DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Old Bookwit.
Young Bookwit, the "Lying Lover."
Lovemore, in love with Penelope.
Frederick, Friend to Lovemore.
Latine, Friend to Young Bookwit.
Storm, a Highwayman.
Charcoal, an Alchemist and Coiner.
Simon, Servant to Penelope.
Penelope.
Victoria, Friend to Penelope.
Betty, Victoria's Woman.
Lettice, Penelope's Woman.
Constables, Watch, Turnkey, Cookmaid, and several Gaol-birds.
SCENE—London.
THE LYING LOVER: OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—St. James's Park.
Enter Young Bookwit and Latine.
Latine. But have you utterly left Oxford?
Y. Book. For ever, sir, for ever; my father has given me leave to come to town, and I don't question but will let my return be in my own choice. But Jack, you know we were talking in Maudlen Walks last week of the necessity, in intrigues, of a faithful, yet a prating servant. We agreed, therefore, to cast lots who should be the other's footman for the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, gave me the superiority.
Lat. She shall be called no more so, for that one action. And I am, sir, in a literal sense, your very humble servant.
Y. Book. Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and flatter me egregiously. Has the fellow fitted me? How is my manner? my mien? Do I move freely? Have I kicked off the trammels of a gown? or does not the tail on't seem still tucked under my arm, where my hat is, with a pert jerk forward, and little hitch in my gait like a scholastic beau? This wig, I fear, looks like a cap.
Lat. No, faith, it looks like a cap and gown too; though at the same time you look as if you ne'er had worn either.
Y. Book. But my sword, does it hang careless? Do I look bold, negligent, and erect? that is, do I look as if I could kill a man without being out of humour? I horridly mistrust myself. Am I military enough in my air? I fancy people see I understand Greek. Don't I pore a little in my visage? Han't I a down bookish lour, a wise sadness? I don't look gay enough and unthinking, I fancy.
Lat. I protest you wrong yourself. You look very brisk and very ignorant.
Y. Book. O fie! I am afraid you flatter me.
Lat. I don't indeed; I'll be hanged if my tutor would know either of us. But, good master, to what use do you design to put the noble arts and sciences he taught us? The conduct of our lives, the government of our passions, were his daily talk to us, good man!
Y. Book. Good man! Why I'll obey his precepts, but abridge 'em. For as he used to advise me, I'll contract my thoughts, as I'll tell you, Jack:—for the passions, I'll turn 'em all into that one dear passion, love; and when that's the only torture of my heart, I'll give that tortured heart quite away; deny there's any such thing as pain, and turn stoic a shorter way than e'er thy tutor taught thee. This is the new philosophy, you rogue you.
Lat. But you would not in earnest be thought wholly illiterate?
Y. Book. No; for as when I walk, I'd have you know by my motion I can dance; so when I speak, I'd have you see I read: yet would ordinarily neither cut capers nor talk sentences. But you prate as if I came to town to get an employment. No; hang business, hang care; let it live and prosper among the men; I'll ne'er go near the solemn ugly things again. I'll keep company with none but ladies—bright ladies. O London! London! O woman! woman! I am come where thou livest, where thou shinest.
Lat. Hey day! why, were there no women in Oxford?
Y. Book. No, no; why, do you think a bed-maker's a woman?
Lat. Yes, and thought you knew it.
Y. Book. No, no, 'tis no such thing. As he that is not honest or brave is no man; so she that is not witty or fair is no woman. No, no, Jack, to come up to that high name and object of desire, she must be gay and chaste, she must at once attract, and banish you. I don't know how to express myself, but a woman, methinks, is a being between us and angels. She has something in her that at the same time gives awe and invitation; and I swear to you I was never out in't yet, but I always judged of men as I observed they judged of women. There's nothing shows a man so much as the object of his affections.—But what do you stare at so considerately?
Lat. Faith, sir, I am wondering at you—how 'tis possible you could be so jaunty a town-spark in a moment, and have so easy a behaviour. I look, methinks, to you, as if I were really your footman.
Y. Book. Why, if you're serious in what you say, I owe it wholly to the indulgence of an excellent father, in whose company I was always free and unconstrained. But what's this to ladies, Jack, to ladies? I was going to tell you I had studied 'em, and know how to make my approaches to 'em by contemplating their frame, their inmost temper. I don't ground my hopes on the scandalous tales and opinions your wild fellows have of 'em—fellows that are but mere bodies, machines—which at best can but move gracefully. No; I draw my pretences from philosophy—from nature.
Lat. You'll give us by-and-by a lecture over your mistress: you can dissect her.
Y. Book. That I can, indeed, and have so accurately observed on woman, that I can know her mind by her eye as well as her doctor shall her health by her pulse; I can read approbation through a glance of disdain; can see when the soul is divided by a sparkling tear that twinkles and betrays the heart. A sparkling tear's the dress and livery of love—of love made up of hope and fear, of joy and grief.
Lat.[43] But what have the wars to do with all this? Why must you needs commence soldier all of a sudden?
Y. Book. Were't not a taking compliment with my college face and phrase to accost a lady:—"Madam, I bring your ladyship a learned heart, one newly come from the University. If you want definitions, axioms, and arguments, I am an able schoolman. I've read Aristotle twice over, compared his jarring commentators too, examined all the famous peripatetics, know where the Scotists and the Nominals differ:"—this, certainly, must needs enchant a lady.
Lat. This is too much on th' other side.
Y. Book. The name of soldier bids you better welcome. 'Tis valour and feats done in the field a man should be cried up for; nor is't so hard to achieve.
Lat. The fame of it, you mean?
Y. Book. Yes; and that will serve. 'Tis but looking big, bragging with an easy grace, and confidently mustering up an hundred hard names they understand not: Thunder out Villeroy, Catinat, and Boufflers; speak of strange towns and castles, whose barbarous names, the harsher they're to the ear, the rarer and more taking; still running over lines, trenches, outworks, counterscarps, and forts, citadels, mines, countermines, pickeering, pioneers, sentinels, patrols, and others, without sense or order; that matters not, the women are amazed, they admire to hear you rap 'em out so readily; and many a one that went no farther for it, retailing handsomely some warlike terms, passes for a brave fellow. Don't stand gaping, but live and learn, my lad. I can tell thee ten thousand arts to make thee known and valued in these regions of wit and gallantry—the park, the playhouse.
Lat. Now you put me in mind where we are. What have we to do here thus early, now there's no company?
Y. Book. Oh! sir, I have put on so much of the soldier with my red coat, that I came here to observe the ground I am to engage upon. Here must I act, I know, some lover's part, and therefore came to view this pleasant walk. I privately rambled to town last November. Here, ay here, I stood and gazed at high Mall, till I forgot it was winter, so many pretty shes marched by me. Oh! to see the dear things trip, trip along, and breathe so short, nipt with the season! I saw the very air not without force leave their dear lips. Oh! they were intolerably handsome.
Lat. You'll see, perhaps, such to-day; but how to come at 'em?
Y. Book. Ay, there's it, how to come at 'em.
Lat.[44] Are you generous?
Y. Book. I think I am no niggard.
Lat. You must entertain them high, and bribe all about them. They talk of Ovid and his Art of Loving; be liberal, and you outdo his precepts. The art of love, sir, is the art of giving. Be free to women, they'll be free to you. Not every open-handed fellow hits it neither. Some give by lapfulls, and yet ne'er oblige. The manner, you know, of doing a thing is more than the thing itself. Some drop a jewel, which had been refused if bluntly offered.
Y. Book. Some lose at play what they design a present.
Lat. Right; the skill is to be generous, and seem not to know it of yourself, 'tis done with so much ease; but a liberal blockhead presents his mistress as he'd give an alms.
Y. Book. Leaving such blockheads to their deserved ill-fortune, tell me if thou know'st these ladies?
Lat. No, not I, sir; they are above an academic converse many degrees. I've seen ten thousand verses writ in the University on wenches not fit to be either of their handmaids. I never spoke to such a fine thing as either in my whole life—I'm downright asleep o' sudden. I must fall back, and glad it is my place to do so; yet I can get you intelligence perhaps. I'll to the footman.
Y. Book. Do you think he'll tell?
Lat. He would not to you, perhaps, but to a brother footman. Do but listen at the entrance of the Mall at noon, and you'll have all the ladies' characters in town among their lackeys. You know all fame begins from our domestics.
Y. Book. That was a wise man's observation. Follow him, and know what you can. [Exit Latine.
Enter Penelope, Victoria, Simon, and Lettice.
Pen. A walk round would be too much for us; we'll keep the Mall.—But to our talk: I must confess I have terrors when I think of marrying Lovemore. He is, indeed, a man of an honest character. He has my good opinion, but love does not always follow that. He is so wise a fellow, always so precisely in the right, so observing and so jealous; he's blameless indeed, but not to be commended. What good he has, has no grace in it; he's one of those who's never highly moved, except to anger. Give me a man that has agreeable faults rather than offensive virtues.
Vict. Offensive virtues, madam?
Pen. Yes, I don't know how—there's a sort of virtue, or prudence, or what you'll call it, that we can but just approve. That does not win us. Lovemore wants that fire, that conversation-spirit I would have. They say he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that. I'm sure he's no woman's scholar; his wisdom he should turn into wit, and his learning into poetry or humour.
Vict. Well, I'm not so much of your mind; I like a sober passion.
Pen. A sober passion! you took me up just now when I said an offensive virtue.—Bless me! [Stumbling almost to a fall.
Y. Book.[45] [Catching her.] How much am I indebted to an accident, that favours me with an occasion of this small service! for 'tis to me an happiness beyond expression thus to kiss your hand.
Pen. The occasion, methinks, is not so obliging, nor the happiness you mention worth that name, sir.
Y. Book. 'Tis true, madam, I owe it all to fortune; neither your kindness nor my industry had any share in't. Thus am I still as wretched as I was, for this happiness I so much prize had doubtless been refused my want of merit.
Pen. It has very soon, you see, lost what you valued in it; but I find you and I, sir, have a different sense; for, in my opinion, we enjoy with most pleasure what we attain with least merit. Merit is a claim, and may pretend justly to favour; when without it what's conferred is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing.
Y. Book. You talk very well, madam, of an happiness you can't possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying without desert. But indeed you have done me a very singular good office, in letting me know myself very much qualified for felicity.
Vict. I swear he's a very pretty fellow, and how readily the thing talks! I begin to pity Lovemore, but I begin to hate Penelope. How he looks! he looks at her!
Y. Book.[46] But judge, madam, what the condition of a passionate man must be, that can approach the hand only of her he dies for, when her heart is inaccessible.
Pen. 'Tis very well the heart lies not so easily to be seized as the hand—I find——Pray, sir—I don't know what there is in this very odd fellow: I'm not angry, though he's downright rude—but I must——
Y. Book. But your heart, madam, your heart—[Pressingly.
Pen. You seemed, sir, I must confess, to have shown a ready civility when I'd like to fall just now, for which I could not but thank you, and permit you to say what you pleased on that occasion—"But your heart, madam!" 'tis a sure sign, sir, you know not me; or, if you are what indeed you seem—a gentleman—sure you forget yourself, or rather you talk, by memory, a form or cant which you mistake for something that's gallant.
Y. Book. Madam, I very humbly beg your pardon, if I pressed too far and too abruptly. I forgot, indeed, that I broke through decencies, and that though you have been long a familiar to me, I am a stranger to you.
Pen. Pray, familiar stranger, what can you mean? I never saw you before this instant, nor you me, I believe.
Y. Book.[47] Perhaps not, that you know of, madam, for your humility, it seems, makes you so little sensible of your own perfection, that you overlook your conquest; nor have you e'er observed me, though I hover day and night about your lodging, haunt you from place to place, at balls, in the park, at church. I gave you all the serenades you've had, yet never till this minute could I find you, and this minute an unfortunate one—But this is always my luck when I'm out of the field.
Vict. You've travelled then, and seen the wars, sir?
Y. Book. I—madam—I—all that I know of the matter is, that Louis the Fourteenth mortally hates me. They talk of French gold—what heaps have I refused! Yet to be generous even to an enemy, I must allow that Prince has reason for his rancour to me. There has not been a skirmish, siege, or battle since I bore arms, I made not one in; no, nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but I had my share, though perhaps not all my share of the glory. You've seen my name, though you don't know it, often in the Gazette.
Pen. I never read news.
Enter Latine.
Lat. What tale's he telling now, tro'?
Y. Book. You've never heard, I suppose, of such names as Ruremonde, Kaiserswerth, and Liege? nor read of an English gentleman left dead by his precipitancy upon a parapet at Venloo? I was thought so indeed, when the first account came away. Every man has his failings; rashness is my fault.
Lat. Don't you remember a certain place called Oxford among your towns, sir?
Y. Book. Pshaw, away—Oh! oh!—I beg your pardon, ladies, this fellow knows I was shot in my left arm, and cannot bear the least touch, yet will still be rushing on me.
Lat. He has a lie, I think, in every joint. [Aside.
Pen. Do you bear any commission, sir?
Y. Book. There's an intimate of mine, a general officer, who has often said, Tom, if thou would'st but stick to any one application, thou might'st be anything. 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive. I began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince Eugene, but was forced to fly into Holland for a duel with that rough Captain of the Hussars, Paul Diack. They talk of a regiment for me, but those things—besides, it will oblige me to attend it, and then I can't follow honour where'er she's busiest, but must be confined to one nation; when indeed 'tis rather my way of serving with such of our allies as most want me.
Pen. But I see you soldiers never enjoy such a thing as rest: You but come home in winter to turn your valour on the ladies—'tis but just a change of your warfare.
Y. Book. I had immediately returned to Holland, but your beauties at my arrival here disarmed me, madam, made me a man of peace, or raised a civil war within me rather. You took me prisoner at first sight, and to your charms I yielded up an heart, till then unconquered. Martial delights (once best and dearest to me) vanished before you in a moment, and all my thoughts grew bent to please and serve you.
Lett. Lovemore's in the walk, madam; he'll be in a fit.
Y. Book. Rob me o' the sudden thus of all my happiness! Yet ere you quite forsake me, authorise my passion, license my innocent flames, and give me leave to love such charming sweetness.
Pen. He that will love, and knows what 'tis to love, will ask no leave of any but himself. [Exeunt Ladies, etc.
Y. Book. Follow 'em, Jack.
Lat. I know as much of 'em already as needs: the footman was in his talking vein. The handsomer of the two, says he, I serve, and she lives in the Garden.
Y Book. What Garden?
Lat. Covent Garden; the other lies there too. I did not stay to ask her name, but I shall meet him again; I took particular notice of the livery.
Y. Book. Ne'er trouble thyself to know which is which, my heart and my good genius tell me, 'tis she, that pretty she I talked to.
Lat. If, with respect to your worship's opinion, I might presume to be of a contrary one, I should think the other the handsomer now.
Y. Book. What, the dumb thing,[48] the picture?—No, love is the union of minds, and she that engages mine must be very well able to express her own. But I suppose some scolding landlady has made you thus enamoured with silence. But here are two of the dearest of my old comrades—they seem amazed at something by their action.
Enter Lovemore and Frederick.
Fred.[49] How! a collation on the water, and music too?
Love. Yes, music and a collation.
Fred. Last night?
Love. Last night too.
Fred. An handsome treat?
Love. A very noble one.
Fred, Who gave it?
Love. That I'm yet to learn.
Y. Book. How happy am I to meet you here!
Love. When I embrace you thus, no happiness can equal mine. [Saluting.
Y. Book. I thrust myself intrudingly upon you; but you'll pardon a man o'erjoyed to see you.
Love. Where you're always welcome you never can intrude.
Y. Book. What were you talking of?
Love. Of an entertainment.
Y. Book. Given by some lover?
Love. As we suppose.
Y. Book. That circumstance deserves my curiosity; pray go on, and let me share the story.
Love. Some ladies had the fiddles last night.
Y. Book. Upon the water, too, methought you said?
Love. Yes, 'twas upon the water.
Y. Book. Water often feeds the flame.
Love. Sometimes.
Y. Book. And by night too?
Love. Yes, last night.
Y. Book. He chose his time well—The lady is handsome?
Love. In most men's eyes she is.
Y. Book. And the music?
Love. Good, as we hear.
Y. Book. Some banquet followed?
Love. A sumptuous one, they say.
Y. Book. And neither of you all this while know who gave this treat? ha! ha!
Love. D'ye laugh at it?
Y. Book. How can I choose, to see you thus admire a slight divertisement I gave myself?
Love. You?
Y. Book. Even I!
Love. Why, have you got a mistress here already?
Y. Book. I should be sorry else. I've been in town this month or more, though for some reasons I appear but little yet by day. I' the dark o' the evening I peep out, and incognito make some visits. Thus had I spent my time but ill, were not—
Lat. [To Y. Book.] Do you know what you say, sir? Don't lay it on so thick.
Y. Book. [To Lat.] Nay, you must be sure to take care to be in the way as soon as they land, to shew upstairs—I beg pardon, I was giving my fellow some directions about receiving some women of quality that sup with me to-night incog——but you're my dearest friends, and shall hear all.
Fred. [To Love.] How luckily your rival discovers himself!
Y. Book. I took five barges, and the fairest kept for my company; the other four I filled with music of all sorts, and of all sorts the best; in the first were fiddles, in the next theorbo, lutes, and voices.
Flutes and such pastoral instruments i' th' third.
Loud music from the fourth did pierce the air.
Each concert vied by turns,
Which with most melody should charm our ears.
The fifth, the largest of 'em all, was neatly hung,
Not with dull tapestry, but with green boughs,
Curiously interlaced to let in air,
And every branch with jessamines, and orange posies decked;
In this the feast was kept.
Hither, with five other ladies, I led her whose beauty alone governs my destiny. Supper was served up straight; I will not trouble you with our bill of fare, what dishes were best liked, what sauces most recommended; 'tis enough I tell you this delicious feast was of six courses, twelve dishes to a course.
Lat. That's indeed enough of all conscience. [Aside.
Love. Oh, the torture of jealousy! [Aside]—But, sir, how seemed the lady to receive this entertainment? We must know that.
Y. Book. Oh! that was the height on't. She, I warrant you, was quite negligent of all this matter. You know their way, they must not seem to like—no, I warrant it would not so much as smile to make the fellow vain, and believe he had power to move delight in her—ha, ha!
Love. But how then?
Y. Book. Why you must know my humour grew poetic. I pulled off my sword-knot, and with that bound up a coronet of ivy, laurel, and flowers; with that round my temples, and a plate of richest fruits in my hand, on one knee I presented her with it as a cornucopia, an offering from her humble swain of all his harvest—to her the Ceres of our genial feast and rural mirth. She smiled; the ladies clapped their hands, and all our music struck sympathetic rapture at my happiness; while gentle winds, the river, air, and shore echoed the harmony in notes more soft than they received it. Methought all nature seemed to die for love like me. To all my heart and every pulse beat time. Oh, the pleasures of successful love! ha, Lovemore! ha! What, hast thou got a good office lately? you're afraid I should make some request. Prithee ben't so shy, I have nothing to ask but of my mistress—What's the matter?
Love. I only attend, sir, I only attend—
Y. Book. Then I'll go on. As soon[50] as we had supped, the fireworks played. Squibs of all sorts were darted through the skies, whose spreading fires made a new day. A flaming deluge seemed to fall from Heaven, and with such violence attacked the waves, you would have thought the fiery element had left his sphere, to ruin his moist enemy. Their contest done, we landed, danced till day, which hasty Sol disturbed us with too soon. Had he taken our advice, or feared my anger, he might in Thetis's lap have slept as long as at Alcmena's labour he's reported. But steering not as we would have prescribed, he put a period to our envied mirth.
Love. Trust me, you tell us wonders, and with a grace as rare as the feast itself, which all our summer's mirth can't equal.
Y. Book. My mistress took me o' the sudden; I had not a day's warning.
Love. The treat was costly though, and finely ordered.
Y. Book. I was forced to take up with this trifle. He that wants time can't do as he would.
Love. Farewell, we shall meet again at more leisure.
Y. Book. Number me among your creatures.
Love. Oh jealousy! Thou rack, jealousy!
Fred. [To Love.] What reason have you to feel it? the circumstances of the feast nothing agree.
Love. [To Fred.] In time and place they do; the rest is nothing. [Exeunt Fred. and Love.
Lat.[51] May I speak now, sir, without offence?
Y. Book. 'Tis in your choice now to speak or not, but before company you'll spoil all.
Lat. Do you walk abroad and talk in your sleep? or do you use to tell your dreams for current truth?
Y. Book. Dull brain!
Lat. Why, you beat out mine with your battles, your fireworks, your music, and your feasts. You've found an excellent way to go to the wars, and yet keep out of danger. Then you feast your mistresses at the cheapest rate that ever I knew! Why d'ye make 'em believe you ha' been here these six weeks?
Y. Book. My passion has the more growth, and I the better ground to make love.
Lat. You'd make one believe fine things, that would but hearken to you; but this lady might soon have found you out.
Y. Book. Some acquaintance I have got, however; this is making love, scholar, and at the best rate too.
Lat. To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet; your great supper lies on my stomach still. I defy Pontack[52] to have prepared a better o' the sudden. Your enchanted castles, where strangers found strange tables strangely furnished with strange cates, were but sixpenny ordinaries to the fifth barge; you were an excellent man to write romances, for having feasts and battles at command, your Quixote in a trice would over-run the world; revelling and skirmishing cost you nothing; then you vary your scene with so much ease, and shift from court to camp with such facility—
Y. Book. I love thus to outvie a newsmonger; and as soon as I perceive a fellow thinks his story will surprise, I choke him with a stranger, and stop his mouth with an extempore wonder. Did'st thou but know what a pleasure 'tis to cram their own news down their throats again!
Lat. 'Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport, and may involve us in a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, consider that I am of quality to be kicked or caned by this l——
Y. Book. Hush, hush, call it not lying; as for my waging war, it is but just I snatch and steal from fortune that fame which she denies me opportunity to deserve. My father has cramped me in a college, while all the world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my mistress, 'tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call it not then by that coarse name, a lie. 'Tis wit, 'tis fable, allegory, fiction, hyperbole—or be it what you call it, the world's made up almost of nothing else. What are all the grave faces you meet in public? mere silent lies, dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain empty silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I am resolved honestly to love, I don't care how artfully I obtain the woman I pitch upon; besides, did you ever know any of them acknowledge they loved as soon as they loved? No, they'll let a man dwell upon his knees—whom they languish to receive into their arms. They're no fair enemy. Therefore 'tis but just that—
We use all arts the fair to undermine,
And learn with gallantry to hide design. [Exeunt.