by Thomas Otway
Porcia.
Faith, Captain, be mollify’d; the old Gentleman, methinks, proposes very moderately.
Fath.
It shall be so: She shall be my Daughter in Law, though I invert the Order of Duty, and ask her Blessing.
Beaug.
Look you, Sir: Though you have been a very ungratious Father, upon condition that you’ll promise to leave off Gaming, and stick to your Whoring and Drinking, I will treat with you.
Fath.
The truth on’t is, I have been too blame, Iack! But thou shalt find me hereafter very obedient; that is, provided I have my Terms: which are these.
Beaug.
Come on, then.
Fath.
Three Bottles of Sack, Iack, per diem, without Deduction, or false Measure: Two Pound of Tobacco per Month; and that of the best too.
Court.
Truly this is but reasonable.
Fath.
Buttock-Beef and March-Beer at Dinner, you Rogue: A young Wench of my own chusing, to wait on no body but me always: Money in my Pocket: An old Pacing Horse, and an Elbow-Chair.
Beaug.
Agreed. You see, Sir, already, I am beginning to settle my Family; and all this comes by the Dominion Chance has over us. By Chance you took the Charge of an old Father off from my Hands and made a Chaplain of him. By the same sort of Chance I have taken this Lady off from your Hands, and intend to make her another sort of Domestick. What say you, Sir? Are you contented?
Theod.
I cannot tell whether I am or no.
Beaug.
Then you are not so wife a Man as I took you for. In the mean time; for your Liberty, you must dispense with the want of it, till I have this Night secured the Safety of my Widow. Your Friend Gratian, because of his Wounds, is only lock’d in his Chamber, and may take his Rest as otherwise. For the other part of the Family, I care not to make Excuses.
Thus still, with Power in hand, we treat of Peace;
But when ’tis ratify’d, Suspicions cease:
The Conquer’d to recruiting Labours move.
Like me, the Victor, Crowns his Ease with Love.
FINIS.
The Letters
In 1669 Otway entered Christ Church, Oxford, as a commoner, but left the university without a degree in the autumn of 1672. At Oxford he made the acquaintance of Anthony Cary, 5th Viscount Falkland, through whom, he says in the dedication to ‘Caius Marius’, he first learned to love books.
The Letters of Thomas Otway
THOMAS THORNTON’S 1813 TEXT
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION.
TO MADAM —
TO MADAM —
TO MADAM —
TO MADAM —
TO MADAM —
An 1821 engraving of Thomas Otway by John Riley
INTRODUCTION.
THESE singular productions were first published among a collection of “Familiar Letters by Lord Rochester and others, &c.” 8vo. 1697; and were afterwards subjoined to an edition of Otway’s Works in 1727, under the title of “Love Letters.” They have no superscription, but were written to Mrs. Barry, the actress; for whom, as we have before noticed, the poet cherished a passion which greatly embittered the latter period of his short unhappy life. It is probable that these Letters will be read by different persons with opposite sentiments. Those who have struggled with similar emotions will find most interest in them; and may, perhaps, recognize the sentiments of Carlos, Castalio and Jaffier, expressed in the poet’s own character, with the vivacity and energy of natural affections.
TO MADAM —
MY TYRANT!
I ENDURE too much torment to be silent, and have endured it too long not to make the severest complaint. I love you, I doat on you; desire makes me mad when I am near you; and despair when I am from you. Sure, of all miseries, love is to me the most intolerable: it haunts me in my sleep, perplexes me when waking; every melancholy thought makes my fears more powerful; and every delightful one makes my wishes more, unruly. In all other uneasy chances of a man’s life, there is an immediate recourse to some kind of succour or another: in wants we apply ourselves to our friends; in sickness to physicians; but love, the sum, the total of all misfortunes, must be endured with silence; no friend so dear to trust with such a secret, nor remedy in art so powerful to remove it’s anguish. Since the first day I saw you, I have hardly enjoyed one hour of perfect quiet: I loved you early; and no sooner had I beheld that soft bewitching face of your’s, but I felt in my heart the very foundation of all my peace give way: but when you became another’s, I must confess that I did then rebel, had foolish pride enough to promise myself I would in time recover my liberty: in spite of my enslaved nature, I swore against myself, I would not love you: I affected a resentment, stifled my spirit, and would not let it bend, so much as once to upbraid you, each day it was my chance to see or to be near you: with stubborn sufferance I resolved to bear, and brave your power: nay, did it often too, successfully. Generally with wine or conversation, I diverted or appeased the daemon that possessed me; but when at night, returning to my unhappy self, to give my heart an account why I had done it so unnatural a violence, it was then I always paid a treble interest for the short moments of ease which I had borrowed; then every treacherous thought rose up, and took your part, nor left me till they had thrown me on my bed, and opened those sluices of tears, that were to run till morning. This has been for some years my best condition: nay, time itself, that decays all things else, has but encreased and added to my longings. I tell it you, and charge you to believe it, as you are generous, (which sure you must be, for every thing, except your neglect of me, persuades me that you are so) even at this time, though other arms have held you, and so long trespassed on those dear joys that only were my due; I love you with that tenderness of spirit, that purity of truth, and that sincerity of heart, that I could sacrifice the nearest friends or interests I have on earth, barely but to please you; if I had all the world, it should be your’s; for with it I could be but miserable, if you were not mine. I appeal to yourself for justice, if through the whole actions of my life, I have done any one thing that might not let you see how absolute your authority was over me. Your commands have been always sacred to me; your smiles have always transported me, and your frowns awed me. In short, you will quickly become to me the greatest blessing, or the greatest curse, that ever man was doomed to. I cannot so much as look on you without confusion; wishes and fears rise up in war within me, and work a cursed distraction through my soul, that must, I am sure, in time, have wretched consequences: you only can, with that healing cordial, love, assuage and calm my torments; pity the man then that would be proud to die for you, and cannot live without you; and allow him thus far to boast too, that (take out fortune from the balance) you never were beloved or courted by a creature that had a nobler or juster pretence to your heart, than the unfortunate, (and even at this time) weeping.
OTWAY.
TO MADAM —
IN value of your quiet, though it would be the utter ruin of my own, I have endeavoured this day to persuade myself never more to trouble you with a passion that has tormented me sufficiently already; and is so much the more a torment to me, in that I perceive it is become one to you, who are much dearer to me than myself. I have laid all the reasons my distracted condition would let me have recourse to, before me: I have consulted my pride, whether, after a rival’s possession, I ought to ruin all my peace for a woman that another has been more blest in, though no man ever loved as I did: but love, victorious love! overthrows all that, and tells me, it is his nature never to remember; he still looks forward from the present hour, expecting still new dawns, new rising happiness; never looks back, never regards what is past, and left behind him, but buries and forgets it quite in the hot fierce pursuit of joy before him: I have consulted too my very self, and find how careless nature was in framing me; seasoned me hastily with all the most violent inclinations and desires, but omitted the ornaments that should ma
ke those qualities become me. I have consulted too my lot of fortune, and find how foolishly I wish possession of what is so precious, all the world’s too cheap for it; yet still I love, still I doat on, and cheat myself, very content, because the folly pleases me. It is pleasure to think how fair you are, though, at the same time, worse than damnation to think how cruel. Why should you tell me you have shut your heart up for ever? It is an argument unworthy of yourself, sounds like reserve, and not so much sincerity, as sure I may claim even from a little of your friendship. Can your age, your face, your eyes, and your spirit bid defiance to that sweet power? No, you know better to what end heaven made you; know better how to manage youth and pleasure, than to let them die and pall upon your hands. ’Tis me, ’tis only me you have barred your heart against. My sufferings, my diligence, my sighs, complaints, and tears, are of no power with your haughty nature: yet sure you might at least vouchsafe to pity them, not shift me off with gross, thick, home-spun friendship, the common coin that passes betwixt worldly interests: must that be my lot? Take it, ill-natured, take it; give it to him who would waste his fortune for you; give it the man would fill your lap with gold, court you with offers of vast rich possessions; give it the fool that hath nothing but his money to plead for him: love will have a much nearer relation, or none. I ask for glorious happiness; you bid me welcome to your friendship: it is like seating me at your side-table, when I have the best pretence to your right-hand at the feast. I love, I doat, I am mad, and know no measure; nothing but extremes can give me ease; the kindest love, or most provoking scorn: yet even your scorn would not perform the cure: it might indeed take off the edge of hope, but damned despair will gnaw my heart for ever. If then l am not odious to your eyes, if you have charity enough to value the well-being of a man that bolds you dearer than you can the child your bowels are most fond of, by that sweet pledge of your first softest love, I charm and here conjure you to pity the distracting pangs of mine; pity my unquiet days and restless nights; pity toe frenzy that has half possest my brain already, and makes me write to you thus ravingly: the wretch in Bedlam is more at peace than I am! And if I must never possess the heaven I wish for, my next desire is, (and sooner the better) a clean-swept cell, a merciful keeper, and your compassion when you find me there.
Think and be generous.
TO MADAM —
SINCE you are going to quit the world, I think myself obliged, as a member of the world, to use the best of my endeavours to divert you from so ill-natured an inclination: therefore, by reason your visits will take up so much of this day, I have debarred myself the opportunity of waiting on you this afternoon, that I may take a time you are more mistress of, and when you shall have more leisure to hear; if it be possible for any arguments of mine to take place in a heart, I am afraid too much hardened against me: I must confess it may look a little extraordinary for one under my circumstances to endeavour the confirming your good opinion of the world, when it had been much better for me, one of us had never seen it; for nature disposed me from my creation to love, and my ill-fortune has condemned me to doat on one, who certainly could never have been deaf so long to so faithful a passion, had nature disposed her from her creation to hate any thing but me. I beg you to forgive this trifling, for I have so many thoughts of this nature, that ’tis impossible for me to take pen and ink in my hand, and keep ’em quiet, especially when I have the least pretence to let you know, you are the cause of the severest disquiets that ever touched the heart of OTWAY.
TO MADAM —
COULD I see you without passion, or be absent from you without pain, I need not beg your pardon for this renewing my vows, that I love you more than health, or any happiness here, or hereafter. Every thing you do is a new charm to me; and though I have languished for seven long tedious years of desire, jealously despairing; yet every minute I see you, t still discover something new and more bewitching. Consider how I love you; what would not I renounce, or enterprize for you! I must have you mine, or I am miserable, and nothing but knowing which shall be the happy hour, can make the rest of my life that are [is] to come tolerable. Give me a word or two of comfort, or resolve never to look with common goodness on me more, for I cannot bear a kind look, and after it a cruel denial. This minute ray heart aches for you; and, if I cannot have a right in your’s, I wish it would ache till I could complain to you no longer.
Remember poor
OTWAY.
TO MADAM —
YOU cannot but be sensible that I am blind, or you would not so openly discover what a ridiculous tool you make of me. I should be glad to discover whose satisfaction I was sacrificed to this morning; for I am sure your own ill-nature could not be guilty of inventing such an injury to me, merely to try how much I could bear, were it not for the sake of some ass, that has the fortune to please you: in short, I have made it the business of my life to do you service, and please you, if possible, by any way to convince you of the unhappy love I have for seven years toiled under; and your whole business is to pick ill-natured conjectures out of my harmless freedom of conversation, to vex and gall me with, as often as you are pleased to divert yourself at the expence of my quiet. Oh, thou tormentor! Could I think it were jealousy, how should I humble myself to be justified! But I cannot bear the thought of being made a property either of another man’s good-fortune, or the vanity of a woman that designs nothing but to plague me.
There may be means found, some time or other, to let you know your mistaking.
You were pleased to send me word you would meet me in the Mall this evening, and give me further satisfaction in the matter you were so unkind to charge me with: I was there, but found you not; and therefore beg of you, as you ever would wish yourself to be eased of the highest torment it were possible for your nature to be sensible of, to let me see you some time tomorrow, and send me word, by this bearer, where, and at what hour, you will be so just, as either to acquit or condemn me; that I may, hereafter, for your sake, either bless all your bewitching sex; or, as often as I henceforth think of you, curse womankind for ever.
The Biographies
Tower Hill, a garden square northwest of the Tower of London — Otway’s first biographer, Theophilus Cibber records that the poet died here. Hurrying to a baker’s shop, Otway ate too hastily and choked on the first mouthful. Whether this account of his death is true or not, it is certain that he died in the utmost poverty, and was buried on 16 April 1685 in the churchyard of St. Clement Danes.
A mezzotint of Thomas Otway based on a portrait by Sir Peter Lely, c. 1750
Thomas Otway by Theophilus Cibber
From ‘The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland’, 1753
THIS EXCELLENT POET was not more remarkable for moving the tender passions, than for the variety of fortune, to which he was subjected. We have some where read an observation, that the poets have ever been the least philosophers, and were always unhappy in a want of firmness of temper, and steadiness of resolution: of the truth of this remark, poor Mr. Otway is a lively instance; he never could sufficiently combat his appetite of extravagance and profusion, to live one year in a comfortable competence, but was either rioting in luxurious indulgence, or shivering with want, and exposed to the insolence and contempt of the world. He was the son of Mr. Humphry Otway, rector of Wolbeding in Sussex, and was born at Trottin in that county, on March 3, 1651. He received his education at Wickeham school, near Winchester, and became a commoner of Christ Church in Oxford, in the beginning of the year 1669. He quitted the university without a degree, and retired to London, though, in the opinion of some historians, he went afterwards to Cambridge, which seems very probable, from a copy of verses of Mr. Duke’s to him, between whom subsisted a sincere friendship till the death of Mr. Otway. When our poet came to London, the first account we hear of him, is, that he commenced player, but without success, for he is said to have failed in want of execution, which is so material to a good player, that a tolerable execution, with advantage of a good person, will often supp
ly the place of judgment, in which it is not to be supposed Otway was deficient.
Though his success as an actor was but indifferent, yet he gained upon the world by the sprightliness of his conversation, and the acuteness of his wit, which, it seems, gained him the favour of Charles Fitz Charles, earl of Plymouth, one of the natural sons of King Charles II. who procured him a cornet’s Pommission in the new raised English forces designed for Flanders. All who have written of Mr. Otway observe, that he returned from Flanders in very necessitous circumstances, but give no account how that reverse of fortune happened: it is not natural to suppose that it proceeded from actual cowardice, or that Mr. Otway had drawn down any disgrace upon himself by misbehaviour in a military station. If this had been the case, he wanted not enemies who would have improved the circumstance, and recorded it against him, with a malicious satisfaction; but if it did not proceed from actual cowardice, yet we have some reason to conjecture that Mr. Otway felt a strong disinclination to a military life, perhaps from a consciousness that his heart failed him, and a dread of misbehaving, should he ever be called to an engagement; and to avoid the shame of which he was apprehensive in consequence of such behaviour, he, in all probability, resigned his commission, which could not but disoblige the earl of Plymouth, and expose himself to necessity. What pity is it, that he who could put such masculine strong sentiments into the mouth of such a resolute hero as his own Pierre, should himself fail in personal courage, but this quality nature withheld from him, and he exchanged the chance of reaping laurels in the field of victory, for the equally uncertain, and more barren laurels of poetry. The earl of Rochester, in his Session of the Poets, has thus maliciously recorded, and without the least grain of wit, the deplorable circumstances of Otway.