by Thomas Otway
Let but a Woman know y’are once her Slave,
Give her once Testimony that you love her,
She’ll always be thy Torment, Jilt, design,
And practice Ends upon thy honest Nature,
So strong is their Antipathy to Truth.
Grat.
But let a Fool —
Theod.
Oh give ’em but a Fool,
A senseless, noise, gay, bold, bristling Blockhead,
A Rascal with a Feather, and Cravat-string,
No Brains in’s Head; a vain, pert, empty Rogue,
That can prune, dance, lisp, or lie very much,
Th’are lost for ever: They’ll give all they have
To Fools, or for ’em. —
Grat.
But, my Friend, this granted,
Grant Porica this, and more, as she’s the Relict
Of thy dear Brother, and my valu’d Friend,
The Injury she brings upon thy Honour
Must not be slighted; and that’s my Cause now.
Theod.
There thou o’recom’st me: Still our Men of Mettle
Delay their Time; the Day grows late; let’s walk
Down by yon’ Wall; may be they have mist the Place:
Besides, I fancy Company is coming this way, and we may be prevented.
Methinks I would not lose so fine a Morning, and do nothing.
Grat.
Nor I.
[Exeunt.
Enter Sylvia and Lucrece.
Sylv.
Oh Lucrece, ’twas the Pangs of Jealousie, curst Jealousie, that brought me hither.
Lucr.
Where lodg’d you then last Night?
Sylv.
Here, in this House, my Cousin Porcia’s House: I met her late last Night, just as I alighted, harrast with my Journey, and the Cause of it: Had she not took pity of me, Heav’n knows how my Perplexities would have disposed me!
Lucr.
What, in this House?
Sylv.
Here, in this very House.
Lucr.
I’m glad I know it; I’ll take such care, it shall not be long a Secret.
Sylv.
The Garden opening thus upon the Fields, invited me to take the Morning-air here; for Sleep’s a Guest that stays but little with me. Why sighest thou, Lucrece?
Lucr.
I’m thinking why my Cousin Porcia should chuse this Residence.
Sylv.
’Tis for a Lover, Lucrece; Beaugard courts her, a Friend and lewd Companion of my false Husband’s.
Lucr.
I know him but too well.
Sylv.
Why, dost thou love him?
Lucr.
So much, that I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep in peace, for the tormenting Thoughts of him.
Sylv.
By Heav’ns, I pity thee. Oh have a care of Marriage, Lucrece, Marriage; ‘twill be thy Bane, and ruine thee for ever. Marriage spoils Faces; How I look with Marriage!
Lucr.
I see no change.
Sylv.
No change! I have not slept six Nights in peace since the curst Day I wedded.
Lucr.
Will then a Husband spoil ones Sleep so sadly?
Sylv.
A Husband’s, Lucrece, like his Wedding-Clothes,
Worn gay a Week, but then he throws ’em off,
And with ’em too the Lover: Then his Days
Grow gay abroad, and his Nights dull at home:
He lies whole Months by thy poor longing Side
Heavy and useless, comes faint and loth to Bed,
Turns him about, grunts, snores: and that’s a Husband.
Lucr.
Is Courtine such a one?
Sylv.
’Tis pain to tell thee the Life I with him.
He’s colder to me, than Adamant to Fire; but let him loose amongst my Kitchen-Furniture, my Maids, never was seen so termagant a Towzer: He loves a nasty, foul-fed, fulsom Drab, and scorns the tender Joys my Arms invite him to. To be despis’d at that rate, so dishonour’d, makes me even curse the Chance that made me Woman: Would I had been any Creature else. — See yonder, yonder he comes: Thy Masque, thy Masque, dear Lucrece.
Lucr.
Farewel; I’ll away, and leave ye fairly both together.
[Exit. Lucr.
Enter Courtine.
Court.
What, fly thy ground, faint Soldier! How, another! Nay then ’twas nobly done, two to one had been odds else: Had it not pretty one?
Sylv.
Why, who are you, Sir.
Court.
E’en a wandring Knight, that have forsaken my Castle in the Country, and am come up to Town for Preferment truly.
Sylv.
And one would think so proper, lusty, a well-made Fellow as you are should not be long out of Employment.
Court.
Dost thou know me, my Dearest?
Sylv.
No.
Court.
Then I am sure thou canst have no Exception against me.
Sylv.
But suppose I had a mind to a little farther Acquaintance with you; what then, Sir?
Court.
Why, then thou may’st reasonably suppose that I’ll make no evil Use of thy good Inclinations; Faith there are very pretty Gardens hereabouts, let us commit a Trespass for once, break into one of ’em, and roll a Camomile-walk together this Morning.
Sylv.
Oh Lord, Sir!
Court.
She’s coming already.
Sylv.
If I should let you make advantage of my Weakness now, you would be false afterwards, forsake me, and break my heart.
Court.
Pretty fool! What innocent scruples she makes!
Sylv.
Have you no other Mistress already? have you no Engagements that will return hereafter upon your heart to my prejudice?
Court.
Shall I swear?
Sylv.
But han’t you truly?
Court.
If I have, may that blew Mountain over our heads there, fall down and crush me like a pelted Toad.
Sylv.
To shew you then that I desere your Faith —
Court.
What wilt thou shew me?
Sylv.
A Face which I am not asham’d of, though you’l perhaps be scandaliz’d when you see it.
Court.
The Devil take me if I am though, so it prove not very horrible indeed.
Sylv.
What think you then, Sir, is it such a one as you lookt for?
Court.
My own Wife!
Sylv.
Yes, thy unhappy Wife,
Thou false, deceitful, perjur’d, shamles Wretch:
Have I deserv’d this from thee?
Court.
Pox confound her. —
[Takes out a Book and falls to reading.
Sylv.
Is this the recompense of all my love?
Did I bestow my Fortune on thy Wants,
Humble my self to be thy Dove-like Wife?
And is this all I’m worth? —
Court.
Wealth is a great
Provocative to am’rous heat
[Reads.
For what is worth in any thing,
But so much Money as ‘twill bring?
Hudibras, Part the 2d, Canto the First.
Sylv.
Patience direct me! have I wrought my Nature
To utmost sufferance, and most low contentment,
Set my poor heart to cares! have I been blest
With Children by thee, to be left with scorn,
Cast off, neglected, and abandon’d vilely?
Speak, is not this hard usage? —
Court.
Umph!
Sylv.
Umph! what’s Umph!
Court.
Umph, that’s I
, Child; Umph is I, I, I, my Dear.
Sylv.
Death! death and torments! Cut my wretched Throat, don’t treat me thus: By Heaven I’le bear’t no longer.
Court.
No more.
Sylv.
I have done, Sir.
Court.
What do you at London!
Sylv.
Is it a fault to follow what I’m fond of!
Court.
Can’t I enjoy my pleasures, take my freedoms, but you must come, and spoil the high season’d dish with your insipid whining senseless Jealousie?
Sylv.
Prethee forgive me. —
Court.
Where did you lodge last Night?
Sylv.
Here with a Kinswoman,
May be you know her not, her name is Porcia.
Court.
Death! Beaugard’s Widow! now I am finely fitted.
What at this House?
Sylv.
This very House, that Door
Opens into the Garden, let us walk there,
Won’t you go with me Courtine?
Court.
No.
Sylv.
Prethee do, Love.
Don’t be thus cruel to me.
Court.
Then promise one thing,
And may be my good nature shall be wrought upon.
Sylv.
I’le grant thee any thing; speak, try m’Obedience.
Court.
then promise me, that during our abode
In this sweet Town, which I love very dearly,
That let me ramble, steer what course I will,
Keep what late hours, and as I please employ ’em,
That you’l be still, an humble, civil Doxy,
And pry into no secret to disturb me.
Sylv.
Well, ’tis all granted.
Court.
On then, I’le be dutiful.
Sylv.
Enter you first.
Court.
No. —
Sylv.
Oh, then you’l forsake me;
You seek but opportunity again to leave me.
Court.
Well, since I am trapt thus,
Like a poor Beast that wanted better pasture,
There is no Replevin, and I must to Pound.
[Exeunt.
Enter Theod. Grat. and Lucr.
Theod.
What in this House?
Lucr.
Here in this very House,
My Cousin Sylvia, Courtine’s Jealous Wife,
Coming to Town, Lodg’d with her here last Night.
Theod.
No more, I guess the cause w’are disappointed.
Do thou go Gratian, Muster what Friends ’tis possible;
I’le try my Interest too; we’ll storm your Fortress,
Enchanted Lady, though your Gyant guard it.
Scene changes to the inside of a very fair House, adorned with rich Furniture and Lights.
Enter Ruff. with Beaug. and Dared.
Beaug.
Dogs! Rascals! Villains! how do you intend to deal with us?
1. Ruff.
Much better than your language has deserv’d, Sir.
[They unblind ’em.
Beaug.
Sirs for this noble usage, had I a Sword or Pistol about me, I would reward ye most amply.
[They all bow and withdraw.
A Plague of your Civility! where the Devil are we?
Dared.
Where are we quotha! why, we are in a Palace Man, prithee look about thee a little.
Beaug.
By Heav’n here’s a Paradise; hark Daredevil! Musick too!
Dared.
I’le be hang’d if ’tis not a bawdy Dancing-School, some better Whores than ordinary designing a private Ballum rancum, have pitcht upon our two proper persons for the bus’ness; we are like to have a swinging time on’t, Beaugard.
Beaug.
A plague o’ your Cowardise! you were whining and praying just now, and be hang’d to you.
Dared.
I praying! prithee be quiet Man, I never pray’d in my life, nor ever will pray: Praying quotha! that’s a merry jest with all my Heart.
Beaug.
Impudent Poltroon! he said two dozen of Pater-Nosters within this half hour, and every jolt the Coach gave was afraid the Devil would have torn him to pieces.
Dared.
Odd I like this contrivance very well: Look, Beaugard, what comes yonder? ‘sheart two Devils in Petticoats, how my Guts shrink together!
[Enter two Black Women.
Beaug.
Heyday! Lady Blackamores! nay then we are certainly enchanted. What are you two, Maids of Honour to the Queen of Pomonkey? and is this one of her Palaces? Not a Word! —
Dared.
How I long now to be familiar with one of those Sooty-fac’d Harlots! I would beget a chopping Black Son of a Whore upon her, in defiance to the Prince of Darkness.
Enter a Dwarf.
Beaug.
What another too of the same Complexion? this must be her Majesties Page.
Dared.
A Pimp, I’le warrant him; he’s so very little, pert, and dapper, the Rogue looks as if he could insinuate himself through a Key-hole.
Dwarf.
Welcome thou best-lov’d Man of the fair World.
Beaug.
Well, Sir, and what’s the Service you have in order to Command me?
Dwarf.
My Orders are to lead you to repose in a Rich Bed prepared for Rest and Love.
Dared.
I said it was a Pimp, what a smooth-tongu’d little Rascal ’tis?
Beaug.
A very pretty sort of an Amusement this: But prithee young Domine, why to Bed? ’tis but now Day, and the Sun newly risen; for I have not been a Bed all Night, my little Monster; I know how the time goes, Child.
Dwarf.
Such are the Orders of the Power I serve.
For you are come a long unmeasurable Journey.
Dared.
Hah!
Dwaf.
Drawn by wing’d Horses through the untract Air.
Beaug.
A Pox upon thee for a little black lying well-instructed Rascal, but since it is the Custom of the place, and my last Night Fatigue requires it, I’le accept of the offer, and dispense with an hour or two of sleep to fit me for better exercise when I wake again.
[Sits down in the Chair to be undrest.
Dared.
Drawn by Wing’d Horses through the Air, said he! if this should be true now, what would become of us! Methought indeed the Coach whew’d it away a little faster than ordinary.
[While Beaug. is undressing the two Black Women dance.
Beaug.
A very notable Entertainment truly, and your little Black Lady-ships have tript it most featly. —
[The Wo. advance towards him.
What, and must you take charge of me now! — With all my heart. Daredevil farewel to thee; but that I am in hopes of a better, I’de invite thee for a Bedfellow.
[Women lead in Beaug.
Dared.
Bedfellow, quotha! would I were a Bed with any Bedfellow that I was sure had but flesh and bones about him.
Dwarf.
Come, Sir, you are my charge.
Dared.
I hope your little Impship will be civil to me: pray, Sir, what place is this?
Dwarf.
A Chrystal Castle built by Enchantment in a Land unknown to any but the fair one that Commands it: The Spirits of the Air keep guard about it, and all obey her Charms.
Dared.
Oh Lord! and what Religion is the Lady off?
Dwarf.
That’s a secret, you’l know more hereafter.
Dared.
Lead on then: Now in the lower World whence I come lately, were this but known,
How would the fate in Ballad be l
amented,
Of Daredevil , the Atheist, that’s Enchanted.
ACT IV.
Enter Gratian and Theodoret.
Grat.
THESE are your Men of Honour now: I never knew a blustering, roaring, swashing Spark, that, at the bottom, was good for any thing.
Theod.
Your faux Braves always put on a shew of more Courage than ordinary; as your beggarly half-Gentlemen always wear tawdry finer Cloaths than their Fortune will afford ’em.
Grat.
But, to lye conceal’d in private in the House with her!
Theod.
Dam’ her, she’s a Prostitute; has given her self already to his Arms.
Grat.
Yet, I’ll warrant you, she has an excuse for that too, if it be so; as, Alas! you know, Woman is but a weak Vessel.
Theod.
A Pox o’ the weakness of her Vessel! Dam’ her! Would my Sword were in her Throat! But will our Friends be ready?
Grat.
Most punctually. It was an odd old Fellow, that, which we met with. Was he certainly Beaugard’s Father?
Theod.
No body can swear that, for his Mother was a Woman; but that merry conceited old Gentleman has the honour of it: he has the Title, but whose was the Property, that I dare not determine.
Grat.
I hope he’ll be as good as his word with us.
Theod.
It will not be amiss if it prove so. See, here he comes too.
Enter Father and Fourbine.
Fath.
You lie, you Dog; you Scanderbeg Varlet, you lie. Do not I know that he sate up all Night with a Consort of Whore-masters and Harlots; and have you the impudence to tell me he is not at home? Do not I know, you Villain, that, after a Debauch, he will out-snore a Fleet-street-Constable and all his Watch, for six hours; and dare you tell me, he is not at home, you Caterpillar?
Fourb.
Upon the word of a true Valet de Chambre, Sir, I deal sincerely and honestly with you.
Fath.
No more to be said: But, Sirrah, do you take notice in his behalf, and tell him, he shall pay for this; pay for it, do you hear you Mongril? Fob me off with ten stinking Guinnies, when I had lost a hundred! Fiends and Furies, I’ll not bear it. Good morrow my little Thunder-bolts! What say you, my tiny brace of Blunderbusses? can I be serviceable? shall we about the business while it is practicable? hah? —
Theod.
Have you considered of it throughly, Sir?
Fath.
Trouble thy head no farther; I’ll do’t, my Darling.
Theod.
Have you considered, Sir, that she is your Son’s Mistress?
Fath.
So much the better still; I’ll swinge her the stoutlier, for allenating his Affections from his natural Father.
Grat.
But suppose you should meet him too there in her defence, Sir?
Fath.