ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—Victoria's Lodgings, Covent Garden.
Enter Victoria and Betty.
Vict. This was, indeed, Betty, a very diverting accident, that I should be employed to write to her lover. Now, I can't but think how angry my cousin Pen is. She frets, I warrant, at her very looking-glass, which used to be her comforter upon all occasions.
Bet. I would not be in poor Mrs. Lettice's place for all the world. Nothing, to be sure, can please to-day; did you mind how she nestled and fumed inwardly to see your ladyship look so well? Nay, indeed, madam, you were in high beauty.
Vict. Yet I must confess I was myself a little discomposed. I was ashamed for my friend, and then to see her show such a regard for a fellow!
Bet. But I swear, were I to have my will, you should be always angry at me. It gives your ladyship such a pretty fierceness, and quick spirit to your features—not that you want it—yet it adds——
Vict. There are some people very unhappily pretend to fire and life; there's poor, stupid, insipid Lady Fad, has heard of the word spleen, and distaste, and sets up for being out of humour, with that unmeaning face of hers.
Bet. You're in a fine humour, madam.
Vict. Her ladyship's physician prescribed anger to her; upon which she comes in public with her eyes staringly open. This she designs for vivacity, and gapes about like a wandering country lady. She pretends to be a remarker, and looks at everybody; but, alas, she wants it here, and knows not that to see, is no more to look, than to go is to walk. For you must know, Betty, every child can see, but 'tis an observing creature that can look; as every pretty girl can go, but 'tis a fine woman that walks.
Both. Ha! ha! ha!
Vict. But, by the way, there's Mrs. Penelope, methinks, does neither; I have a kindness for her, but she has no gesture in the least. My dear——
Enter Penelope.
Pen. Well, my dear——
Bet. How civilly people of quality hate one another. [Aside.
Pen. Well, my dear, were not you strangely surprised to see that this young Bookwit should be the soldier we met this morning?
Vict. The confident lying creature! Indeed, I wondered you'd suffer him to entertain you so long.
Pen. You must know, madam, he's married too at Oxford.
Vict. The ugly wretch! I think him downright disagreeable.—But perhaps this is a fetch of hers; he had no married look. [Aside.
Pen. Yet I am resolved to go to your assignation, if it be but to confront the coxcomb, and laugh at his lie. Such fellows should be made to know themselves, and that they're understood.
Vict. I'll wait upon you, my dear.—She's very prettily dressed. [Aside.]—But indeed, my dear, you shan't go with your hood so; it makes you look abominably, with your head so forward. There—[Displacing her head]; that's something. You had a fearful, silly blushing look; now you command all hearts.
Pen. Thank you, my dear.
Vict. Your servant, dearest.
Pen. But alas, madam, who patched you to-day? Let me see. It is the hardest thing in dress—I may say, without vanity, I know a little of it. That so low on the cheek pulps the flesh too much. Hold still, my dear, I'll place it just by your eye.—Now she downright squints. [Aside.
Vict. There's nothing like a sincere friend, for one is not a judge of one's self. I have a patch-box about me. Hold, my dear, that gives you a sedate air, that large one near your temples.
Pen. People, perhaps, don't mind these things. But if it be true, as the poet finely sings, that "all the passions in the features are," we may show or hide 'em, as we know how to affix these pretty artificial moles——
Vict. And so catch lovers, and puzzle physiognomy.
Pen. 'Tis true; then pray, my dear, let me put a little disdain in your face: for we'll plague this fop. There—that on your forehead does it.
Vict. Hold, my dear; I'll give indifference for him, a patch just at the point of your lip exactly shows it—and that you're dumb to all applications.
Pen. You wish I would be. [Aside.
Vict. There, my dear.
Pen. But, dear madam, your hair is not half powdered. Betty, bring the powder-box to your lady. It gives one a clean look (though your complexion does not want it) to enliven it.
Vict. Oh! fie, this from you! But I know you won't flatter me, you're too much my friend.
Pen. Now, madam, you shall see. [Powders her.]—Now she looks like a sprite. [Aside.
Vict. Thank you, my dear; we'll take an hack. Our maids shall go with us. Come, dear friend. [Exeunt arm in arm.
Bet. Pray, Madam Lettice, be pleased to go on.
Lett. Indeed, Madam Betty, I must beg your pardon.
Bet. I am at home, dear Madam Lettice.
Lett. Well, madam, this is unkind. I don't use you with this ceremony. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Covent Garden.
Enter Young Bookwit and Latine after a flourish.
Y. Book. Victoria! Victoria! Victoria!
Lat. Make way, make way. By your leave. Stand by. Victoria! "Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas."[65]
Y. Book. Well said, Jack. Let me see any of your sparks besides myself keep such an equipage. I don't question but in a little time I shall be a finer fop than the town has yet seen. All my lackeys shall be linguists as thou art. While thus I ride immortal steeds—how my horses stare at me! They see I am a very new sort of beau.
Lat. This is rare—the having this noise of music. But won't it be reckoned a disturbance?
Y. Book. No, no; it is a usual gallantry here. But the vocal is an elegance hardly known before me here—who am the founder of accomplished fools, of which I'll institute an order. All coxcombs of learning and parts shall after me be called Bookwits—a sect will soon be more numerous, and in more credit, than your Aristotelians, Platonists, and Academics.
Lat. Sir, 'twill be extraordinary, and you are really a wise person—you put your theory of philosophy into practice; 'tis not with you a dead letter.
Y. Book. Oh! sir, no. The design of learning is for the use of life; therefore I'll settle a family very suddenly, and show my literature in economy.
Lat. As how, pray?
Y. Book. I'll have four peripatetic footmen, two followers of Aristippus for valets de chambre, and an epicurean cook—with an hermetical chemist (who are good only at making fires) for my scullion; and then I think all is disposed. But, methinks this fair one takes state upon her. But I am none of your languishers; I am not known in town, and if I misbehave, 'tis but being sent back again to my small beer and three-halfpenny commons; and I, like many another beau, only blazed and vanished——
Lat. But you know I love music immoderately. How do you dispose your entertainment? Let 'em begin.
Y. Book. Well, give me but leave. The fiddles will certainly attract the ladies, I mean the nymphs who have grottos round this enchanted forest. In the first place, you intelligences that move this vehicle—how the fellows stare!
Chair. Good your honour, speak to us in English.
Y. Book. Why then, you chairmen, wherever I move, you are to follow me; for I mean to strut, shine through the dusk of the evening, and look as like a lazy town-fool as I can, to charm 'em.
Lat. Well, but the music?
Y. Book. But remember, ye sons of Phœbus, brethren of the string and lyre, that is to say, ye fiddlers—Let me have a flourish as I now direct. When I lift up my cane, let it be martial. If I but throw myself just forward on it, or but raise it smoothly, sigh all for love, to show, as I think fit, that I would die or fight for her you see me bow to. Well, then, strike up:—
Song, by Mr. Leveridge.[66]
I.
Venus has left her Grecian isles,
With all her gaudy train
Of little loves, soft cares and smiles,
In my larger breast to reign.
II.
Ye tender herds and list'ning deer,
Forget your food, forget your fear,
The bright Victoria will be here.
III.
The savages about me throng,
Moved with the passion of my song,
And think Victoria stays too long.
Y. Book. There's for you, Jack; is not that like a fine gentleman that writes for his own diversion?
Lat. And nobody's else.
Y. Book. Now I warrant one of your common sparks would have stamped, fretted, and cried, what the devil! fooled! jilted! abused!—while I, in metre, to show you how well nothing at all may be made to run—
The savages about me throng,
Moved with the passion of my song,
And think Victoria stays too long.
Lat. I begin to be one of those savages.
Enter Victoria, Penelope, Lettice, and Betty.
Vict. We had better have stayed where we were, and listened to that charming echo, than have come in search of that liar.
Lat. Do you see yonder?
Y. Book. [Gives the sign and sings himself.] Thus, madam, have I spent my time almost ever since I saw you, repeated your name to the woods, the dales, and echoing groves.
Pen. Prithee observe him. Now he begins.
Y. Book. I had not time to carve your name on every tree, but that's a melancholy employment, not for those lovers that are favoured with assignation.
Vict. Prithee, cousin, do you talk to him in my name. I'll be silent till I see farther.[67]
Pen. The spring is now so forward, that it must indeed be attributed to your passion that you are not in the field.
Y. Book. You do me justice, madam, in that thought, for I am strangely pestered to be there. Well, the French are the most industrious people in the world. I had a letter from one of their generals, that shall be nameless (it came over by the way of Holland), with an offer of very great terms, if I would but barely send my opinion in the use of pikes, about which he tells me their Prince and generals have lately held a grand court martial.
Both. Ha! ha! ha!
Lat. These cunning things keep still together to puzzle us.—I'll alarm him.—Sir, one word——
Vict. Come, come, we'll have no whispering, no messages at present. Some other ladies have sent, but they shan't have you from us.
Both. Ha! ha! ha!
Y. Book. I hold myself obliged to be of the same humour ladies are in—ha! ha! ha! Now pray do me the favour to tell me what I laughed at.
Pen.[68] Why, you must know, your talking of the French and war put us in mind of a young coxcomb that came last night from Oxford, calls himself soldier, treats ladies, fights battles, raises jealousies with downright lies of his own inventing—ha! ha! ha!
Y. Book. That must be an impudent young rascal certainly—ha! ha! ha!
Vict. Nay, this is beyond comparison——
Y. Book. I can't conceive how one of those sneaking academics could personate such a character; for we, bred in camps, have a behaviour that shows we are used to act before crowds.
Pen. 'Tis certainly so; nay, he has been confronted with it, as plainly as I speak to you, and yet not blushed for it, but carried it as if he knew not the man——
Y. Book. That may be; 'tis want of knowing themselves makes those coxcombs so confident.
Pen. The faithless! shameless! Well, then, to see, if possible, such a one may be brought to that sense, I tell you, this worthy hero two days ago was in hanging-sleeves at Oxford, and is called Mr. Bookwit. Ha! ha!
Y. Book. Well, was it not well enough carried? Pooh, I knew you well enough, and you knew me, before you writ to me for Mr. Bookwit's son. But I fell into that way of talking purely to divert you. I knew you a woman of wit and spirit, and that acting that part would at least show I had fire in me, and wished myself what I would be half an age to serve and please you—suffer in camps all the vicissitudes of burning heats and sharp afflicting colds—
Vict. Look you, sir, I shall tell Mrs. Matilda Newtown, your spouse at Oxford, what you are saying to another lady.
Pen. Prithee cousin, never give yourself the trouble to meddle in such a work; one hardly knows how to speak it to a gentleman, but don't touch the affairs of so impudent a liar.
Y. Book. Ha! ha! ha!—Why, madam, have they told you of the marriage too? Well, I was hard put to it there. I had like to have been gravelled, faith. You were more beholden to me for that than anything. Had it not been for that, they had married me to Mrs. Penelope, old Getwel's granddaughter, the great fortune; but I refused her for you—who are a greater. [Aside.
Lat. Sir! sir! pray sir, one word——
Pen. and Vict. Stand off, sirrah.
Vict. You shan't come near him; none of your dumb signs.
Pen. Then you have refused Penelope, though a great fortune! What could you dislike in her?
Y. Book. The whole woman. Her person, nor carriage please me. She is one of those women of condition, who do and say what they please with an assured air, and think that's enough, only to be called fine mistress such-a-one's manner.
Pen. This is not to be endured.—I do assure you, sir, Mrs. Penelope has refused your betters.
Y. Book. I don't much value my betters in her judgment, but am sorry to see you concerned for her. When I have been at church, where I first saw you, I've seen the gay giddy thing in a gallery watching eyes to make curtsies. She is indeed a very ceremonious churchwoman, and never is guilty of a sin of omission to any lady of quality within eye-shot. In short, I don't like the woman, and would go to Tunis or Aleppo for a wife before I'd take her.
Vict. I cannot bear this of my friend; if you go on, sir, at this rate, Tunis or Aleppo are the properest places for you to show your gallantry in; 'twill never be received by any here—I hope she believes me. [Aside.
Pen. The lady's in the right on't; who can confide in a known common impostor?
Y. Book.[69] Ah, madam! how can you use a man that loves you so unjustly? But call me what you will, liar, cheat, impostor—do but add, your servant, and I am satisfied. I have, indeed, madam, ran through many shifts in hopes to gain you, and could be contented to run through all the shapes in Ovid's Metamorphoses, could I but return to this on my bended knees, of my fair one's humble servant.
Vict. Prithee let us leave him, as you told me; I wonder you can suffer him to entertain you so long. Leave him, let him kneel to the trees and call to the woods if he will.—Oh, I could brain him—how ugly he looks kneeling to her! [Aside.
Pen. No, I'll stay to plague him more.—But what opinion can I have of this sudden passion? You hardly know me, I believe, or my circumstances?
Y. Book. No, no, not I; I don't know you. Your mother was not Alderman Sterling's daughter; your father, Mr. Philips, of Gray's Inn, who had an estate and never practised? You had not a brother killed at Landen? Your sister Diana is not dead? nor you are not co-heiress with Miss Molly? No, madam, I don't know you; no, nor love you.
Pen. I wish I had taken her advice in going; he means her all this while [Aside.]—Pshaw, this is downright fooling. Let's go, my dear; leave him to the woods, as you say—I wish 'twas full of bears. [Aside.
Vict. No; now I'll stay to plague him.
Pen. No, you shan't stay.—Sir, we have given ourselves the diversion to see you, and confront you in your falsehoods; in which you have entangled yourself to that degree, you know not even the woman you pretend to; and therefore, sir, I so far despise you, that if you should come after me with your fiddles, I'll have a porter—ready to let you in. [Aside.
Vict. I don't know how to threaten a gentleman in that manner, but I'm sure I shall never entertain any man that has disobliged my friend, while my name's Victoria! [Exeunt arm in arm.
Lat. Master, methinks these ladies don't understand wit. They were very rough with you.
Y. Book. Ay, they were somewhat dull. But really Victoria discovered herself at her going, methinks, agreeably enough.
Lat. I believe they are irrecoverably lost. Pox on't, when I gave you so many signs, too.
Y. Book. Well, hang thinking. Let's to the tavern, and in every glass name a new beauty, till I either forget, or am inspired with some new project to attain her.
While in a lovely bowl I drown my care,
She'll cease to be, or I to think her, fair. [Exeunt.