if I had been a Pris’ner for Murder; guards me Day and Night with ill-lookt Rogues, that wear long, broad, terrible Swords, and stand Centinel up and down the House with Musquetoons and Blunderbusses.

  Court.

  So, here’s like to be some Mischief going forward, that’s one Comf
ort.

  Porcia.

  Murder and Marriage are the two dreadful things I seem to be threatned with! Now guess what pity it is that ever either of those Mischiefs should fall upon me.

  Beaug.

  By the gallant Spirit that’s in thee, I’ll fairly be Gibetted first.

  Porcia.

  No need of that, Captain, neither: for, to shew you I deserve your Protection, I have had the Courage to break Gaol, run away, and make my Escape hither, purely to keep my Word with you. Deal like a Man of Honour by me; and when the Storm that will follow is a little blown over, here’s a white Hand upon’t, I’ll not be ungrateful.

  Beaug.

  And in token I believe thee, I’ll kiss it most Religiously.

  Court.

  Why the Devil did I marry? Madam, one word with you: Have you never a married Lady of your Acquaintance, that’s as good-natur’d as you, and would fain be a Widow as you are, too.

  Porcia.

  Why do you ask, Sir?

  Court.

  Because I would cut her Husband’s Throat, and make her one for my own proper use.

  Porcia.

  I’ll ask your own Lady, Sir, that Question next time I see her, if you please.

  Court.

  Why, dost thou know her then?

  Porcia.

  Yes.

  Court.

  Then I may chance shortly to have a fine time on’t I have made a pretty Evenings Work of this, Heav’ns be prais’d.

  Enter two Men disguis’d.

  1 Man.

  Run away lewdly! Damnation!

  2 Man.

  Look!

  1 Man.

  By Heav’n, it must be she.

  2 Man.

  The Men are well Arm’d?

  1 Man.

  No matter; we must carry her, or all’s lost else.

  2 Man.

  I’ll not shrink from you.

  1 Man.

  That’s well said. Sir, if you please, a Word with you.

  Beaug.

  With me, Sir?

  1 Man.

  Yes.

  Beaug.

  Courtine, be civil a little.

  1 Man.

  Sir, it is my Misfortune to be concerned for the Honour of a Lady that has not been altogether so careful of it her self as she ought to have been.

  Beaug.

  I am sorry for’t, Sir.

  1 Man.

  You being a Gentleman whose Character I have had an advantagious Account of, I would make it my Petition to you, if she be of your Acquaintance, not to engage your self in any thing that may give me occasion to be your Enemy.