ACT III.—Scene I.
Bayes with a paper on his nose, and the two Gentlemen.
Bayes. Now, sirs, this I do, because my fancy, in this play, is, to end every act with a dance.
Smith. Faith, that fancy is very good; but I should hardly have broke my nose for it, tho'.
Johns. That fancy I suppose is new too.
Bayes. Sir, all my fancies are so. I tread upon no man's heels; but make my flight upon my own wings, I assure you. Now, here comes in a scene of sheer wit, without any mixture in the whole world, egad! between Prince Prettyman and his tailor: it might properly enough be call'd a prize of wit; for you shall see them come in one upon another snip-snap, hit for hit, as fast as can be. First, one speaks, then presently t'other's upon him, slap, with a repartee; then he at him again, dash with a new conceit; and so eternally, eternally, egad, till they go quite off the stage.
[Goes to call the Players.
Smith. What a plague does this fop mean, by his snip snap, hit for hit, and dash!
Johns. Mean! why, he never meant anything in's life; what dost talk of meaning for?
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. Why don't you come in?
Enter Prince Prettyman and Tom Thimble.[19]
This scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted, for 'tis as full of drollery as ever it can hold. 'Tis like an orange stuff'd with cloves, as for conceit.
Pret. But prithee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? if nine tailors make but one man, what work art thou cutting out here for thyself, trow?
Bayes. Good.
Thim. Why, an't please your highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want journeymen enow to help me, I warrant you.
Bayes. Good again.
Pret. I am afraid thy journeymen, tho', Tom, won't work by the day.
Bayes. Good still.
Thim. However, if my wife sits but as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you, sir, for your coronation-suit.
Bayes. Very good, i'faith.
Pret. Why the times then liv'd upon trust; it was the fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: a tailor, you know, must never be out of fashion.
Bayes. Right.
Thim. I'm sure, sir, I made your clothes in the court-fashion, for you never paid me yet.
Bayes. There's a bob for the court.[20]
Pret. Why, Tom, thou art a sharp rogue when thou art angry, I see: thou pay'st me now, methinks.
Bayes. There's pay upon pay! as good as ever was written, egad!
Thim. Ay, sir, in your own coin; you give me nothing but words.[21]
Bayes. Admirable!
Pret. Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coin for thee; for now the wars are coming on, I shall grow to be a man of metal.
Bayes. Oh, you did not do that half enough.
Johns. Methinks he does it admirably.
Bayes. Ay, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: he does not top his part.[22]
Thim. That's the way to be stamp'd yourself, sir. I shall see you come home, like an angel for the king's evil, with a hole bor'd thro' you. [Exeunt.
Bayes. Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, egad! How do you like it now, gentlemen? is not this pure wit?
Smith. 'Tis snip-snap, sir, as you say; but methinks not pleasant, nor to the purpose; for the play does not go on.
Bayes. Play does not go on! I don't know what you mean: why, is not this part of the play?
Smith. Yes; but the plot stands still.
Bayes. Plot stand still! why, what a devil is the plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
Smith. Oh, I did not know that before.
Bayes. No, I think you did not, nor many things more, that I am master of. Now, sir, egad, this is the bane of all us writers; let us soar but never so little above the common pitch, egad, all's spoil'd, for the vulgar never understand it; they can never conceive you, sir, the excellency of these things.
Johns. 'Tis a sad fate, I must confess; but you write on still for all that!
Bayes. Write on? Ay, egad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me; if they catch me at that lock, I'll give them leave to hang me. As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they say? What, are they gone without singing my last new song? 'sbud would it were in their bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, if I have any skill in these matters, I vow to gad this song is peremptorily the very best that ever yet was written: you must know it was made by Tom Thimble's first wife after she was dead.
Smith. How, sir, after she was dead?
Bayes. Ay, sir, after she was dead. Why, what have you to say to that?
Johns. Say? why nothing. He were a devil that had anything to say to that.
Bayes. Right.
Smith. How did she come to die, pray, sir?
Bayes. Phoo! that's no matter; by a fall: but here's the conceit, that upon his knowing she was kill'd by an accident, he supposes, with a sigh, that she died for love of him.
Johns. Ay, ay, that's well enough; let's hear it, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. 'Tis to the tune of "Farewell, fair Armida;" on seas, and in battles, in bullets, and all that.
Song.[23]
In swords, pikes, and bullets, 'tis safer to be,
Than in a strong castle, remoted from thee:
My death's bruise pray think you gave me, tho' a fall
Did give it me more from the top of a wall:
For then if the moat on her mud would first lay,
And after before you my body convey:
The blue on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh, there's a true blue for me.
Ha, rogues! when I am merry, I write these things as fast as hops, egad; for, you must know, I am as pleasant a cavalier as ever you saw; I am, i'faith.
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, how comes this song in here? for methinks there is no great occasion for it.
Bayes. Alack, sir, you know nothing; you must ever interlard your plays with songs, ghosts, and dances, if you mean to—a—
Johns. Pit, box, and gallery,[24] Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Egad, and you have nick'd it. Hark you, Mr. Johnson, you know I don't flatter; egad, you have a great deal of wit.
Johns. O Lord, sir, you do me too much honour.
Bayes. Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnson, i'faith this must not be said amongst us that have it. I know you have wit, by the judgment you make of this play; for that's the measure we go by: my play is my touchstone. When a man tells me such a one is a person of parts: is he so? say I; what do I do, but bring him presently to see this play: if he likes it, I know what to think of him; if not, your most humble servant, sir; I'll no more of him, upon my word, I thank you. I am Clara voyant, egad. Now here we go on to our business.
Scene II.
Enter the two Usurpers,[25] hand in hand.
Ush. But what's become of Volscius the Great;
His presence has not grac'd our court of late.
Phys. I fear some ill, from emulation sprung,
Has from us that illustrious hero wrung.
Bayes. Is not that majestical?
Smith. Yes, but who the devil is that Volscius?
Bayes. Why, that's a prince I make in love with Parthenope.
Smith. I thank you, sir.
Enter Cordelio.
Cor. My lieges, news from Volscius the prince.
Ush. His news is welcome, whatsoe'er it be.[26]
Smith. How, sir, do you mean whether it be good or bad?
Bayes. Nay, pray, sir, have a little patience: gadzookers, you'll spoil all my play. Why, sir, 'tis impossible to answer every impertinent question you ask.
Smith. Cry you mercy, sir.
Cor. His highness, sirs, commanded me to tell you,
That the fair person whom you both do know,
Despairing of forgiveness for her fault,
In a deep sorrow, twice she did attempt
Upon her precious life; but, by the care
Of standers-by, prevented was.
Smith. Why, what stuff's here?
Cor. At last,
Volscius the Great this dire resolve embrac'd:
His servants he into the country sent,
And he himself to Piccadilly went;
Where he's inform'd by letters that she's dead.
Ush. Dead! is that possible? dead!
Phys. O ye gods! [Exeunt.
Bayes. There's a smart expression of a passion: O ye gods! that's one of my bold strokes, egad.
Smith. Yes; but who's the fair person that's dead?
Bayes. That you shall know anon, sir.
Smith. Nay, if we know at all, 'tis well enough.
Bayes. Perhaps you may find, too, by-and-by, for all this, that she's not dead neither.
Smith. Marry, that's good news indeed. I am glad of that with all my heart.
Bayes. Now here's the man brought in that is supposed to have kill'd her. [A great shout within.
Scene III.
Enter Amaryllis, with a book in her hand, and attendants.
Ama. What shout triumphant's that?
Enter a Soldier.
Sold. Shy maid, upon the river brink, near Twic'nam town, the false assassinate is ta'en.
Ama. Thanks to the powers above for this deliverance. I hope,
Its slow beginning will portend
A forward exit to all future end.
Bayes. Pish! there you are out; to all future end! no, no; to all future END! You must lay the accent upon "end," or else you lose the conceit.
Smith. I see you are very perfect in these matters.
Bayes. Ay, sir, I have been long enough at it, one would think, to know something.
Enter Soldiers, dragging in an old Fisherman.
Ama. Villain, what monster did corrupt thy mind
T' attack the noblest soul of human kind?
Tell me who set thee on.
Fish. Prince Prettyman.
Ama. To kill whom?
Fish. Prince Prettyman.
Ama. What! did Prince Prettyman hire you to kill Prince Prettyman?
Fish. No; Prince Volscius.
Ama. To kill whom?
Fish. Prince Volscius.
Ama. What! did Prince Volscius hire you to kill Prince Volscius?
Fish. No, Prince Prettyman.
Ama. So drag him hence,
Till torture of the rack produce his sense. [Exeunt.
Bayes. Mark how I make the horror of his guilt confound his intellects; for he's out at one and t'other: and that's the design of this scene.
Smith. I see, sir, you have a several design for every scene.
Bayes. Ay, that's my way of writing; and so, sir, I can dispatch you a whole play, before another man, egad, can make an end of his plot.
Scene IV.
So now enter Prince Prettyman in a rage. Where the devil is he? why, Prettyman? why, where I say? O fie, fie, fie, fie! all's marr'd, I vow to gad, quite marr'd.
Enter Prettyman.
Phoo, phoo! you are come too late, sir; now you may go out again, if you please. I vow to gad, Mr.—a—I would not give a button for my play, now you have done this.
Pret. What, sir?
Bayes. What, sir! why, sir, you should have come out in choler, rouse upon the stage, just as the other went off. Must a man be eternally telling you of these things?
Johns. Sure this must be some very notable matter that he's so angry at.
Smith. I am not of your opinion.
Bayes. Pish! come let's hear your part, sir.
Pret.[27]Bring in my father: why d'ye keep him from me?
Altho' a fisherman, he is my father:
Was ever son yet brought to this distress,
To be, for being a son, made fatherless!
Ah! you just gods, rob me not of a father:
The being of a son take from me rather. [Exit.
Smith. Well, Ned, what think you now?
Johns. A devil, this is worst of all: Mr. Bayes, pray what's the meaning of this scene?
Bayes. O cry you mercy, sir: I protest I had forgot to tell you. Why, sir, you must know, that long before the beginning of this play, this prince was taken by a fisherman.
Smith. How, sir, taken prisoner?
Bayes. Taken prisoner! O Lord, what a question's there! did ever any man ask such a questions? Plague on him, he has put the plot quite out of my head with this—this—question! what was I going to say?
Johns. Nay, Heaven knows: I cannot imagine.
Bayes. Stay, let me see: taken! O 'tis true. Why, sir, as I was going to say, his highness here, the prince, was taken in a cradle by a fisherman, and brought up as his child!
Smith. Indeed!
Bayes. Nay, prithee, hold thy peace. And so, sir, this murder being committed by the river-side, the fisherman, upon suspicion, was seiz'd, and thereupon the prince grew angry.
Smith. So, so; now 'tis very plain.
Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, is not this some disparagement to a prince, to pass for a fisherman's son? Have a care of that, I pray.
Bayes. No, no, not at all; for 'tis but for a while: I shall fetch him off again presently, you shall see.
Enter Prettyman and Thimble.
Pret. By all the gods, I'll set the world on fire,
Rather than let 'em ravish hence my sire.
Thim. Brave Prettyman, it is at length reveal'd,
That he is not thy sire who thee conceal'd.
Bayes. Lo, you now; there, he's off again.
Johns. Admirably done, i'faith!
Bayes. Ay, now the plot thickens very much upon us.
Pret. What oracle this darkness can evince!
Sometimes a fisher's son, sometimes a prince.
It is a secret, great as is the world;
In which I, like the soul, am toss'd and hurl'd,
The blackest ink of Fate sure was my lot,
And when she writ my name, she made a blot. [Exit.
Bayes. There's a blustering verse for you now.
Smith. Yes, sir; but why is he so mightily troubled to find he is not a fisherman's son?
Bayes. Phoo! that is not because he has a mind to be his son, but for fear he should be thought to be nobody's son at all.
Smith. Nay, that would trouble a man, indeed.
Bayes. So, let me see.
Scene V.
Enter Prince Volscius, going out of town.
Smith. I thought he had been gone to Piccadilly.
Bayes. Yes, he gave it out so; but that was only to cover his design.
Johns. What design?
Bayes. Why, to head the army that lies conceal'd for him at Knightsbridge.
Johns. I see here's a great deal of plot, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. Yes, now it begins to break: but we shall have a world of more business anon.
Enter Prince Volscius, Cloris, Amaryllis, and Harry, with a riding-cloak and boots.
Ama. Sir, you are cruel thus to leave the town,
And to retire to country solitude.
Clo. We hop'd this summer that we should at least
Have held the honour of your company.
Bayes. Held the honour of your company; prettily express'd: held the honour of your company! gadzookers, these fellows will never take notice of anything.
Johns. I assure you, sir, I admire it extremely; I don't know what he does.
Bayes. Ay, ay, he's a little envious; but 'tis no great matter. Come.
Ama. Pray let us two this single boon obtain!
That you will here, with poor us, still remain!
Before your horses come, pronounce our fate,
For then, alas, I fear 'twill be too late.
Bayes. Sad!
Harry, my boots; for I'll go range among!
Vols. My blades encamp'd, and quit this urban throng.[28]
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, is not this a little difficult, that you were saying e'en now, to keep an army thus conceal'd in Knightsbridge?
Bayes. In Knightsbridge? stay.
Johns. No, not if the inn-keepers be his friends.
Bayes. His friends! ay, sir, his intimate acquaintance; or else indeed I grant it could not be.
Smith. Yes, faith, so it might be very easy.
Bayes. Nay, if I do not make all things easy, egad, I'll give you leave to hang me. Now you would think that he's going out of town: but you shall see how prettily I have contriv'd to stop him presently.
Smith. By my troth, sir, you have so amaz'd me, that I know not what to think.
Enter Parthenope.
Vols. Bless me! how frail are all my best resolves!
How, in a moment, is my purpose chang'd!
Too soon I thought myself secure from love.
Fair madam, give me leave to ask her name,[29]
Who does so gently rob me of my fame:
For I should meet the army out of town,
And if I fail, must hazard my renown.
Par. My mother, sir, sells ale by the town-walls;
And me her dear Parthenope she calls.
Bayes. Now that's the Parthenope I told you of.
Johns. Ay, ay, egad, you are very right.
Vols. Can vulgar vestments high-born beauty shroud?
Thou bring'st the morning pictur'd in a cloud.[30]
Bayes. The morning pictur'd in a cloud! ah, gadzookers, what a conceit is there!
Par. Give you good even, sir. [Exit.
Vols. O inauspicious stars! that I was born
To sudden love, and to more sudden scorn!
Ama. } How! Prince Volscius in love? ha, ha, ha![31]
Clo. } [Exeunt laughing.
Smith. Sure, Mr. Bayes, we have lost some jest here, that they laugh at so.
Bayes. Why, did you not observe? he first resolves to go out of town, and then as he's pulling on his boots, falls in love with her; ha, ha, ha!
Smith. Well, and where lies the jest of that?
Bayes. Ha? [Turns to Johns.
Johns. Why, in the boots: where should the jest lie?
Bayes. Egad, you are in the right: it does lie in the boots—— [Turns to Smith. Your friend and I know where a good jest lies, though you don't, sir.
Smith. Much good do't you, sir.
Bayes. Here now, Mr. Johnson, you shall see a combat betwixt love and honour. An ancient author has made a whole play on't;[32] but I have dispatch'd it all in this scene.
Volscius sits down to pull on his boots: Bayes stands by, and over-acts the part as he speaks it.
Vols. How has my passion made me Cupid's scoff!
This hasty boot is on, the other off,
And sullen lies, with amorous design,
To quit loud fame, and make that beauty mine.
Smith. Prithee, mark what pains Mr. Bayes takes to act this speech himself!
Johns. Yes, the fool, I see, is mightily transported with it.
Vols. My legs the emblem of my various thought
Show to what sad distraction I am brought.
Sometimes with stubborn honour, like this boot,
My mind is guarded, and resolv'd to do't:
Sometimes again, that very mind, by love
Disarméd, like this other leg does prove.
Shall I to honour or to love give way?
Go on, cries honour;[33] tender love says, nay;
Honour aloud commands, pluck both boots on;
But softer love does whisper, put on none.
What shall I do! what conduct shall I find,
To lead me thro' this twilight of my mind?
For as bright day, with black approach of night
Contending, makes a doubtful puzzling light;
So does my honour and my love together
Puzzle me so, I can resolve for neither.
[Goes out hopping, with one boot on, and t'other off.
Johns. By my troth, sir, this is as difficult a combat as ever I saw, and as equal; for 'tis determin'd on neither side.
Bayes. Ay, is't not now egad, ha? for to go off hip-hop, hip-hop, upon this occasion, is a thousand times better than any conclusion in the world, egad.
Johns. Indeed, Mr. Bayes, that hip-hop, in this place, as you say, does a very great deal.
Bayes. Oh, all in all, sir! they are these little things that mar, or set you off a play; as I remember once in a play of mine, I set off a scene, egad, beyond expectation, only with a petticoat, and the gripes.[34]
Smith. Pray how was that, sir?
Bayes. Why, sir, I contriv'd a petticoat to be brought in upon a chair (nobody knew how) into a prince's chamber, whose father was not to see it, that came in by chance.
Johns. By-my-life, that was a notable contrivance indeed.
Smith. Ay, but Mr. Bayes, how could you contrive the stomach-ache?
Bayes. The easiest i' th' world, egad: I'll tell you how. I made the prince sit down upon the petticoat, no more than so, and pretended to his father that he had just then got the gripes: whereupon his father went out to call a physician, and his man ran away with the petticoat.
Smith. Well, and what follow'd upon that?
Bayes. Nothing, no earthly thing, I vow to gad.
Johns. On my word, Mr. Bayes, there you hit it.
Bayes. Yes, it gave a world of content. And then I paid 'em away besides; for it made them all talk beastly: ha, ha, ha, beastly! downright beastly upon the stage, egad, ha, ha, ha! but with an infinite deal of wit, that I must say.
Johns. That, ay, that, we know well enough, can never fail you.
Bayes. No, egad, can't it. Come, bring in the dance. [Exit to call the Players.
Smith. Now, the plague take thee for a silly, confident, unnatural, fulsome rogue.
Enter Bayes and Players.
Bayes. Pray dance well before these gentlemen; you are commonly so lazy, but you should be light and easy, tah, tah, tah.
[All the while they dance, Bayes puts them out with teaching them.
Well, gentlemen, you'll see this dance, if I am not deceiv'd, take very well upon the stage, when they are perfect in their motions, and all that.
Smith. I don't know how 'twill take, sir; but I am sure you sweat hard for't.
Bayes. Ay, sir, it costs me more pains and trouble to do these things than almost the things are worth.
Smith. By my troth, I think so, sir.
Bayes. Not for the things themselves; for I could write you, sir, forty of 'em in a day: but, egad, these players are such dull persons, that if a man be not by 'em upon every point, and at every turn, egad, they'll mistake you, sir, and spoil all.
Enter a Player.
What, is the funeral ready?
Play. Yes, sir.
Bayes. And is the lance fill'd with wine?
Play. Sir, 'tis just now a-doing.
Bayes. Stay, then, I'll do it myself.
Smith. Come, let's go with him.
Bayes. A match. But, Mr. Johnson, egad, I am not like other persons; they care not what becomes of their things, so they can but get money for 'em: now, egad, when I write, if it be not just as it should be in every circumstance, to every particular, egad, I am no more able to endure it, I am not myself, I'm out of my wits, and all that; I'm the strangest person in the whole world: for what care I for money? I write for reputation. [Exeunt.