ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—Covent Garden.
Enter Young Bookwit and Latine.
Young Book. This Roebuck has almost done my business. Rigby's an honest fellow, and would not poison us. The wine had good-humour, mirth, and joy in it. My blood beats high and frolic. What says my dear lackey? Ha!
Lat. Why, sir, I say, sir, that I am in so noble, so exalted a condition, that I almost forget I am your honour's footman.
Y. Book. Do but your business well to-night.
Lat. Who says the tongue stutters, legs falter, and eyes fail with drink? 'Tis false, my dear master, my tongue runs faster than ever; my legs so brisk and nimble, that I can't stand still; and my eyes are better than ever they were; for I see everything double—But the letter, the letter, I warrant I give it her.
Y. Book. Here, here, Jack, take it.
Lat. Let's come nearer the lamp. This is the foul copy of it that 'tis wrapped in. Let me judge. Now I'll be sedate. Let me read it again.
Y. Book. But you look cursedly fluttered; they'll say you're drunk. Let's see, I must comb your wig a little.
Lat. I shall be kicked for this letter here about the middle. You should not talk of joys so soon; you should write miserable a fortnight or three weeks longer—I shall be kicked.
Y. Book. What then? what then? A man of your philosophy must needs remember, the body's but the mere organ of the mind. Kicks come under the topic of things without. What shall I do for powder for this smart bob? [Combs out his own wig into Lat's.
Lat. 'Tis no matter, sir; powder comes under the notion of things without.
Y. Book. Oh! but ladies are no philosophers; but as to being drubbed (these stockings too), you must fix your imagination upon some other object, and you may, by force of thought, suspend your feeling. The body is but the instrument of the mind, and you may command an instrument.
Lat. No, sir, I'll have you to know, I'll save my carcass by mere dint of eloquence. You have no other orders?
Y. Book. No; but may persuasion, grace, and elocution hang on thy lips. But if you can come in to Victoria, she and the wine you've drank will inspire you. Farewell. [Exit.
Lat. This is the enchanted castle which the lady fair inhabits. Ha! Mr. Simon, sir, I am your most humble servant. My dear friend——
Enter Simon.
Sim. Your servant, good sir; my lady is with Madam Victoria at cards. She'll lie here to-night—but all's ruined; they are both huge angry with your master. But Lettice, having taken a fancy to you, Mr. John, spoke up rarely, that she did indeed.
Lat. Can't one come to the speech of her?
Sim. I was ordered to have a strict eye to the door, and let nobody in whatever. I don't care for going up, because she'll see I have made a cap of one of the finest napkins, for which she'll make a plaguy noise.
Lat. Nay, nay, you are exactly of my mind; I love to avoid anger.
Sim. You are a little disguised in drink, though, Mr. John—but I ain't seen you, not I. Go straight up: Mrs. Lettice is in the ante-chamber.
Lat. I thank you, dear friend. My master bids me upon these occasions——[Gives him money.
Sim. I beg your pardon, good Mr. John.
Lat. Look you, I am a servant as well as you; what do you mean, Mr. Simon? Come, come, time's precious. When your lady's married, all these vails will end.
Sim. Nay, I said behind your back, Mr. John, that you were very well spoken. Well, put up briskly. I'll stand your friend as much as one servant can to another, against all masters and mistresses whatever.
Lat. Thanks, good Mr. Simon. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Penelope's Lodgings.
Lettice, discovered reading, by a small candle; two large ones by her unlighted.
Lett. 'Tis a most sad thing, one dare not light a large candle except company's coming in, and I scarce can see to read this piteous story. Well, in all these distresses and misfortunes, the faithful Argalus was renowned all over the plains of Arca—Arca—Arcadia—for his loyal and true affection to his charming paramour, Parthenia.[70] Blessings on his heart for it; there are no such suitors nowadays. [Weeping.] But I hope they'll come together again at the end of the book, and marry, and have several children. Oh! Bless me! A man here! [Turns over the leaves.]—The gentleman's pretty man——[Aside.
Enter Latine.
I wonder by what means, with that impudence, you could offer to come upstairs at this time of the night, and my lady in the next room. I protest I'll cry out. [In a low voice all.
Lat. Dear Mrs. Lettice, my love to you. [Aloud.
Lett. Hist, hist! I am, methinks, however, loth to discover you, because servants must do as they're bid; for I know it was not to see me, but some message from your master you came about.
Lat. I offered to bring a letter from him, in hopes to see you, my dearest. I'll not give it at all; I don't care, my dearest. [Kisses her hand.
Lett. Pho! pho! now you are rude, because you know one dare not discover you. You do what you will.—How he kisses one's hand: I warrant he has kissed his betters. [Aside.]—Pray, did you never live in a lady's service?
Lat. No; nor do I value any of the sex but your dear self, Mrs. Lettice.—I would be discovered. [Aside.]—I'm in a rapture! in a flame!
Pen. [Within.] Who's there?
Lett. Hist, hist! could not you have forced a kiss quietly?—Madam! madam!—Hold me fast. Show the letter, my lady's coming.—I tell you, sir, she will receive no message at all. Get you downstairs, you impudent!—Hold me faster yet; she loves your master. [Softly aside to Latine.
Enter Penelope and Victoria.
Pen. What can this mean? What fellow's that has seized the wench?
Lett. Madam, madam, here's Mr. Bookwit's footman drunk, and has directly stole upstairs with some ill design, I fear, on me—but has a letter from his master to your ladyship.
Pen. Call up the servants: Simon, William, Kate, Alf! I'll have the rascal well basted for his insolence—served just as his master deserves.
Lat. [Kneeling.] Let not those lips, more sweet than labour of Hyblæan bees, utter a sentence, as if a Libyan lioness on a mountain gave thee suck, and thou wert the obdurate offspring of a rock.
Vict. Hyblæan! Libyan! Obdurate! Ridiculous. The fellow has got his master's cant! Ha! ha! ha!
Pen. I'll put him out of it, I'll warrant you. What, will no one come up there?
Enter Servants with brooms, &c.
Lat. Oh! for the force of eloquence to allay and reconcile the passion of this angry mansion!—I had like to have said plain house, which had been against the laws of buskin, in which I would at present talk. [Aside.
Pen. Did you ever hear anything like this? Ha! ha!
Maid. Madam, shall I beat him?
Lat. Ah! culinary fair, compose thy rage; thou whose more skilful hand is still employed in offices for the support of nature, descend not from thyself, thou bright cookmaid——There! sunk again! [Aside.]—With heightened gusts and quickening tastes, by you what would be labour else is made delight. Thou great robust, let not thy hand all red assault a life it rather should preserve.
Maid. Good madam, excuse me, I can't touch him——I have bowels for him. [Weeping.
Sim. I wish I had his learning. I'll warrant he buys in everything wherever he lives.
Lat. This, madam, this faithful paper tells you the passions of the tenderest heart that ever bled for cruel maid. Oh, Victoria! did you but hear his sighs, his restless hours!—how often he repeats Victoria!
Lett. Victoria! Then I find this is none on't meant to my lady—nor to me neither; the master and man are both rogues. [Aside.
Pen. Receive your seasonable epistle now at midnight!
Vict. He can't mean me——To you he all along addressed.—Would I could read it without her. [Aside.
Pen. To show you I value neither author nor bearer of it—kick the fellow down!
Lat. Nay, madam, since matters must come to extremities, I'd rather have the honour of your ladyship's command to be cudgelled by your good family than have it from my master. A disappointed lover in his rage will strike stone walls and things inanimate, much more a poor live footman; therefore I must deliver my message. I'll read it to you, ladies, for I see you are friends.
Pen. Away with him.
Lat. "If the sincerity of my intentions were not——"
Lett. Get out, false wretch.
Lat. "Demonstrable, in spite of——"
Maid. Take that——
Lat. "These accidents in which I have been involved, I should not dare to tell you how alternately joys, raptures, ecstasies, miseries, doubts, and anxieties do attack a breast devoted to you."
Whither shall injured virtue fly for shelter,
When love and honour suffer thus in me?
Oh! I could rage, call elements about me, spout cataracts—
Must I be drubbed with broom-staves? [Exit. Lat.
Pen. Come in, my dear, again. The night is cold. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Covent Garden.
Enter Lovemore and Frederick.
Love. It is so pleasant a night that I will see you over the Garden to your lodgings.
Fred. That compliment won't pass upon me. Your reason for sauntering this way is that 'tis near Penelope's.
Love. I come for her sake! No; should she write, beseech, kneel to me, I think I ne'er should value her more. No, I'll be no longer her tool, her jest; she shall not dally with a passion she deserves not.
Fred. 'Twere very well were this resolution in your power; but believe me, friend, one smile, one glance that were but doubtful whether favourable, would conquer all your indignation.
Love. Faith, I'm afraid what you say is true.
Fred. Then strive not to be rationally mad, which you attempt if you think you can at once be at your own command and at another's. Would you be master of yourself and have a mistress?
Love. But I can rebel against that mistress.
Fred. Do if you can. Nay, I'm sure 'tis in your power, because to-morrow morning you are to fight a rival for her—because though you know she lies backwards, and you can't so much as see her chamber window, you must needs walk hither. Well, I protest I'm of your mind; there is, me thinks, now a particular, amiable gloom about that house—though, perhaps, to ordinary beholders it is exactly like the others.
Love. You are very witty, I must confess, at your friend's follies, Mr. Frederick.
Fred. I won't then any longer disturb your meditation, but e'en go home like a dull rogue as I am, and without love enough to any woman, or hatred enough to any man, to keep me awake, fall fast asleep—I was going to wish you rest, but you are above all that. If it should rain, I'd advise you not to forget it does, but go into the Piazza. [Exit.
Love. 'Tis very well, I'm deservedly laughed at. But the door opens—Bookwit's footman! [Latine crosses the stage.] The master, I suppose, is there too. I'll watch for his coming out——The morning approaches too slowly. He shall not sleep to-night except it be for ever——Oh, revenge! Oh, jealousy!
Enter Young Bookwit, with bottle and glass, singing.[71]
Y. Book.
Since the day of poor man,
That little, little span,
Though long it can't last,
For the future and past
Is spent with remorse and despair.
With such a full glass
Let that of life pass,
'Tis made up of trouble,
A storm though a bubble,
There's no bliss but forgetting your care.
I wonder what's become of poor Latine. I wish he had a bumper of this——[Drinks.
Love. I have no patience to observe his insolent jollity; how immoderately joyful my misery has made him!—Bookwit!
Y. Book. Lovemore!
Love. What, sir! are you diverting the thought of to-morrow morning's business with midnight riot? Or is it an assignation keeps you out of bed thus late?
Y. Book. An hour or two till morning is not much in either of our lives; therefore I must tell you now, sir, I am ready for your message.
Love. That conscious light and stars are witnesses of——
Y. Book. I want no witnesses. I have a sword, as you bid me meet you. [They draw and fight.
Love. You've done my business. [Falls.
Y. Book. Then I've done what you desired me. But this is no place for me. [Exit.
Enter Constable and Watchmen.
Const. Where, where was this clashing of swords? So-ho! So-ho! You, sir, what, are you dead? Speak, friend; what are you afraid of? If you are dead, the law can't take hold of you.
Watch. I beg your pardon, Mr. Constable, he ought by the law to be carried to the Round-house for being dead at this time of night.
Const. Then away with him, you three——And you, gentlemen, follow me to find out who killed him. [Exeunt.
Enter Simon.
Sim. What's the matter, good gentlemen, what's the matter? Oh, me! Mr. Lovemore killed! Oh, me! My mind gives me that it must be about our young lady.
Watch. Does it so, sir? Then you must stay with us. [Some hold Simon, whilst others carry Lovemore off.
Sim. I stay with you! Oh, gemini! Indeed, I can't——They can't be without me at our house.
Watch. But they must, friend——Harkee, friend—I hope you'll be hanged. [Whispers him.
Sim. I hanged! Pray, sir, take care of your words. Madam Penelope's, our young lady's servant, hanged! Take care what you say.
Enter Latine.
Lat. Whither can this Bookwit be gone?
Sim. Oh! Mr. John, Mr. Lovemore is killed just now, since you went out of our house; and you and your master must have an hand in it.
Lat. How? Lovemore killed! [They seize Latine.
Enter others with Young Bookwit.
Y. Book. Hands off, you dirty midnight rascals. Let me go, or——
Const. Sir, what were you running so fast for? There's a man killed in the Garden, and you're a fine gentleman, and it must be you—for good honest people only beat one another——
Lat. Nay, nay, we are all in a fair way to be fine gentlemen, Mr. Simon and all.
Const. Hands off, rascals, you said just now—do you know what a constable is?
Y. Book. The greatest man in the parish when all the rest are asleep.
Const. Come, come, I find they are desperate fellows; we'll to the justice, and commit 'em immediately. I'll teach rascals to speak high-treason against a petty constable——[Exeunt.[72]
Enter Frederick and Old Bookwit.
O. Book. You well may be surprised at my waiting here for your coming home. But you'll pardon me, since it is to ease me of an anxiety that keeps me waking.
Fred. I shall be very glad if I am capable of doing that.
O. Book.[73] You knew my Tom at Oxford, and I believe were not so hard a student, but you made some acquaintance in the town—therefore, pray tell me, do you know Mr. Newtown there—his family, descent, and fortune?
Fred. What Newtown?
O. Book. I'll tell you, sir, what you young fellows take most notice of old ones for—a token that you needs must know him by—he's the father of the fair Matilda, your celebrated beauty of that town.
Fred. I assure you, sir, I never heard of the father or daughter till this instant; therefore I'm confident there's no such beauty.
O. Book. Oh, sir, I know your drift—you're tender of informing me for my son's sake! He told me all himself. I know all the progress of his love with the young lady; how he was taken in the night in her bedchamber by his pistol going off, the family disturbance that was raised upon it, which he composed by marrying—I know it all.
Fred. Is Tom Bookwit then married at Oxford?
O. Book. He is, indeed, sir; therefore our affairs are now so linked that 'twill be an ill office both to the Newtowns and to us to conceal anything from me that relates to them.
Fred. A man can't be said to conceal what he does not know——But it seems it was Mr. Bookwit gave you this account himself.
O. Book. Yes, sir; I told you, sir, I had it from himself.
Fred. Then I'm sure there was nothing left out; he never tells a story by halves.
O. Book. Why, then, you think my son's a liar.
Fred. Oh fie, sir, but he enlivens a mere narration with variety of accidents; to be plain, his discourse gains him more applause than credit. You could not, I believe, have married your son to a less expensive lady in England than this Mrs. Matilda. I'll be sworn you'll avoid all the charge of gay dress, high play, and stately childbirth. You understand me, sir?
O. Book. I never could see anything in my son that's disingenuous, to put his aged father to this shame.
Fred. Never fret or grieve for it. He told Lovemore this morning such a relation of his feasting ladies, and I know not what, that he has brought a tilt upon his hands to-morrow morning; therefore keep him at home. I'll to his adversary, so we'll convince him of a fault which has so ill (though not intended) consequences.
O. Book. You'll highly oblige me, sir; I'll trouble you no longer. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—Newgate.
Young Bookwit, Latine, Simon, Storm, with the crowd of Gaol-birds.
Storm. I apprehend, sir, by Mr. Turnkey, the gentleman there with a broken nose, that you're brought in for murder. I honour you, sir; I don't question but 'twas done like a gentleman.
Y. Book. I hope it will appear so.
Storm. I come, I fear, sir, to your acquaintance with some prejudice, because you see me thus in irons. But affliction is the portion of the virtuous and the gallant.
Y. Book. It does not depress, sir, but manifest the brave.
Storm. Right, sir, I find you're noble. You may, perhaps, have heard of me. My name is Storm. This person, my friend, who is called Faggot, and myself, being exposed by an ungrateful world to feel its cruelty and contempt of ragged virtue, made war upon it, and in open day infested their high road.
Y. Book. Your humble servant, gentlemen, I do conceive you. Your spirits could not stoop to barter on the change, to sneer in courts, to lie, to flatter, or to creep for bread. You, therefore, chose rather to prey like lions, then betray like crocodiles, or fawn like dogs. You took upon you to interrupt the commerce of a cheating world, to unload the usurer of his anxious pelf, and save the thoughtless landed boy he travelled to undo, with a thousand such good actions; by which means you two are infamous, for what two millions of you had been glorious.
Storm. Right, sir; I see you're knowing, sir, and learned in man. This gentleman, Mr. Charcoal, the chemist, was our secret correspondent, and as we never robbed a poor man, so he never cheated a fool, but still imposed on your most sprightly wits and genius—fellows of fire and metal, whose quick fancies and eager wishes formed reasons for their undoing. He is a follower of the great Raimundus Lullius; the public think to frighten him into their own purposes. But he'll leave the ungrateful world without the secret.
Char. You know, sir, he that first asserted the Antipodes died for that knowledge; and I, sir, having found out the melioration of metals, the ignorant will needs call it coining; and I am to be hanged for it, would you think it?
Y. Book. When, pray sir, are you to be immortal?
Char. On Friday next. I'm very unhappy our acquaintance is to be short. I'm very sorry your business is not over, sir, that, if it must be, we might go together.
Y. Book. I'm highly obliged to you, sir.
Char. Yet let me tell you, sir, because by secret sympathy I'm yours, I must acquaint you, if you can obtain the favour of an opportunity and a crucible, I can show projection—directly Sol, sir, Sol, sir, more bright than that high luminary the Latins called so—wealth shall be yours; we'll turn each bar about us into golden ingots.[74] Sir, can you lend me half-a-crown?
Y. Book. Oh, sir, a trifle between such old acquaintance.
Storm. You'll be indicted, sir, to-morrow. I would advise you, when your indictment's read, to one thing: that is, don't cavil at false Latin; but if by chance there should be a word of good, except to that, and puzzle the whole court.
Y. Book. Sir, I'm obliged——
Storm. I defy the world to say I ever did an ill thing; I love my friend. But there is always some little trifle given to prisoners they call garnish; we of the road are above it, but o' t'other side of the house, silly rascals that came voluntarily hither——such as are in for fools, signed their own mittimus, in being bound for others,—may perhaps want it. I'll be your faithful almoner.
Y. Book. Oh, by all means, sir. [Gives him money.
Storm. Pray, sir, is that your footman?
Y. Book. He is my friend, sir.
Storm. Look you, sir, the only time to make use of a friend is in extremity. Do you think you could not hang him and save yourself? Sir, my service to you; your own health.
1st Pris. Captain, your health. [Gives it to the next prisoner.
2nd Pris. Captain, your health.
Storm. But perhaps the captain likes brandy better. So-ho! brandy there. [Drinks.] But you don't, perhaps, like these strong liquors. Cider, ho! [Drinks to him in it.] Gentlemen all! But, captain, I see you don't love cider neither. You and I will be for claret then. Ay, marry! I knew this would please [Drinks] you. [Drinks again.] Faith, we'll make an end on't; I'm glad you like it.
Turn. I'm sorry, Captain Storm, to see you impose on a gentleman, and put him to charge in his misfortune. If a petty larceny fellow had done this——but one of the road!
Storm. I beg your pardon, sir, I don't question but the captain understands there is a fee to you for going to the keeper's side. [Book. and Latine give him money. Exeunt with Turnkey, Simon following.] Nay, nay, you must stay here.
Sim. Why, I am Simon, Madam Penelope's man.
Storm. Then Madam Penelope's man must strip for garnish.[75] Indeed, Master Simon, you must.
Sim. Thieves! Thieves! Thieves!
Storm. Thieves! Thieves! Why, you senseless dog, do you think there's thieves in Newgate? Away with him to the tap-house. [Pushes him off.] We'll drink his coat off. Come, my little chemist, thou shalt transmute this jacket into liquor; liquor that will make us forget the evil day. And while day is ours, let us be merry.
For little villains must submit to fate,
That great ones may enjoy the world in state.
[Exeunt.