MISS. O dear, what shall I say? Tell me, Mr Tattle, tell me a lie.
TATT. There’s no occasion for a lie; I could never tell a lie to no purpose. But since we have done nothing, we must say nothing, I think. I hear her,–I’ll leave you together, and come off as you can. [Thrusts her in, and shuts the door.]
SCENE III.
TATTLE, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, ANGELICA.
ANG. You can’t accuse me of inconstancy; I never told you that I loved you.
VAL. But I can accuse you of uncertainty, for not telling me whether you did or not.
ANG. You mistake indifference for uncertainty; I never had concern enough to ask myself the question.
SCAN. Nor good-nature enough to answer him that did ask you; I’ll say that for you, madam.
ANG. What, are you setting up for good-nature?
SCAN. Only for the affectation of it, as the women do for ill- nature.
ANG. Persuade your friend that it is all affectation.
SCAN. I shall receive no benefit from the opinion; for I know no effectual difference between continued affectation and reality.
TATT. [coming up]. Scandal, are you in private discourse? Anything of secrecy? [Aside to SCANDAL.]
SCAN. Yes, but I dare trust you; we were talking of Angelica’s love to Valentine. You won’t speak of it.
TATT. No, no, not a syllable. I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.
SCAN. Ha, ha, ha!
ANG. What is, Mr Tattle? I heard you say something was whispered everywhere.
SCAN. Your love of Valentine.
ANG. How!
TATT. No, madam, his love for your ladyship. Gad take me, I beg your pardon,–for I never heard a word of your ladyship’s passion till this instant.
ANG. My passion! And who told you of my passion, pray sir?
SCAN. Why, is the devil in you? Did not I tell it you for a secret?
TATT. Gadso; but I thought she might have been trusted with her own affairs.
SCAN. Is that your discretion? Trust a woman with herself?
TATT. You say true, I beg your pardon. I’ll bring all off. It was impossible, madam, for me to imagine that a person of your ladyship’s wit and gallantry could have so long received the passionate addresses of the accomplished Valentine, and yet remain insensible; therefore you will pardon me, if, from a just weight of his merit, with your ladyship’s good judgment, I formed the balance of a reciprocal affection.
VAL. O the devil, what damned costive poet has given thee this lesson of fustian to get by rote?
ANG. I dare swear you wrong him, it is his own. And Mr Tattle only judges of the success of others, from the effects of his own merit. For certainly Mr Tattle was never denied anything in his life.
TATT. O Lord! Yes, indeed, madam, several times.
ANG. I swear I don’t think ’tis possible.
TATT. Yes, I vow and swear I have; Lord, madam, I’m the most unfortunate man in the world, and the most cruelly used by the ladies.
ANG. Nay, now you’re ungrateful.
TATT. No, I hope not, ’tis as much ingratitude to own some favours as to conceal others.
VAL. There, now it’s out.
ANG. I don’t understand you now. I thought you had never asked anything but what a lady might modestly grant, and you confess.
SCAN. So faith, your business is done here; now you may go brag somewhere else.
TATT. Brag! O heavens! Why, did I name anybody?
ANG. No; I suppose that is not in your power; but you would if you could, no doubt on’t.
TATT. Not in my power, madam! What, does your ladyship mean that I have no woman’s reputation in my power?
SCAN. ‘Oons, why, you won’t own it, will you? [Aside.]
TATT. Faith, madam, you’re in the right; no more I have, as I hope to be saved; I never had it in my power to say anything to a lady’s prejudice in my life. For as I was telling you, madam, I have been the most unsuccessful creature living, in things of that nature; and never had the good fortune to be trusted once with a lady’s secret, not once.
ANG. No?
VAL. Not once, I dare answer for him.
SCAN. And I’ll answer for him; for I’m sure if he had, he would have told me; I find, madam, you don’t know Mr Tattle.
TATT. No indeed, madam, you don’t know me at all, I find. For sure my intimate friends would have known –
ANG. Then it seems you would have told, if you had been trusted.
TATT. O pox, Scandal, that was too far put. Never have told particulars, madam. Perhaps I might have talked as of a third person; or have introduced an amour of my own, in conversation, by way of novel; but never have explained particulars.
ANG. But whence comes the reputation of Mr Tattle’s secrecy, if he was never trusted?
SCAN. Why, thence it arises–the thing is proverbially spoken; but may be applied to him–as if we should say in general terms, he only is secret who never was trusted; a satirical proverb upon our sex. There’s another upon yours–as she is chaste, who was never asked the question. That’s all.
VAL. A couple of very civil proverbs, truly. ‘Tis hard to tell whether the lady or Mr Tattle be the more obliged to you. For you found her virtue upon the backwardness of the men; and his secrecy upon the mistrust of the women.
TATT. Gad, it’s very true, madam, I think we are obliged to acquit ourselves. And for my part–but your ladyship is to speak first.
ANG. Am I? Well, I freely confess I have resisted a great deal of temptation.
TATT. And i’Gad, I have given some temptation that has not been resisted.
VAL. Good.
ANG. I cite Valentine here, to declare to the court, how fruitless he has found his endeavours, and to confess all his solicitations and my denials.
VAL. I am ready to plead not guilty for you; and guilty for myself.
SCAN. So, why this is fair, here’s demonstration with a witness.
TATT. Well, my witnesses are not present. But I confess I have had favours from persons. But as the favours are numberless, so the persons are nameless.
SCAN. Pooh, this proves nothing.
TATT. No? I can show letters, lockets, pictures, and rings; and if there be occasion for witnesses, I can summon the maids at the chocolate-houses, all the porters at Pall Mall and Covent Garden, the door-keepers at the Playhouse, the drawers at Locket’s, Pontack’s, the Rummer, Spring Garden, my own landlady and valet de chambre; all who shall make oath that I receive more letters than the Secretary’s office, and that I have more vizor-masks to enquire for me, than ever went to see the Hermaphrodite, or the Naked Prince. And it is notorious that in a country church once, an enquiry being made who I was, it was answered, I was the famous Tattle, who had ruined so many women.
VAL. It was there, I suppose, you got the nickname of the Great Turk.
TATT. True; I was called Turk-Tattle all over the parish. The next Sunday all the old women kept their daughters at home, and the parson had not half his congregation. He would have brought me into the spiritual court, but I was revenged upon him, for he had a handsome daughter whom I initiated into the science. But I repented it afterwards, for it was talked of in town. And a lady of quality that shall be nameless, in a raging fit of jealousy, came down in her coach and six horses, and exposed herself upon my account; Gad, I was sorry for it with all my heart. You know whom I mean–you know where we raffled –
SCAN. Mum, Tattle.
VAL. ‘Sdeath, are not you ashamed?
ANG. O barbarous! I never heard so insolent a piece of vanity. Fie, Mr Tattle; I’ll swear I could not have believed it. Is this your secrecy?
TATT. Gadso, the heat of my story carried me beyond my discretion, as the heat of the lady’s passion hurried her beyond her reputation. But I hope you don’t know whom I mean; for there was a great many ladies raffled. Pox on’t, now could I bite off my tongue.
SCAN. No, don’t; for then you’ll tell us no more. Come, I’ll recommend a song to you upon the hint of my two proverbs, and I see one in the next room that will sing it. [Goes to the door.]
TATT. For heaven’s sake, if you do guess, say nothing; Gad, I’m very unfortunate.
SCAN. Pray sing the first song in the last new play.
SONG.
Set by Mr John Eccles.
I.
A nymph and a swain to Apollo once prayed, The swain had been jilted, the nymph been betrayed: Their intent was to try if his oracle knew E’er a nymph that was chaste, or a swain that was true.
II.
Apollo was mute, and had like t’have been posed, But sagely at length he this secret disclosed: He alone won’t betray in whom none will confide, And the nymph may be chaste that has never been tried.
SCENE IV.
[To them] SIR SAMPSON, MRS FRAIL, MISS PRUE, and SERVANT.
SIR SAMP. Is Ben come? Odso, my son Ben come? Odd, I’m glad on’t. Where is he? I long to see him. Now, Mrs Frail, you shall see my son Ben. Body o’ me, he’s the hopes of my family. I han’t seen him these three years–I warrant he’s grown. Call him in, bid him make haste. I’m ready to cry for joy.
MRS FRAIL. Now Miss, you shall see your husband.
MISS. Pish, he shall be none of my husband. [Aside to Frail.]
MRS FRAIL. Hush. Well he shan’t; leave that to me. I’ll beckon Mr Tattle to us.
ANG. Won’t you stay and see your brother?
VAL. We are the twin stars, and cannot shine in one sphere; when he rises I must set. Besides, if I should stay, I don’t know but my father in good nature may press me to the immediate signing the deed of conveyance of my estate; and I’ll defer it as long as I can. Well, you’ll come to a resolution.
ANG. I can’t. Resolution must come to me, or I shall never have one.
SCAN. Come, Valentine, I’ll go with you; I’ve something in my head to communicate to you.
SCENE V.
ANGELICA, SIR SAMPSON, TATTLE, MRS FRAIL, MISS PRUE.
SIR SAMP. What, is my son Valentine gone? What, is he sneaked off, and would not see his brother? There’s an unnatural whelp! There’s an ill-natured dog! What, were you here too, madam, and could not keep him? Could neither love, nor duty, nor natural affection oblige him? Odsbud, madam, have no more to say to him, he is not worth your consideration. The rogue has not a drachm of generous love about him–all interest, all interest; he’s an undone scoundrel, and courts your estate: body o’ me, he does not care a doit for your person.
ANG. I’m pretty even with him, Sir Sampson; for if ever I could have liked anything in him, it should have been his estate too; but since that’s gone, the bait’s off, and the naked hook appears.
SIR SAMP. Odsbud, well spoken, and you are a wiser woman than I thought you were, for most young women now-a-days are to be tempted with a naked hook.
ANG. If I marry, Sir Sampson, I’m for a good estate with any man, and for any man with a good estate; therefore, if I were obliged to make a choice, I declare I’d rather have you than your son.
SIR SAMP. Faith and troth, you’re a wise woman, and I’m glad to hear you say so; I was afraid you were in love with the reprobate. Odd, I was sorry for you with all my heart. Hang him, mongrel, cast him off; you shall see the rogue show himself, and make love to some desponding Cadua of fourscore for sustenance. Odd, I love to see a young spendthrift forced to cling to an old woman for support, like ivy round a dead oak; faith I do, I love to see ’em hug and cotton together, like down upon a thistle.
SCENE VI.
[To them] BEN LEGEND and SERVANT.
BEN. Where’s father?
SERV. There, sir, his back’s toward you.
SIR SAMP. My son Ben! Bless thee, my dear body. Body o’ me, thou art heartily welcome.
BEN. Thank you, father, and I’m glad to see you.
SIR SAMP. Odsbud, and I’m glad to see thee; kiss me, boy, kiss me again and again, dear Ben. [Kisses him.]
BEN. So, so, enough, father, Mess, I’d rather kiss these gentlewomen.
SIR SAMP. And so thou shalt. Mrs Angelica, my son Ben.
BEN. Forsooth, if you please. [Salutes her.] Nay, mistress, I’m not for dropping anchor here; about ship, i’faith. [Kisses Frail.] Nay, and you too, my little cock-boat–so [Kisses Miss].
TATT. Sir, you’re welcome ashore.
BEN. Thank you, thank you, friend.
SIR SAMP. Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, since I saw thee.
BEN. Ay, ay, been! Been far enough, an’ that be all. Well, father, and how do all at home? How does brother Dick, and brother Val?
SIR SAMP. Dick–body o’ me–Dick has been dead these two years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn.
BEN. Mess, that’s true; marry! I had forgot. Dick’s dead, as you say. Well, and how? I have a many questions to ask you. Well, you ben’t married again, father, be you?
SIR SAMP. No; I intend you shall marry, Ben; I would not marry for thy sake.
BEN. Nay, what does that signify? An’ you marry again–why then, I’ll go to sea again, so there’s one for t’other, an’ that be all. Pray don’t let me be your hindrance–e’en marry a God’s name, an the wind sit that way. As for my part, mayhap I have no mind to marry.
FRAIL. That would be pity–such a handsome young gentleman.
BEN. Handsome! he, he, he! nay, forsooth, an you be for joking, I’ll joke with you, for I love my jest, an’ the ship were sinking, as we sayn at sea. But I’ll tell you why I don’t much stand towards matrimony. I love to roam about from port to port, and from land to land; I could never abide to be port-bound, as we call it. Now, a man that is married has, as it were, d’ye see, his feet in the bilboes, and mayhap mayn’t get them out again when he would.
SIR SAMP. Ben’s a wag.
BEN. A man that is married, d’ye see, is no more like another man than a galley-slave is like one of us free sailors; he is chained to an oar all his life, and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the bargain.
SIR SAMP. A very wag–Ben’s a very wag; only a little rough, he wants a little polishing.
MRS FRAIL. Not at all; I like his humour mightily: it’s plain and honest–I should like such a humour in a husband extremely.
BEN. Say’n you so, forsooth? Marry, and I should like such a handsome gentlewoman for a bed-fellow hugely. How say you, mistress, would you like going to sea? Mess, you’re a tight vessel, an well rigged, an you were but as well manned.
MRS FRAIL. I should not doubt that if you were master of me.
BEN. But I’ll tell you one thing, an you come to sea in a high wind, or that lady–you may’nt carry so much sail o’ your head–top and top gallant, by the mess.
MRS FRAIL. No, why so?
BEN. Why, an you do, you may run the risk to be overset, and then you’ll carry your keels above water, he, he, he!
ANG. I swear, Mr Benjamin is the veriest wag in nature–an absolute sea-wit.
SIR SAMP. Nay, Ben has parts, but as I told you before, they want a little polishing. You must not take anything ill, madam.
BEN. No, I hope the gentlewoman is not angry; I mean all in good part, for if I give a jest, I’ll take a jest, and so forsooth you may be as free with me.
ANG. I thank you, sir, I am not at all offended. But methinks, Sir Sampson, you should leave him alone with his mistress. Mr Tattle, we must not hinder lovers.
TATT. Well, Miss, I have your promise. [Aside to Miss.]
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, madam, you say true. Look you, Ben, this is your mistress. Come, Miss, you must not be shame-faced; we’ll leave you together.
MISS. I can’t abide to be left alone; mayn’t my cousin stay with me?
SIR SAMP. No, no. Come, let’s away.
BEN. Look you, father, mayhap the young woman mayn’t take a liking to me.
SIR SAMP. I warrant thee, boy: come, come, we’ll be gone; I’ll venture that.
SCENE VII.
BEN, and MISS PRUE.
BEN. Come mistress, will you please to sit down? for an you stand a stern a that’n, we shall never grapple together. Come, I’ll haul a chair; there, an you please to sit, I’ll sit by you.
MISS. You need not sit so near one, if you have anything to say, I can hear you farther off, I an’t deaf.
BEN. Why that’s true, as you say, nor I an’t dumb, I can be heard as far as another,–I’ll heave off, to please you. [Sits farther off.] An we were a league asunder, I’d undertake to hold discourse with you, an ’twere not a main high wind indeed, and full in my teeth. Look you, forsooth, I am, as it were, bound for the land of matrimony; ’tis a voyage, d’ye see, that was none of my seeking. I was commanded by father, and if you like of it, mayhap I may steer into your harbour. How say you, mistress? The short of the thing is, that if you like me, and I like you, we may chance to swing in a hammock together.
MISS. I don’t know what to say to you, nor I don’t care to speak with you at all.
BEN. No? I’m sorry for that. But pray why are you so scornful?
MISS. As long as one must not speak one’s mind, one had better not speak at all, I think, and truly I won’t tell a lie for the matter.
BEN. Nay, you say true in that, it’s but a folly to lie: for to speak one thing, and to think just the contrary way is, as it were, to look one way, and to row another. Now, for my part, d’ye see, I’m for carrying things above board, I’m not for keeping anything under hatches,–so that if you ben’t as willing as I, say so a God’s name: there’s no harm done; mayhap you may be shame-faced; some maidens thof they love a man well enough, yet they don’t care to tell’n so to’s face. If that’s the case, why, silence gives consent.
MISS. But I’m sure it is not so, for I’ll speak sooner than you should believe that; and I’ll speak truth, though one should always tell a lie to a man; and I don’t care, let my father do what he will; I’m too big to be whipt, so I’ll tell you plainly, I don’t like you, nor love you at all, nor never will, that’s more: so there’s your answer for you; and don’t trouble me no more, you ugly thing.
BEN. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give good words, however. I spoke you fair, d’ye see, and civil. As for your love or your liking, I don’t value it of a rope’s end; and mayhap I like you as little as you do me: what I said was in obedience to father. Gad, I fear a whipping no more than you do. But I tell you one thing, if you should give such language at sea, you’d have a cat o’ nine tails laid cross your shoulders. Flesh! who are you? You heard t’other handsome young woman speak civilly to me of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, gad, I don’t think you are any more to compare to her than a can of small-beer to a bowl of punch.
MISS. Well, and there’s a handsome gentleman, and a fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that was here that loves me, and I love him; and if he sees you speak to me any more, he’ll thrash your jacket for you, he will, you great sea-calf.
BEN. What, do you mean that fair-weather spark that was here just now? Will he thrash my jacket? Let’n,–let’n. But an he comes near me, mayhap I may giv’n a salt eel for’s supper, for all that. What does father mean to leave me alone as soon as I come home with such a dirty dowdy? Sea-calf? I an’t calf enough to lick your chalked face, you cheese-curd you: –marry thee? Oons, I’ll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling contrary winds and wrecked vessels.
MISS. I won’t be called names, nor I won’t be abused thus, so I won’t. If I were a man [cries]–you durst not talk at his rate. No, you durst not, you stinking tar-barrel.
SCENE VIII.
[To them] MRS FORESIGHT and MRS FRAIL.
MRS FORE. They have quarrelled, just as we could wish.
BEN. Tar-barrel? Let your sweetheart there call me so, if he’ll take your part, your Tom Essence, and I’ll say something to him; gad, I’ll lace his musk-doublet for him, I’ll make him stink: he shall smell more like a weasel than a civet-cat, afore I ha’ done with ‘en.
MRS FORE. Bless me, what’s the matter, Miss? What, does she cry? Mr Benjamin, what have you done to her?
BEN. Let her cry: the more she cries the less she’ll–she has been gathering foul weather in her mouth, and now it rains out at her eyes.
MRS FORE. Come, Miss, come along with me, and tell me, poor child.
MRS FRAIL. Lord, what shall we do? There’s my brother Foresight and Sir Sampson coming. Sister, do you take Miss down into the parlour, and I’ll carry Mr Benjamin into my chamber, for they must not know that they are fallen out. Come, sir, will you venture yourself with me? [Looking kindly on him.]
BEN. Venture, mess, and that I will, though ’twere to sea in a storm.
SCENE IX.
SIR SAMPSON and FORESIGHT.
SIR SAMP. I left ’em together here; what, are they gone? Ben’s a brisk boy: he has got her into a corner; father’s own son, faith, he’ll touzle her, and mouzle her. The rogue’s sharp set, coming from sea; if he should not stay for saving grace, old Foresight, but fall to without the help of a parson, ha? Odd, if he should I could not be angry with him; ‘twould be but like me, a chip of the old block. Ha! thou’rt melancholic, old Prognostication; as melancholic as if thou hadst spilt the salt, or pared thy nails on a Sunday. Come, cheer up, look about thee: look up, old stargazer. Now is he poring upon the ground for a crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, with the head towards him.
FORE. Sir Sampson, we’ll have the wedding to-morrow morning.
SIR SAMP. With all my heart.
FORE. At ten a’clock, punctually at ten.
SIR SAMP. To a minute, to a second; thou shalt set thy watch, and the bridegroom shall observe its motions; they shall be married to a minute, go to bed to a minute; and when the alarm strikes, they shall keep time like the figures of St. Dunstan’s clock, and consummatum est shall ring all over the parish.
SCENE X.
[To them] SCANDAL.
SCAN. Sir Sampson, sad news.
FORE. Bless us!
SIR SAMP. Why, what’s the matter?
SCAN. Can’t you guess at what ought to afflict you and him, and all of us, more than anything else?
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I don’t know any universal grievance, but a new tax, or the loss of the Canary fleet. Unless popery should be landed in the West, or the French fleet were at anchor at Blackwall.
SCAN. No. Undoubtedly, Mr Foresight knew all this, and might have prevented it.
FORE. ‘Tis no earthquake!
SCAN. No, not yet; nor whirlwind. But we don’t know what it may come to. But it has had a consequence already that touches us all.
SIR SAMP. Why, body o’ me, out with’t.
SCAN. Something has appeared to your son Valentine. He’s gone to bed upon’t, and very ill. He speaks little, yet he says he has a world to say. Asks for his father and the wise Foresight; talks of Raymond Lully, and the ghost of Lilly. He has secrets to impart, I suppose, to you two. I can get nothing out of him but sighs. He desires he may see you in the morning, but would not be disturbed to-night, because he has some business to do in a dream.
SIR SAMP. Hoity toity, what have I to do with his dreams or his divination? Body o’ me, this is a trick to defer signing the conveyance. I warrant the devil will tell him in a dream that he must not part with his estate. But I’ll bring him a parson to tell him that the devil’s a liar: –or if that won’t do, I’ll bring a lawyer that shall out-lie the devil. And so I’ll try whether my blackguard or his shall get the better of the day.
SCENE XI.
SCANDAL, FORESIGHT.
SCAN. Alas, Mr Foresight, I’m afraid all is not right. You are a wise man, and a conscientious man, a searcher into obscurity and futurity, and if you commit an error, it is with a great deal of consideration, and discretion, and caution –
FORE. Ah, good Mr Scandal –
SCAN. Nay, nay, ’tis manifest; I do not flatter you. But Sir Sampson is hasty, very hasty. I’m afraid he is not scrupulous enough, Mr Foresight. He has been wicked, and heav’n grant he may mean well in his affair with you. But my mind gives me, these things cannot be wholly insignificant. You are wise, and should not be over-reached, methinks you should not –
FORE. Alas, Mr Scandal,–humanum est errare.
SCAN. You say true, man will err; mere man will err–but you are something more. There have been wise men; but they were such as you, men who consulted the stars, and were observers of omens. Solomon was wise, but how?–by his judgment in astrology. So says Pineda in his third book and eighth chapter –
FORE. You are learned, Mr Scandal.
SCAN. A trifler–but a lover of art. And the Wise Men of the East owed their instruction to a star, which is rightly observed by Gregory the Great in favour of astrology. And Albertus Magnus makes it the most valuable science, because, says he, it teaches us to consider the causation of causes, in the causes of things.
FORE. I protest I honour you, Mr Scandal. I did not think you had been read in these matters. Few young men are inclined –
SCAN. I thank my stars that have inclined me. But I fear this marriage and making over this estate, this transferring of a rightful inheritance, will bring judgments upon us. I prophesy it, and I would not have the fate of Cassandra not to be believed. Valentine is disturbed; what can be the cause of that? And Sir Sampson is hurried on by an unusual violence. I fear he does not act wholly from himself; methinks he does not look as he used to do.
FORE. He was always of an impetuous nature. But as to this marriage, I have consulted the stars, and all appearances are prosperous –
SCAN. Come, come, Mr Foresight, let not the prospect of worldly lucre carry you beyond your judgment, nor against your conscience. You are not satisfied that you act justly.
FORE. How?
SCAN. You are not satisfied, I say. I am loth to discourage you, but it is palpable that you are not satisfied.
FORE. How does it appear, Mr Scandal? I think I am very well satisfied.
SCAN. Either you suffer yourself to deceive yourself, or you do not know yourself.
FORE. Pray explain yourself.
SCAN. Do you sleep well o’ nights?
FORE. Very well.
SCAN. Are you certain? You do not look so.
FORE. I am in health, I think.
SCAN. So was Valentine this morning; and looked just so.
FORE. How? Am I altered any way? I don’t perceive it.
SCAN. That may be, but your beard is longer than it was two hours ago.
FORE. Indeed! Bless me!
SCENE XII.
[To them] MRS FORESIGHT.
MRS FORE. Husband, will you go to bed? It’s ten a’clock. Mr Scandal, your servant.
SCAN. Pox on her, she has interrupted my design–but I must work her into the project. You keep early hours, madam.
MRS FORE. Mr Foresight is punctual; we sit up after him.
FORE. My dear, pray lend me your glass, your little looking-glass.
SCAN. Pray lend it him, madam. I’ll tell you the reason.
[She gives him the glass: SCANDAL and she whisper.] My passion for you is grown so violent, that I am no longer master of myself. I was interrupted in the morning, when you had charity enough to give me your attention, and I had hopes of finding another opportunity of explaining myself to you, but was disappointed all this day; and the uneasiness that has attended me ever since brings me now hither at this unseasonable hour.
MRS FORE. Was there ever such impudence, to make love to me before my husband’s face? I’ll swear I’ll tell him.
SCAN. Do. I’ll die a martyr rather than disclaim my passion. But come a little farther this way, and I’ll tell you what project I had to get him out of the way; that I might have an opportunity of waiting upon you. [Whisper. FORESIGHT looking in the glass.]
FORE. I do not see any revolution here; methinks I look with a serene and benign aspect–pale, a little pale–but the roses of these cheeks have been gathered many years;–ha! I do not like that sudden flushing. Gone already! hem, hem, hem! faintish. My heart is pretty good; yet it beats; and my pulses, ha!–I have none–mercy on me–hum. Yes, here they are–gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, hey! Whither will they hurry me? Now they’re gone again. And now I’m faint again, and pale again, and hem! and my hem! breath, hem! grows short; hem! hem! he, he, hem!
SCAN. It takes: pursue it in the name of love and pleasure.
MRS FORE. How do you do, Mr Foresight!
FORE. Hum, not so well as I thought I was. Lend me your hand.
SCAN. Look you there now. Your lady says your sleep has been unquiet of late.
FORE. Very likely.
MRS FORE. Oh, mighty restless, but I was afraid to tell him so. He has been subject to talking and starting.
SCAN. And did not use to be so?
MRS FORE. Never, never, till within these three nights; I cannot say that he has once broken my rest since we have been married.
FORE. I will go to bed.
SCAN. Do so, Mr Foresight, and say your prayers. He looks better than he did.
MRS FORE. Nurse, nurse!
FORE. Do you think so, Mr Scandal?
SCAN. Yes, yes. I hope this will be gone by morning, taking it in time.
FORE. I hope so.
SCENE XIII.
[To them] NURSE.
MRS FORE. Nurse; your master is not well; put him to bed.
SCAN. I hope you will be able to see Valentine in the morning. You had best take a little diacodion and cowslip-water, and lie upon your back: maybe you may dream.
FORE. I thank you, Mr Scandal, I will. Nurse, let me have a watch- light, and lay the Crumbs of Comfort by me.
NURSE. Yes, sir.
FORE. And–hem, hem! I am very faint.
SCAN. No, no, you look much better.
FORE. Do I? And, d’ye hear, bring me, let me see–within a quarter of twelve, hem–he, hem!–just upon the turning of the tide, bring me the urinal; and I hope, neither the lord of my ascendant, nor the moon will be combust; and then I may do well.
SCAN. I hope so. Leave that to me; I will erect a scheme; and I hope I shall find both Sol and Venus in the sixth house.
FORE. I thank you, Mr Scandal, indeed that would be a great comfort to me. Hem, hem! good night.
SCENE XIV.
SCANDAL, MRS FORESIGHT.
SCAN. Good night, good Mr Foresight; and I hope Mars and Venus will be in conjunction;–while your wife and I are together.
MRS FORE. Well; and what use do you hope to make of this project? You don’t think that you are ever like to succeed in your design upon me?
SCAN. Yes, faith I do; I have a better opinion both of you and myself than to despair.
MRS FORE. Did you ever hear such a toad? Hark’ee, devil: do you think any woman honest?
SCAN. Yes, several, very honest; they’ll cheat a little at cards, sometimes, but that’s nothing.
MRS FORE. Pshaw! but virtuous, I mean?
SCAN. Yes, faith, I believe some women are virtuous too; but ’tis as I believe some men are valiant, through fear. For why should a man court danger or a woman shun pleasure?
MRS FORE. Oh, monstrous! What are conscience and honour?
SCAN. Why, honour is a public enemy, and conscience a domestic thief; and he that would secure his pleasure must pay a tribute to one and go halves with t’other. As for honour, that you have secured, for you have purchased a perpetual opportunity for pleasure.
MRS FORE. An opportunity for pleasure?
SCAN. Ay, your husband, a husband is an opportunity for pleasure: so you have taken care of honour, and ’tis the least I can do to take care of conscience.
MRS FORE. And so you think we are free for one another?
SCAN. Yes, faith I think so; I love to speak my mind.
MRS FORE. Why, then, I’ll speak my mind. Now as to this affair between you and me. Here you make love to me; why, I’ll confess it does not displease me. Your person is well enough, and your understanding is not amiss.
SCAN. I have no great opinion of myself, but I think I’m neither deformed nor a fool.
MRS FORE. But you have a villainous character: you are a libertine in speech, as well as practice.
SCAN. Come, I know what you would say: you think it more dangerous to be seen in conversation with me than to allow some other men the last favour; you mistake: the liberty I take in talking is purely affected for the service of your sex. He that first cries out stop thief is often he that has stol’n the treasure. I am a juggler, that act by confederacy; and if you please, we’ll put a trick upon the world.
MRS FORE. Ay; but you are such an universal juggler, that I’m afraid you have a great many confederates.
SCAN. Faith, I’m sound.
MRS FORE. Oh, fie–I’ll swear you’re impudent.
SCAN. I’ll swear you’re handsome.
MRS FORE. Pish, you’d tell me so, though you did not think so.
SCAN. And you’d think so, though I should not tell you so. And now I think we know one another pretty well.
MRS FORE. O Lord, who’s here?
SCENE XV.
[To them] MRS FRAIL and BEN.
BEN. Mess, I love to speak my mind. Father has nothing to do with me. Nay, I can’t say that neither; he has something to do with me. But what does that signify? If so be that I ben’t minded to be steered by him; ’tis as thof he should strive against wind and tide.
MRS FRAIL. Ay, but, my dear, we must keep it secret till the estate be settled; for you know, marrying without an estate is like sailing in a ship without ballast.
BEN. He, he, he; why, that’s true; just so for all the world it is indeed, as like as two cable ropes.
MRS FRAIL. And though I have a good portion, you know one would not venture all in one bottom.
BEN. Why, that’s true again; for mayhap one bottom may spring a leak. You have hit it indeed: mess, you’ve nicked the channel.
MRS FRAIL. Well, but if you should forsake me after all, you’d break my heart.
BEN. Break your heart? I’d rather the Mary-gold should break her cable in a storm, as well as I love her. Flesh, you don’t think I’m false-hearted, like a landman. A sailor will be honest, thof mayhap he has never a penny of money in his pocket. Mayhap I may not have so fair a face as a citizen or a courtier; but, for all that, I’ve as good blood in my veins, and a heart as sound as a biscuit.
MRS FRAIL. And will you love me always?
BEN. Nay, an I love once, I’ll stick like pitch; I’ll tell you that. Come, I’ll sing you a song of a sailor.
MRS FRAIL. Hold, there’s my sister, I’ll call her to hear it.
MRS FORE. Well; I won’t go to bed to my husband to-night, because I’ll retire to my own chamber, and think of what you have said.
SCAN. Well; you’ll give me leave to wait upon you to your chamber door, and leave you my last instructions?
MRS FORE. Hold, here’s my sister coming towards us.
MRS FRAIL. If it won’t interrupt you I’ll entertain you with a song.
BEN. The song was made upon one of our ship’s-crew’s wife. Our boatswain made the song. Mayhap you may know her, sir. Before she was married she was called buxom Joan of Deptford.
SCAN. I have heard of her.
BEN. [Sings]:-
BALLAD.
Set by MR JOHN ECCLES.
I.
A soldier and a sailor,
A tinker and a tailor,
Had once a doubtful strife, sir,
To make a maid a wife, sir,
Whose name was buxom Joan.
For now the time was ended,
When she no more intended
To lick her lips at men, sir,
And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir,
And lie o’ nights alone.
II.
The soldier swore like thunder,
He loved her more than plunder,
And shewed her many a scar, sir,
That he had brought from far, sir,
With fighting for her sake.
The tailor thought to please her
With offering her his measure.
The tinker, too, with mettle
Said he could mend her kettle,
And stop up ev’ry leak.
III.
But while these three were prating,
The sailor slyly waiting,
Thought if it came about, sir,
That they should all fall out, sir, He then might play his part.
And just e’en as he meant, sir,
To loggerheads they went, sir,
And then he let fly at her
A shot ‘twixt wind and water,
That won this fair maid’s heart.
BEN. If some of our crew that came to see me are not gone, you shall see that we sailors can dance sometimes as well as other folks. [Whistles.] I warrant that brings ’em, an they be within hearing. [Enter seamen]. Oh, here they be–and fiddles along with ’em. Come, my lads, let’s have a round, and I’ll make one. [Dance.]
BEN. We’re merry folks, we sailors: we han’t much to care for. Thus we live at sea; eat biscuit, and drink flip, put on a clean shirt once a quarter; come home and lie with our landladies once a year, get rid of a little money, and then put off with the next fair wind. How d’ye like us?
MRS FRAIL. Oh, you are the happiest, merriest men alive.
MRS FORE. We’re beholden to Mr Benjamin for this entertainment. I believe it’s late.
BEN. Why, forsooth, an you think so, you had best go to bed. For my part, I mean to toss a can, and remember my sweet-heart, afore I turn in; mayhap I may dream of her.
MRS FORE. Mr Scandal, you had best go to bed and dream too.
SCAN. Why, faith, I have a good lively imagination, and can dream as much to the purpose as another, if I set about it. But dreaming is the poor retreat of a lazy, hopeless, and imperfect lover; ’tis the last glimpse of love to worn-out sinners, and the faint dawning of a bliss to wishing girls and growing boys.
There’s nought but willing, waking love, that can Make blest the ripened maid and finished man.
ACT IV.–SCENE I.
Valentine’s lodging.
SCANDAL and JEREMY.
SCAN. Well, is your master ready? does he look madly and talk madly?
JERE. Yes, sir; you need make no great doubt of that. He that was so near turning poet yesterday morning can’t be much to seek in playing the madman to-day.
SCAN. Would he have Angelica acquainted with the reason of his design?
JERE. No, sir, not yet. He has a mind to try whether his playing the madman won’t make her play the fool, and fall in love with him; or at least own that she has loved him all this while and concealed it.
SCAN. I saw her take coach just now with her maid, and think I heard her bid the coachman drive hither.
JERE. Like enough, sir, for I told her maid this morning, my master was run stark mad only for love of her mistress.–I hear a coach stop; if it should be she, sir, I believe he would not see her, till he hears how she takes it.
SCAN. Well, I’ll try her: –’tis she–here she comes.
SCENE II.
[To them] ANGELICA with JENNY.
ANG. Mr Scandal, I suppose you don’t think it a novelty to see a woman visit a man at his own lodgings in a morning?
SCAN. Not upon a kind occasion, madam. But when a lady comes tyrannically to insult a ruined lover, and make manifest the cruel triumphs of her beauty, the barbarity of it something surprises me.
ANG. I don’t like raillery from a serious face. Pray tell me what is the matter?
JERE. No strange matter, madam; my master’s mad, that’s all. I suppose your ladyship has thought him so a great while.
ANG. How d’ye mean, mad?
JERE. Why, faith, madam, he’s mad for want of his wits, just as he was poor for want of money; his head is e’en as light as his pockets, and anybody that has a mind to a bad bargain can’t do better than to beg him for his estate.
ANG. If you speak truth, your endeavouring at wit is very unseasonable.
SCAN. She’s concerned, and loves him. [Aside.]
ANG. Mr Scandal, you can’t think me guilty of so much inhumanity as not to be concerned for a man I must own myself obliged to? Pray tell me truth.
SCAN. Faith, madam, I wish telling a lie would mend the matter. But this is no new effect of an unsuccessful passion.
ANG. [Aside.] I know not what to think. Yet I should be vexed to have a trick put upon me. May I not see him?
SCAN. I’m afraid the physician is not willing you should see him yet. Jeremy, go in and enquire.
SCENE III.
SCANDAL, ANGELICA, JENNY.
ANG. Ha! I saw him wink and smile. I fancy ’tis a trick–I’ll try.–I would disguise to all the world a failing which I must own to you: I fear my happiness depends upon the recovery of Valentine. Therefore I conjure you, as you are his friend, and as you have compassion upon one fearful of affliction, to tell me what I am to hope for–I cannot speak–but you may tell me, tell me, for you know what I would ask?
SCAN. So, this is pretty plain. Be not too much concerned, madam; I hope his condition is not desperate. An acknowledgment of love from you, perhaps, may work a cure, as the fear of your aversion occasioned his distemper.
ANG. [Aside.] Say you so; nay, then, I’m convinced. And if I don’t play trick for trick, may I never taste the pleasure of revenge.–Acknowledgment of love! I find you have mistaken my compassion, and think me guilty of a weakness I am a stranger to. But I have too much sincerity to deceive you, and too much charity to suffer him to be deluded with vain hopes. Good nature and humanity oblige me to be concerned for him; but to love is neither in my power nor inclination, and if he can’t be cured without I suck the poison from his wounds, I’m afraid he won’t recover his senses till I lose mine.
SCAN. Hey, brave woman, i’faith–won’t you see him, then, if he desire it?
ANG. What signify a madman’s desires? Besides, ‘twould make me uneasy: –if I don’t see him, perhaps my concern for him may lessen. If I forget him, ’tis no more than he has done by himself; and now the surprise is over, methinks I am not half so sorry as I was.
SCAN. So, faith, good nature works apace; you were confessing just now an obligation to his love.
ANG. But I have considered that passions are unreasonable and involuntary; if he loves, he can’t help it; and if I don’t love, I can’t help it; no more than he can help his being a man, or I my being a woman: or no more than I can help my want of inclination to stay longer here. Come, Jenny.
SCENE IV.
SCANDAL, JEREMY.
SCAN. Humh! An admirable composition, faith, this same womankind.
JERE. What, is she gone, sir?
SCAN. Gone? Why, she was never here, nor anywhere else; nor I don’t know her if I see her, nor you neither.
JERE. Good lack! What’s the matter now? Are any more of us to be mad? Why, sir, my master longs to see her, and is almost mad in good earnest with the joyful news of her being here.
SCAN. We are all under a mistake. Ask no questions, for I can’t resolve you; but I’ll inform your master. In the meantime, if our project succeed no better with his father than it does with his mistress, he may descend from his exaltation of madness into the road of common sense, and be content only to be made a fool with other reasonable people. I hear Sir Sampson. You know your cue; I’ll to your master.
SCENE V.
JEREMY, SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, with a LAWYER.
SIR SAMP. D’ye see, Mr Buckram, here’s the paper signed with his own hand.
BUCK. Good, sir. And the conveyance is ready drawn in this box, if he be ready to sign and seal.
SIR SAMP. Ready, body o’ me? He must be ready. His sham-sickness shan’t excuse him. Oh, here’s his scoundrel. Sirrah, where’s your master?
JERE. Ah sir, he’s quite gone.
SIR SAMP. Gone! What, he is not dead?
JERE. No, sir, not dead.
SIR SAMP. What, is he gone out of town, run away, ha? has he tricked me? Speak, varlet.
JERE. No, no, sir, he’s safe enough, sir, an he were but as sound, poor gentleman. He is indeed here, sir, and not here, sir.
SIR SAMP. Hey day, rascal, do you banter me? Sirrah, d’ye banter me? Speak, sirrah, where is he? for I will find him.
JERE. Would you could, sir, for he has lost himself. Indeed, sir, I have a’most broke my heart about him–I can’t refrain tears when I think of him, sir: I’m as melancholy for him as a passing-bell, sir, or a horse in a pound.
SIR SAMP. A pox confound your similitudes, sir. Speak to be understood, and tell me in plain terms what the matter is with him, or I’ll crack your fool’s skull.
JERE. Ah, you’ve hit it, sir; that’s the matter with him, sir: his skull’s cracked, poor gentleman; he’s stark mad, sir.
SIR SAMP. Mad!
BUCK. What, is he non compos?
JERE. Quite non compos, sir.
BUCK. Why, then, all’s obliterated, Sir Sampson, if he be non compos mentis; his act and deed will be of no effect, it is not good in law.
SIR SAMP. Oons, I won’t believe it; let me see him, sir. Mad–I’ll make him find his senses.
JERE. Mr Scandal is with him, sir; I’ll knock at the door.
[Goes to the scene, which opens.]
SCENE VI.
SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY, and LAWYER. VALENTINE upon a couch disorderly dressed.
SIR SAMP. How now, what’s here to do?
VAL. Ha! Who’s that? [Starting.]
SCAN. For heav’n’s sake softly, sir, and gently; don’t provoke him.
VAL. Answer me: who is that, and that?
SIR SAMP. Gads bobs, does he not know me? Is he mischievous? I’ll speak gently. Val, Val, dost thou not know me, boy? Not know thy own father, Val? I am thy own father, and this is honest Brief Buckram, the lawyer.
VAL. It may be so–I did not know you–the world is full. There are people that we do know, and people that we do not know, and yet the sun shines upon all alike. There are fathers that have many children, and there are children that have many fathers. ‘Tis strange! But I am Truth, and come to give the world the lie.
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I know not what to say to him.
VAL. Why does that lawyer wear black? Does he carry his conscience withoutside? Lawyer what art thou? Dost thou know me?
BUCK. O Lord, what must I say? Yes, sir,
VAL. Thou liest, for I am Truth. ‘Tis hard I cannot get a livelihood amongst you. I have been sworn out of Westminster Hall the first day of every term–let me see–no matter how long. But I’ll tell you one thing: it’s a question that would puzzle an arithmetician, if you should ask him, whether the Bible saves more souls in Westminster Abbey, or damns more in Westminster Hall. For my part, I am Truth, and can’t tell; I have very few acquaintance.
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, he talks sensibly in his madness. Has he no intervals?
JERE. Very short, sir.
BUCK. Sir, I can do you no service while he’s in this condition. Here’s your paper, sir–he may do me a mischief if I stay. The conveyance is ready, sir, if he recover his senses.
SCENE VII.
SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY.
SIR SAMP. Hold, hold, don’t you go yet.
SCAN. You’d better let him go, sir, and send for him if there be occasion; for I fancy his presence provokes him more.
VAL. Is the lawyer gone? ‘Tis well, then we may drink about without going together by the ears–heigh ho! What a’clock is’t? My father here! Your blessing, sir.
SIR SAMP. He recovers–bless thee, Val; how dost thou do, boy?
VAL. Thank you, sir, pretty well. I have been a little out of order, Won’t you please to sit, sir?
SIR SAMP. Ay, boy. Come, thou shalt sit down by me.
VAL. Sir, ’tis my duty to wait.
SIR SAMP. No, no; come, come, sit thee down, honest Val. How dost thou do? Let me feel thy pulse. Oh, pretty well now, Val. Body o’ me, I was sorry to see thee indisposed; but I’m glad thou art better, honest Val.
VAL. I thank you, sir.
SCAN. Miracle! The monster grows loving. [Aside.]
SIR SAMP. Let me feel thy hand again, Val. It does not shake; I believe thou canst write, Val. Ha, boy? thou canst write thy name, Val. Jeremy, step and overtake Mr Buckram, bid him make haste back with the conveyance; quick, quick. [In whisper to JEREMY.]
SCENE VIII.
SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL.
SCAN. That ever I should suspect such a heathen of any remorse! [Aside.]
SIR SAMP. Dost thou know this paper, Val? I know thou’rt honest, and wilt perform articles. [Shows him the paper, but holds it out of his reach.]
VAL. Pray let me see it, sir. You hold it so far off that I can’t tell whether I know it or no.
SIR SAMP. See it, boy? Ay, ay; why, thou dost see it–’tis thy own hand, Vally. Why, let me see, I can read it as plain as can be. Look you here. [Reads.] THE CONDITION OF THIS OBLIGATION–Look you, as plain as can be, so it begins–and then at the bottom–AS WITNESS MY HAND, VALENTINE LEGEND, in great letters. Why, ’tis as plain as the nose in one’s face. What, are my eyes better than thine? I believe I can read it farther off yet; let me see. [Stretches his arm as far as he can.]
VAL. Will you please to let me hold it, sir?
SIR SAMP. Let thee hold it, sayest thou? Ay, with all my heart. What matter is it who holds it? What need anybody hold it? I’ll put it up in my pocket, Val, and then nobody need hold it. [Puts the paper in his pocket.] There, Val; it’s safe enough, boy. But thou shalt have it as soon as thou hast set thy hand to another paper, little Val.
SCENE IX.
[To them] JEREMY with BUCKRAM.
VAL. What, is my bad genius here again! Oh no, ’tis the lawyer with an itching palm; and he’s come to be scratched. My nails are not long enough. Let me have a pair of red-hot tongs quickly, quickly, and you shall see me act St. Dunstan, and lead the devil by the nose.
BUCK. O Lord, let me begone: I’ll not venture myself with a madman.
SCENE X.
SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY.
VAL. Ha, ha, ha; you need not run so fast, honesty will not overtake you. Ha, ha, ha, the rogue found me out to be in forma pauperis presently.
SIR SAMP. Oons! What a vexation is here! I know not what to do, or say, nor which way to go.
VAL. Who’s that that’s out of his way? I am Truth, and can set him right. Harkee, friend, the straight road is the worst way you can go. He that follows his nose always, will very often be led into a stink. Probatum est. But what are you for? religion or politics? There’s a couple of topics for you, no more like one another than oil and vinegar; and yet those two, beaten together by a state-cook, make sauce for the whole nation.
SIR SAMP. What the devil had I to do, ever to beget sons? Why did I ever marry?
VAL. Because thou wert a monster, old boy! The two greatest monsters in the world are a man and a woman! What’s thy opinion?
SIR SAMP. Why, my opinion is, that those two monsters joined together, make yet a greater, that’s a man and his wife.
VAL. Aha! Old True-penny, say’st thou so? Thou hast nicked it. But it’s wonderful strange, Jeremy.
JERE. What is, sir?
VAL. That gray hairs should cover a green head–and I make a fool of my father. What’s here! Erra Pater: or a bearded sibyl? If Prophecy comes, Truth must give place.
SCENE XI.
SIR SAMPSON, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MISS FORESIGHT, MRS FRAIL.
FORE. What says he? What, did he prophesy? Ha, Sir Sampson, bless us! How are we?
SIR SAMP. Are we? A pox o’ your prognostication. Why, we are fools as we use to be. Oons, that you could not foresee that the moon would predominate, and my son be mad. Where’s your oppositions, your trines, and your quadrates? What did your Cardan and your Ptolemy tell you? Your Messahalah and your Longomontanus, your harmony of chiromancy with astrology. Ah! pox on’t, that I that know the world and men and manners, that don’t believe a syllable in the sky and stars, and sun and almanacs and trash, should be directed by a dreamer, an omen-hunter, and defer business in expectation of a lucky hour, when, body o’ me, there never was a lucky hour after the first opportunity.
SCENE XII.
SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, MRS FORESIGHT, MRS FRAIL.
FORE. Ah, Sir Sampson, heav’n help your head. This is none of your lucky hour; Nemo omnibus horis sapit. What, is he gone, and in contempt of science? Ill stars and unconvertible ignorance attend him.
SCAN. You must excuse his passion, Mr Foresight, for he has been heartily vexed. His son is non compos mentis, and thereby incapable of making any conveyance in law; so that all his measures are disappointed.
FORE. Ha! say you so?
MRS FRAIL. What, has my sea-lover lost his anchor of hope, then? [Aside to MRS FORESIGHT.]
MRS FORE. O sister, what will you do with him?
MRS FRAIL. Do with him? Send him to sea again in the next foul weather. He’s used to an inconstant element, and won’t be surprised to see the tide turned.
FORE. Wherein was I mistaken, not to foresee this? [Considers.]
SCAN. Madam, you and I can tell him something else that he did not foresee, and more particularly relating to his own fortune. [Aside to MRS FORESIGHT.]
MRS FORE. What do you mean? I don’t understand you.
SCAN. Hush, softly,–the pleasures of last night, my dear, too considerable to be forgot so soon.
MRS FORE. Last night! And what would your impudence infer from last night? Last night was like the night before, I think.
SCAN. ‘Sdeath, do you make no difference between me and your husband?
MRS FORE. Not much,–he’s superstitious, and you are mad, in my opinion.
SCAN. You make me mad. You are not serious. Pray recollect yourself.
MRS FORE. Oh yes, now I remember, you were very impertinent and impudent,–and would have come to bed to me.
SCAN. And did not?
MRS FORE. Did not! With that face can you ask the question?
SCAN. This I have heard of before, but never believed. I have been told, she had that admirable quality of forgetting to a man’s face in the morning that she had lain with him all night, and denying that she had done favours with more impudence than she could grant ’em. Madam, I’m your humble servant, and honour you.–You look pretty well, Mr Foresight: how did you rest last night?
FORE. Truly, Mr Scandal, I was so taken up with broken dreams and distracted visions that I remember little.
SCAN. ‘Twas a very forgetting night. But would you not talk with Valentine? Perhaps you may understand him; I’m apt to believe there is something mysterious in his discourses, and sometimes rather think him inspired than mad.
FORE. You speak with singular good judgment, Mr Scandal, truly. I am inclining to your Turkish opinion in this matter, and do reverence a man whom the vulgar think mad. Let us go to him.
MRS FRAIL. Sister, do you stay with them; I’ll find out my lover, and give him his discharge, and come to you. O’ my conscience, here he comes.
SCENE XIII.
MRS FRAIL, BEN.
BEN. All mad, I think. Flesh, I believe all the calentures of the sea are come ashore, for my part.
MRS FRAIL. Mr Benjamin in choler!
BEN. No, I’m pleased well enough, now I have found you. Mess, I have had such a hurricane upon your account yonder.
MRS FRAIL. My account; pray what’s the matter?
BEN. Why, father came and found me squabbling with yon chitty-faced thing as he would have me marry, so he asked what was the matter. He asked in a surly sort of a way–it seems brother Val is gone mad, and so that put’n into a passion; but what did I know that? what’s that to me?–so he asked in a surly sort of manner, and gad I answered ‘n as surlily. What thof he be my father, I an’t bound prentice to ‘n; so faith I told ‘n in plain terms, if I were minded to marry, I’d marry to please myself, not him. And for the young woman that he provided for me, I thought it more fitting for her to learn her sampler and make dirt-pies than to look after a husband; for my part I was none of her man. I had another voyage to make, let him take it as he will.
MRS FRAIL. So, then, you intend to go to sea again?
BEN. Nay, nay, my mind run upon you, but I would not tell him so much. So he said he’d make my heart ache; and if so be that he could get a woman to his mind, he’d marry himself. Gad, says I, an you play the fool and marry at these years, there’s more danger of your head’s aching than my heart. He was woundy angry when I gave’n that wipe. He hadn’t a word to say, and so I left’n, and the green girl together; mayhap the bee may bite, and he’ll marry her himself, with all my heart.
MRS FRAIL. And were you this undutiful and graceless wretch to your father?
BEN. Then why was he graceless first? If I am undutiful and graceless, why did he beget me so? I did not get myself.
MRS FRAIL. O impiety! How have I been mistaken! What an inhuman, merciless creature have I set my heart upon? Oh, I am happy to have discovered the shelves and quicksands that lurk beneath that faithless, smiling face.
BEN. Hey toss! What’s the matter now? Why, you ben’t angry, be you?
MRS FRAIL. Oh, see me no more,–for thou wert born amongst rocks, suckled by whales, cradled in a tempest, and whistled to by winds; and thou art come forth with fins and scales, and three rows of teeth, a most outrageous fish of prey.
BEN. O Lord, O Lord, she’s mad, poor young woman: love has turned her senses, her brain is quite overset. Well-a-day, how shall I do to set her to rights?
MRS FRAIL. No, no, I am not mad, monster; I am wise enough to find you out. Hadst thou the impudence to aspire at being a husband with that stubborn and disobedient temper? You that know not how to submit to a father, presume to have a sufficient stock of duty to undergo a wife? I should have been finely fobbed indeed, very finely fobbed.
BEN. Harkee, forsooth; if so be that you are in your right senses, d’ye see, for ought as I perceive I’m like to be finely fobbed,–if I have got anger here upon your account, and you are tacked about already. What d’ye mean, after all your fair speeches, and stroking my cheeks, and kissing and hugging, what would you sheer off so? Would you, and leave me aground?
MRS FRAIL. No, I’ll leave you adrift, and go which way you will.
BEN. What, are you false-hearted, then?
MRS FRAIL. Only the wind’s changed.
BEN. More shame for you,–the wind’s changed? It’s an ill wind blows nobody good,–mayhap I have a good riddance on you, if these be your tricks. What, did you mean all this while to make a fool of me?
MRS FRAIL. Any fool but a husband.
BEN. Husband! Gad, I would not be your husband if you would have me, now I know your mind: thof you had your weight in gold and jewels, and thof I loved you never so well.
MRS FRAIL. Why, can’st thou love, Porpuss?
BEN. No matter what I can do; don’t call names. I don’t love you so well as to bear that, whatever I did. I’m glad you show yourself, mistress. Let them marry you as don’t know you. Gad, I know you too well, by sad experience; I believe he that marries you will go to sea in a hen-pecked frigate–I believe that, young woman- -and mayhap may come to an anchor at Cuckolds-Point; so there’s a dash for you, take it as you will: mayhap you may holla after me when I won’t come to.
MRS FRAIL. Ha, ha, ha, no doubt on’t.–MY TRUE LOVE IS GONE TO SEA. [Sings]
SCENE XIV.
MRS FRAIL, MRS FORESIGHT.
MRS FRAIL. O sister, had you come a minute sooner, you would have seen the resolution of a lover: –honest Tar and I are parted;–and with the same indifference that we met. O’ my life I am half vexed at the insensibility of a brute that I despised.
MRS FORE. What then, he bore it most heroically?
MRS FRAIL. Most tyrannically; for you see he has got the start of me, and I, the poor forsaken maid, am left complaining on the shore. But I’ll tell you a hint that he has given me: Sir Sampson is enraged, and talks desperately of committing matrimony himself. If he has a mind to throw himself away, he can’t do it more effectually than upon me, if we could bring it about.
MRS FORE. Oh, hang him, old fox, he’s too cunning; besides, he hates both you and me. But I have a project in my head for you, and I have gone a good way towards it. I have almost made a bargain with Jeremy, Valentine’s man, to sell his master to us.
MRS FRAIL. Sell him? How?
MRS FORE. Valentine raves upon Angelica, and took me for her, and Jeremy says will take anybody for her that he imposes on him. Now, I have promised him mountains, if in one of his mad fits he will bring you to him in her stead, and get you married together and put to bed together; and after consummation, girl, there’s no revoking. And if he should recover his senses, he’ll be glad at least to make you a good settlement. Here they come: stand aside a little, and tell me how you like the design.
SCENE XV.
MRS FORESIGHT, MRS FRAIL, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, and JEREMY.
SCAN. And have you given your master a hint of their plot upon him? [To JEREMY.]
JERE. Yes, sir; he says he’ll favour it, and mistake her for Angelica.
SCAN. It may make us sport.
FORE. Mercy on us!
VAL. Husht–interrupt me not–I’ll whisper prediction to thee, and thou shalt prophesy. I am Truth, and can teach thy tongue a new trick. I have told thee what’s past,–now I’ll tell what’s to come. Dost thou know what will happen to-morrow?–Answer me not–for I will tell thee. To-morrow, knaves will thrive through craft, and fools through fortune, and honesty will go as it did, frost-nipt in a summer suit. Ask me questions concerning to-morrow.
SCAN. Ask him, Mr Foresight.
FORE. Pray what will be done at court?
VAL. Scandal will tell you. I am Truth; I never come there.
FORE. In the city?
VAL. Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches at the usual hours. Yet you will see such zealous faces behind counters, as if religion were to be sold in every shop. Oh, things will go methodically in the city: the clocks will strike twelve at noon, and the horned herd buzz in the exchange at two. Wives and husbands will drive distinct trades, and care and pleasure separately occupy the family. Coffee-houses will be full of smoke and stratagem. And the cropt prentice, that sweeps his master’s shop in the morning, may ten to one dirty his sheets before night. But there are two things that you will see very strange: which are wanton wives with their legs at liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains about their necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go further. You look suspiciously. Are you a husband?
FORE. I am married.
VAL. Poor creature! Is your wife of Covent Garden parish?
FORE. No; St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields.
VAL. Alas, poor man; his eyes are sunk, and his hands shrivelled; his legs dwindled, and his back bowed: pray, pray, for a metamorphosis. Change thy shape and shake off age; get thee Medea’s kettle and be boiled anew; come forth with lab’ring callous hands, a chine of steel, and Atlas shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty chairmen, and make thee pedestals to stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. Ha, ha, ha! That a man should have a stomach to a wedding supper, when the pigeons ought rather to be laid to his feet, ha, ha, ha!
FORE. His frenzy is very high now, Mr Scandal.
SCAN. I believe it is a spring tide.
FORE. Very likely, truly. You understand these matters. Mr Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer with you about these things which he has uttered. His sayings are very mysterious and hieroglyphical.
VAL. Oh, why would Angelica be absent from my eyes so long?
JERE. She’s here, sir.
MRS FORE. Now, sister.
MRS FRAIL. O Lord, what must I say?
SCAN. Humour him, madam, by all means.
VAL. Where is she? Oh, I see her–she comes, like riches, health, and liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, and abandoned wretch. Oh, welcome, welcome.
MRS FRAIL. How d’ye, sir? Can I serve you?
VAL. Harkee; I have a secret to tell you: Endymion and the moon shall meet us upon Mount Latmos, and we’ll be married in the dead of night. But say not a word. Hymen shall put his torch into a dark lanthorn, that it may be secret; and Juno shall give her peacock poppy-water, that he may fold his ogling tail, and Argus’s hundred eyes be shut, ha! Nobody shall know but Jeremy.
MRS FRAIL. No, no, we’ll keep it secret, it shall be done presently.
VAL. The sooner the better. Jeremy, come hither–closer–that none may overhear us. Jeremy, I can tell you news: Angelica is turned nun, and I am turning friar, and yet we’ll marry one another in spite of the pope. Get me a cowl and beads, that I may play my part,–for she’ll meet me two hours hence in black and white, and a long veil to cover the project, and we won’t see one another’s faces, till we have done something to be ashamed of; and then we’ll blush once for all.
SCENE XVI.
[To them] TATTLE and ANGELICA.
JERE. I’ll take care, and –
VAL. Whisper.
ANG. Nay, Mr Tattle, if you make love to me, you spoil my design, for I intend to make you my confidant.
TATT. But, madam, to throw away your person–such a person!–and such a fortune on a madman!
ANG. I never loved him till he was mad; but don’t tell anybody so.
SCAN. How’s this! Tattle making love to Angelica!
TATT. Tell, madam? Alas, you don’t know me. I have much ado to tell your ladyship how long I have been in love with you–but encouraged by the impossibility of Valentine’s making any more addresses to you, I have ventured to declare the very inmost passion of my heart. O madam, look upon us both. There you see the ruins of a poor decayed creature–here, a complete and lively figure, with youth and health, and all his five senses in perfection, madam, and to all this, the most passionate lover –
ANG. O fie, for shame, hold your tongue. A passionate lover, and five senses in perfection! When you are as mad as Valentine, I’ll believe you love me, and the maddest shall take me.
VAL. It is enough. Ha! Who’s here?
FRAIL. O Lord, her coming will spoil all. [To JEREMY.]
JERE. No, no, madam, he won’t know her; if he should, I can persuade him.
VAL. Scandal, who are these? Foreigners? If they are, I’ll tell you what I think,–get away all the company but Angelica, that I may discover my design to her. [Whisper.]
SCAN. I will–I have discovered something of Tattle that is of a piece with Mrs Frail. He courts Angelica; if we could contrive to couple ’em together.–Hark’ee–[Whisper.]
MRS FORE. He won’t know you, cousin; he knows nobody.
FORE. But he knows more than anybody. O niece, he knows things past and to come, and all the profound secrets of time.
TATT. Look you, Mr Foresight, it is not my way to make many words of matters, and so I shan’t say much,–but in short, d’ye see, I will hold you a hundred pounds now, that I know more secrets than he.
FORE. How! I cannot read that knowledge in your face, Mr Tattle. Pray, what do you know?
TATT. Why, d’ye think I’ll tell you, sir? Read it in my face? No, sir, ’tis written in my heart; and safer there, sir, than letters writ in juice of lemon, for no fire can fetch it out. I am no blab, sir.
VAL. Acquaint Jeremy with it, he may easily bring it about. They are welcome, and I’ll tell ’em so myself. [To SCANDAL.] What, do you look strange upon me? Then I must be plain. [Coming up to them.] I am Truth, and hate an old acquaintance with a new face. [SCANDAL goes aside with JEREMY.]
TATT. Do you know me, Valentine?
VAL. You? Who are you? No, I hope not.
TATT. I am Jack Tattle, your friend.
VAL. My friend, what to do? I am no married man, and thou canst not lie with my wife. I am very poor, and thou canst not borrow money of me. Then what employment have I for a friend?
TATT. Ha! a good open speaker, and not to be trusted with a secret.
ANG. Do you know me, Valentine?
VAL. Oh, very well.
ANG. Who am I?
VAL. You’re a woman. One to whom heav’n gave beauty, when it grafted roses on a briar. You are the reflection of heav’n in a pond, and he that leaps at you is sunk. You are all white, a sheet of lovely, spotless paper, when you first are born; but you are to be scrawled and blotted by every goose’s quill. I know you; for I loved a woman, and loved her so long, that I found out a strange thing: I found out what a woman was good for.
TATT. Ay, prithee, what’s that?
VAL. Why, to keep a secret.
TATT. O Lord!
VAL. Oh, exceeding good to keep a secret; for though she should tell, yet she is not to be believed.
TATT. Hah! good again, faith.
VAL. I would have music. Sing me the song that I like.
SONG
Set by MR FINGER.
I tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve, And could again begin to love and live,
To you I should my earliest off’ring give; I know my eyes would lead my heart to you, And I should all my vows and oaths renew, But to be plain, I never would be true.
II.
For by our weak and weary truth, I find, Love hates to centre in a point assign’d? But runs with joy the circle of the mind. Then never let us chain what should be free, But for relief of either sex agree,
Since women love to change, and so do we.
No more, for I am melancholy. [Walks musing.]
JERE. I’ll do’t, sir. [To SCANDAL.]
SCAN. Mr Foresight, we had best leave him. He may grow outrageous, and do mischief.
FORE. I will be directed by you.
JERE. [To MRS FRAIL.] You’ll meet, madam? I’ll take care everything shall be ready.
MRS FRAIL. Thou shalt do what thou wilt; in short, I will deny thee nothing.
TATT. Madam, shall I wait upon you? [To ANGELICA.]
ANG. No, I’ll stay with him; Mr Scandal will protect me. Aunt, Mr Tattle desires you would give him leave to wait on you.
TATT. Pox on’t, there’s no coming off, now she has said that. Madam, will you do me the honour?
MRS FORE. Mr Tattle might have used less ceremony.
SCENE XVII.
ANGELICA, VALENTINE, SCANDAL.
SCAN. Jeremy, follow Tattle.
ANG. Mr Scandal, I only stay till my maid comes, and because I had a mind to be rid of Mr Tattle.
SCAN. Madam, I am very glad that I overheard a better reason which you gave to Mr Tattle; for his impertinence forced you to acknowledge a kindness for Valentine, which you denied to all his sufferings and my solicitations. So I’ll leave him to make use of the discovery, and your ladyship to the free confession of your inclinations.
ANG. O heav’ns! You won’t leave me alone with a madman?
SCAN. No, madam; I only leave a madman to his remedy.
SCENE XVIII.
ANGELICA, VALENTINE.
VAL. Madam, you need not be very much afraid, for I fancy I begin to come to myself.
ANG. Ay, but if I don’t fit you, I’ll be hanged. [Aside.]
VAL. You see what disguises love makes us put on. Gods have been in counterfeited shapes for the same reason; and the divine part of me, my mind, has worn this mask of madness and this motley livery, only as the slave of love and menial creature of your beauty.
ANG. Mercy on me, how he talks! Poor Valentine!
VAL. Nay, faith, now let us understand one another, hypocrisy apart. The comedy draws toward an end, and let us think of leaving acting and be ourselves; and since you have loved me, you must own I have at length deserved you should confess it.
ANG. [Sighs.] I would I had loved you–for heav’n knows I pity you, and could I have foreseen the bad effects, I would have striven; but that’s too late. [Sighs.]
VAL. What sad effects?–what’s too late? My seeming madness has deceived my father, and procured me time to think of means to reconcile me to him, and preserve the right of my inheritance to his estate; which otherwise, by articles, I must this morning have resigned. And this I had informed you of to-day, but you were gone before I knew you had been here.
ANG. How! I thought your love of me had caused this transport in your soul; which, it seems, you only counterfeited, for mercenary ends and sordid interest.
VAL. Nay, now you do me wrong; for if any interest was considered it was yours, since I thought I wanted more than love to make me worthy of you.
ANG. Then you thought me mercenary. But how am I deluded by this interval of sense to reason with a madman?
VAL. Oh, ’tis barbarous to misunderstand me longer.