ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—Eliza's Lodgings.
Enter Olivia and Eliza.
Oliv. Ah, cousin! nothing troubles me but that I have given the malicious world its revenge, and reason now to talk as freely of me as I used to do of it.
Eliza. Faith, then, let not that trouble you; for, to be plain, cousin, the world cannot talk worse of you than it did before.
Oliv. How, cousin! I'd have you to know, before this faux pas, this trip of mine, the world could not talk of me.
Eliza. Only that you mind other people's actions so much that you take no care of your own, but to hide 'em; that, like a thief, because you know yourself most guilty, you impeach your fellow-criminals first, to clear yourself.
Oliv. O wicked world!
Eliza. That you pretend an aversion to all mankind in public, only that their wives and mistresses may not be jealous, and hinder you of their conversation in private.
Oliv. Base world!
Eliza. That abroad you fasten quarrels upon innocent men for talking of you, only to bring 'em to ask your pardon at home, and to become dear friends with them, who were hardly your acquaintance before.
Oliv. Abominable world!
Eliza. That you condemn the obscenity of modern plays, only that you may not be censured for never missing the most obscene of the old ones.
Oliv. Damned world!
Eliza. That you deface the nudities of pictures, and little statues, only because they are not real.[124]
Oliv. O, fy! fy! fy! hideous, hideous! Cousin, the obscenity of their censures makes me blush!
Eliza. The truth of 'em, the naughty world would say now.
Enter Lettice hastily.
Let. O, madam! here is that gentleman coming up who now you say is my master.
Oliv. O, cousin! whither shall I run? protect me, or—[Olivia runs away, and stands at a distance.
Enter Vernish.
Ver. Nay, nay, come—
Oliv. O, sir, forgive me!
Ver. Yes, yes, I can forgive you being alone in the dark with a woman in man's clothes: but have a care of a man in woman's clothes.
Oliv. What does he mean? he dissembles only to get me into his power: or has my dear friend made him believe he was a woman? My husband may be deceived by him, but I'm sure I was not. [Aside.
Ver. Come, come, you need not have lain out of your house for this; but perhaps you were afraid, when I was warm with suspicions, you must have discovered who she was.—And, prithee, may I not know it?
Oliv. She was!—[Aside.] I hope he has been deceived: and since my lover has played the card, I must not renounce.
Ver. Come, what's the matter with thee? If I must not know who she is, I'm satisfied without. Come hither.
Oliv. Sure you do know her; she has told you herself, I suppose.
Ver. No, I might have known her better but that I was interrupted by the goldsmith, you know, and was forced to lock her into your chamber, to keep her from his sight; but, when I returned, I found she was got away by tying the window-curtains to the balcony, by which she slid down into the street. For, you must know, I jested with her, and made her believe I'd ravish her; which she apprehended, it seems, in earnest.
Oliv. And she got from you?
Ver. Yes.
Oliv. And is quite gone?
Ver. Yes.
Oliv. I'm glad on't—otherwise you had ravished her, sir? But how durst you go so far, as to make her believe you would ravish her? let me understand that, sir. What! there's guilt in your face, you blush too: nay, then you did ravish her, you did, you base fellow! What, ravish a woman in the first month of our marriage! 'tis a double injury to me, thou base, ungrateful man! wrong my bed already, villain! I could tear out those false eyes, barbarous, unworthy wretch!
Eliza. So, so!—
Ver. Prithee hear, my dear.
Oliv. I will never hear you, my plague, my torment!
Ver. I swear—prithee, hear me.
Oliv. I have heard already too many of your false oaths and vows, especially your last in the church. O wicked man! and wretched woman that I was! I wish I had then sunk down into a grave, rather than to have given you my hand, to be led to your loathsome bed. Oh—Oh—[Pretends to weep.
Ver. So, very fine! just a marriage-quarrel! which though it generally begins by the wife's fault, yet, in the conclusion, it becomes the husband's; and whosoever offends at first, he only is sure to ask pardon at last. My dear—
Oliv. My devil!—
Ver. Come, prithee be appeased, and go home; I have bespoken our supper betimes: for I could not eat till I found you. Go, I'll give you all kind of satisfactions; and one, which uses to be a reconciling one, two hundred of those guineas I received last night, to do what you will with.
Oliv. What, would you pay me for being your bawd?
Ver. Nay, prithee no more; go, and I'll thoroughly satisfy you when I come home; and then, too, we will have a fit of laughter at Manly, whom I am going to find at the Cock in Bow-street, where I hear he dined. Go, dearest, go home.
Eliza. A very pretty turn, indeed, this! [Aside.
Ver. Now, cousin, since by my wife I have that honour and privilege of calling you so, I have something to beg of you too; which is not to take notice of our marriage to any whatever yet a while, for some reasons very important to me. And, next, that you will do my wife the honour to go home with her; and me the favour, to use that power you have with her, in our reconcilement.
Eliza. That I dare promise, sir, will be no hard matter. Your servant.—[Exit Vernish.]—Well, cousin, this, I confess, was reasonable hypocrisy; you were the better for't.
Oliv. What hypocrisy?
Eliza. Why, this last deceit of your husband was lawful, since in your own defence.
Oliv. What deceit? I'd have you to know I never deceived my husband.
Eliza. You do not understand me, sure: I say, this was an honest come-off, and a good one. But 'twas a sign your gallant had had enough of your conversation, since he could so dexterously cheat your husband in passing for a woman.
Oliv. What d'ye mean, once more, with my gallant and passing for a woman?
Eliza. What do you mean? you see your husband took him for a woman.
Oliv. Whom?
Eliza. Heyday! why, the man he found you with, for whom last night you were so much afraid; and who you told me—
Oliv. Lord, you rave sure!
Eliza. Why, did you not tell me last night—
Oliv. I know not what I might tell you last night, in a fright.
Eliza. Ay, what was that fright for? for a woman? besides, were you not afraid to see your husband just now? I warrant only for having been found with a woman! Nay, did you not just now, too, own your false step, or trip, as you called it? which was with a woman too! fy, this fooling is so insipid, 'tis offensive!
Oliv. And fooling with my honour will be more offensive. Did you not hear my husband say he found me with a woman in man's clothes? and d'ye think he does not know a man from a woman?
Eliza. Not so well, I'm sure, as you do; therefore I'd rather take your word.
Oliv. What, you grow scurrilous, and are, I find, more censorious than the world! I must have a care of you, I see.
Eliza. No, you need not fear yet, I'll keep your secret.
Oliv. My secret! I'd have you to know, I have no need of confidants, though you value yourself upon being a good one.
Eliza. O admirable confidence! you show more in denying your wickedness, than other people in glorying in't.
Oliv. Confidence, to me! to me such language! nay, then I'll never see your face again.—[Aside.] I'll quarrel with her, that people may never believe I was in her power; but take for malice all the truth she may speak against me.—[Aloud.] Lettice, where are you! Let us be gone from this censorious ill woman.
Eliza. [Aside.] Nay, thou shalt stay a little, to damn thyself quite.—[Aloud.] One word first, pray, madam; can you swear that whom your husband found you with—
Oliv. Swear! ay, that whosoever 'twas that stole up, unknown, into my room, when 'twas dark, I know not, whether man or woman, by Heavens! by all that's good; or, may I never more have joys here, or in the other world! Nay, may I eternally—
Eliza. Be damned. So, so, you are damned enough already by your oaths; and I enough confirmed, and now you may please to be gone. Yet take this advice with you, in this plain-dealing age, to leave off forswearing yourself; for when people hardly think the better of a woman for her real modesty, why should you put that great constraint upon yourself to feign it?
Oliv. O hideous, hideous advice! let us go out of the hearing of it. She will spoil us, Lettice.
[Exeunt Olivia and Lettice at one door, Eliza at the other.
SCENE II.—The Cock in Bow Street. A table and bottles.
Enter Manly and Fidelia.
Man. How! saved her honour by making her husband believe you were a woman! 'Twas well, but hard enough to do, sure.
Fid. We were interrupted before he could contradict me.
Man. But can't you tell me, d'ye say, what kind of man he was?
Fid. I was so frightened, I confess, I can give no other account of him, but that he was pretty tall, round-faced, and one, I'm sure, I ne'er had seen before.
Man. But she, you say, made you swear to return to-night?
Fid. But I have since sworn, never to go near her again; for the husband would murder me, or worse, if he caught me again.
Man. No, I will go with you, and defend you to-night, and then I'll swear, too, never to go near her again.
Fid. Nay, indeed, sir, I will not go, to be accessory to your death too. Besides, what should you go again, sir, for?
Man. No disputing, or advice, sir, you have reason to know I am unalterable. Go therefore presently, and write her a note, to inquire if her assignation with you holds; and if not to be at her own house, where else; and be importunate to gain admittance to her to-night. Let your messenger, ere he deliver your letter, inquire first if her husband be gone out. Go, 'tis now almost six of the clock; I expect you back here before seven, with leave to see her then. Go, do this dextrously, and expect the performance of my last night's promise, never to part with you.
Fid. Ay, sir; but will you be sure to remember that?
Man. Did I ever break my word? Go, no more replies, or doubts. [Exit Fidelia.
Enter Freeman.
Where hast thou been?
Free. In the next room with my Lord Plausible and Novel.
Man. Ay, we came hither, because 'twas a private house; but with thee indeed no house can be private, for thou hast that pretty quality of the familiar fops of the town, who, in an eating-house, always keep company with all people in't but those they came with.
Free. I went into their room, but to keep them, and my own fool the squire, out of your room; but you shall be peevish now, because you have no money. But why the devil won't you write to those we were speaking of? Since your modesty, or your spirit, will not suffer you to speak to 'em, to lend you money, why won't you try 'em at last that way?
Man. Because I know 'em already, and can bear want better than denials, nay, than obligations.
Free. Deny you! they cannot. All of 'em have been your intimate friends.
Man. No, they have been people only I have obliged particularly.
Free. Very well; therefore you ought to go to 'em the rather, sure.
Man. No, no. Those you have obliged most, most certainly avoid you, when you can oblige 'em no longer; and they take your visits like so many duns. Friends, like mistresses, are avoided for obligations past.
Free. Pshaw! but most of 'em are your relations; men of great fortune and honour.
Man. Yes; but relations have so much honour as to think poverty taints the blood, and disown their wanting kindred; believing, I suppose, that as riches at first make a gentleman, the want of 'em degrades him. But damn 'em! now I am poor, I'll anticipate their contempt, and disown them.
Free. But you have many a female acquaintance whom you have been liberal to, who may have a heart to refund to you a little, if you would ask it: they are not all Olivias.
Man. Damn thee! how couldst thou think of such a thing? I would as soon rob my footman of his wages. Besides, 'twere in vain too: for a wench is like a box in an ordinary, receives all people's money easily, but there is no getting, nay, shaking any out again; and he that fills it is sure never to keep the key.
Free. Well, but noble captain, would you make me believe that you, who know half the town, have so many friends, and have obliged so many, can't borrow fifty or a hundred pounds?
Man. Why, noble lieutenant, you who know all the town, and call all you know friends, methinks should not wonder at it; since you find ingratitude too. For how many lords' families (though descended from blacksmiths or tinkers) hast thou called great and illustrious? how many ill tables called good eating? how many noisy coxcombs wits? how many pert cocking[125] cowards stout? how many tawdry affected rogues well-dressed? how many perukes admired? and how many ill verses applauded? and yet canst not borrow a shilling. Dost thou expect I, who always spoke truth, should?
Free. Nay, now you think you have paid me; but hark you, captain, I have heard of a thing called grinning honour, but never of starving honour.
Man. Well, but it has been the fate of some brave men; and if they won't give me a ship again, I can go starve anywhere with a musket on my shoulder.
Free. Give you a ship! why, you will not solicit it.
Man. If I have not solicited it by my services, I know no other way.
Free. Your servant, sir; nay, then I'm satisfied, I must solicit my widow the closer, and run the desperate fortune of matrimony on shore. [Exit.
Enter Vernish.
Man. How!—Nay, here is a friend indeed; and he that has him in his arms can know no wants. [Embraces Vernish.
Ver. Dear sir! and he that is in your arms is secure from all fears whatever: nay, our nation is secure by your defeat at sea, and the Dutch that fought against you have proved enemies to themselves only in bringing you back to us.
Man. Fy! fy! this from a friend? and yet from any other 'twere insufferable: I thought I should never have taken anything ill from you.
Ver. A friend's privilege is to speak his mind, though it be taken ill.
Man. But your tongue need not tell me you think too well of me; I have found it from your heart, which spoke in actions, your unalterable heart. But Olivia is false, my friend, which I suppose is no news to you.
Ver. He's in the right on't. [Aside.
Man. But couldst thou not keep her true to me?
Ver. Not for my heart, sir.
Man. But could you not perceive it at all before I went? Could she so deceive us both?
Ver. I must confess, the first time I knew it was three days after your departure, when she received the money you had left in Lombard-street in her name; and her tears did not hinder her, it seems, from counting that. You would trust her with all, like a true generous lover.
Man. And she like a mean jilting—
Ver. Traitorous—
Man. Base—
Ver. Damned—
Man. Covetous—
Ver. Mercenary whore.—[Aside.] I can hardly hold from laughing.
Man. Ay, a mercenary whore indeed; for she made me pay her before I lay with her.
Ver. How!—Why, have you lain with her?
Man. Ay, ay.
Ver. Nay, she deserves you should report it at least, though you have not.
Man. Report it! by Heaven, 'tis true!
Ver. How! sure not.
Man. I do not use to lie, nor you to doubt me.
Ver. When?
Man. Last night, about seven or eight of the clock.
Ver. Ha!—[Aside.] Now I remember, I thought she spake as if she expected some other rather than me. A confounded whore, indeed!
Man. But what, thou wonderest at it! nay, you seem to be angry too.
Ver. I cannot but be enraged against her, for her usage of you: damned infamous, common jade!
Man. Nay, her cuckold, who first cuckolded me in my money, shall not laugh all himself: we will do him reason, shan't we?
Ver. Ay, ay.
Man. But thou dost not, for so great a friend, take pleasure enough in your friend's revenge, methinks.
Ver. Yes, yes; I'm glad to know it, since you have lain with her.
Man. Thou canst not tell who that rascal, her cuckold, is?
Ver. No.
Man. She would keep it from you, I suppose.
Ver. Yes, yes.
Man. Thou wouldst laugh, if thou knewest but all the circumstances of my having her. Come, I'll tell thee.
Ver. Damn her! I care not to hear any more of her.
Man. Faith, thou shalt. You must know—
Re-enter Freeman backwards, endeavouring to keep out Novel, Lord Plausible, Jerry Blackacre, and Major Oldfox, who all press upon him.
Free. I tell you he has a wench with him, and would be private.
Man. Damn 'em! a man can't open a bottle in these eating-houses, but presently you have these impudent, intruding, buzzing flies and insects in your glass.—Well, I'll tell thee all anon. In the mean time prithee go to her, but not from me, and try if you can get her to lend me but a hundred pounds of my money, to supply my present wants; for I suppose there is no recovering any of it by law.
Ver. Not any: think not of it. Nor by this way neither.
Man. Go try, at least.
Ver. I'll go; but I can satisfy you beforehand it will be to no purpose. You'll no more find a refunding wench—
Man. Than a refunding lawyer; indeed their fees alike scarce ever return. However, try her; put it to her.
Ver. Ay, ay, I'll try her; put it to her home with a vengeance. [Exit.
Nov. Nay, you shall be our judge, Manly—Come, major, I'll speak it to your teeth; if people provoke me to say bitter things to their faces, they must take what follows; though, like my lord Plausible, I'd rather do't civilly behind their backs.
Man. Nay, thou art a dangerous rogue, I've heard, behind a man's back.
L. Plau. You wrong him sure, noble captain; he would do a man no more harm behind his back than to his face.
Free. I am of my lord's mind.
Man. Yes, a fool, like a coward, is the more to be, feared behind a man's back, more than a witty man; for as a coward is more bloody than a brave man, a fool is more malicious than a man of wit.
Nov. A fool, tar,—a fool! nay, thou art a brave sea-judge of wit! a fool! Prithee when did you ever find me want something to say, as you do often?
Man. Nay, I confess thou art always talking, roaring, or making a noise; that I'll say for thee.
Nov. Well, and is talking a sign of a fool?
Man. Yes, always talking, especially too if it be loud and fast, is the sign of a fool.
Nov. Pshaw! talking is like fencing, the quicker the better; run 'em down, run 'em down, no matter for parrying; push on still, sa, sa, sa! No matter whether you argue in form, push in guard or no.
Man. Or hit or no; I think thou always talkest without thinking, Novel.
Nov. Ay, ay; studied play's the worse, to follow the allegory, as the old pedant says.
Old. A young fop!
Man. I ever thought the man of most wit had been like him of most money, who has no vanity in showing it everywhere, whilst the beggarly pusher of his fortune has all he has about him still only to show.
Nov. Well, sir, and make a pretty show in the world, let me tell you; nay, a better than your close hunks. A pox, give me ready money in play! what care I for a man's reputation? what are we the better for your substantial thrifty curmudgeon in wit, sir?
Old. Thou art a profuse young rogue indeed.
Nov. So much for talking, which, I think, I have proved a mark of wit; and so is railing, roaring, and making a noise; for railing is satire, you know; and roaring and making a noise, humour.
Re-enter Fidelia; she takes Manly aside, and shows him a paper.
Fid. The hour is betwixt seven and eight exactly: 'tis now half an hour to six.
Man. Well, go then to the Piazza, and wait for me: as soon as it is quite dark, I'll be with you. I must stay here yet a while for my friend.—[Exit Fidelia.] But is railing satire, Novel?
Free. And roaring and making a noise, humour?
Nov. What, won't you confess there's humour in roaring and making a noise?
Free. No.
Nov. Nor in cutting napkins and hangings?
Man. No, sure.
Nov. Dull fops!
Old. O rogue, rogue, insipid rogue!—Nay, gentlemen, allow him those things for wit; for his parts lie only that way.
Nov. Peace, old fool! I wonder not at thee; but that young fellows should be so dull, as to say there's no humour in making a noise, and breaking windows! I tell you there's wit and humour too in both; and a wit is as well known by his frolic as by his smile.
Old. Pure rogue! there's your modern wit for you! Wit and humour in breaking of windows: there's mischief, if you will, but no wit or humour.
Nov. Prithee, prithee, peace, old fool! I tell you, where there's mischief, there's wit. Don't we esteem the monkey a wit amongst beasts, only because he's mischievous? and, let me tell you, as good-nature is a sign of a fool, being mischievous is a sign of a wit.
Old. O rogue, rogue! pretend to be a wit, by doing mischief and railing!
Nov. Why, thou, old fool, hast no other pretence to the name of a wit, but by railing at new plays!
Old. Thou, by railing at that facetious noble way of wit, quibbling!
Nov. Thou callest thy dulness gravity; and thy dozing, thinking.
Old. You, sir, your dulness, spleen; and you talk much and say nothing.
Nov. Thou readest much, and understandest nothing, sir.
Old. You laugh loud, and break no jest.
Nov. You rail, and nobody hangs himself; and thou hast nothing of the satire but in thy face.
Old. And you have no jest, but your face, sir.
Nov. Thou art an illiterate pedant.
Old. Thou art a fool with a bad memory.
Man. Come, a pox on you both! you have done like wits now: for you wits, when you quarrel, never give over till ye prove one another fools.
Nov. And you fools have never any occasion of laughing at us wits but when we quarrel. Therefore let us be friends, Oldfox.
Man. They are such wits as thou art, who make the name of a wit as scandalous as that of bully: and signify a loud-laughing, talking, incorrigible, coxcomb, as bully a roaring hardened coward.
Free. And would have his noise and laughter pass for wit, as t'other his huffing and blustering for courage.
Re-enter Vernish.
Man. Gentlemen, with your leave, here is one I would speak with; and I have nothing to say to you. [Puts all out of the room except Vernish.
Ver. I told you 'twas in vain to think of getting money out of her. She says, if a shilling would do't, she would not save you from starving or hanging, or what you would think worse, begging or flattering; and rails so at you, one would not think you had lain with her.
Man. O, friend, never trust for that matter a woman's railing; for she is no less a dissembler in her hatred than her love; and as her fondness of her husband is a sign he's a cuckold, her railing at another man is a sign she lies with him.
Ver. He's in the right on't: I know not what to trust to. [Aside.
Man. But you did not take any notice of it to her, I hope?
Ver. So!—Sure he is afraid I should have disproved him by an inquiry of her: all may be well yet. [Aside.
Man. What hast thou in thy head that makes thee seem so unquiet?
Ver. Only this base impudent woman's falseness; I cannot put her out of my head.
Man. O, my dear friend, be not you too sensible of my wrongs; for then I shall feel 'em too with more pain, and think 'em unsufferable. Damn her, her money, and that ill-natured whore too, Fortune herself! But if thou wouldst ease a little my present trouble, prithee go borrow me somewhere else some money. I can trouble thee.
Ver. You trouble me, indeed, most sensibly, when you command me anything I cannot do. I have lately lost a great deal of money at play, more than I can yet pay; so that not only my money, but my credit too is gone, and know not where to borrow: but could rob a church for you.—[Aside.] Yet would rather end your wants by cutting your throat.
Man. Nay, then I doubly feel my poverty, since I'm incapable of supplying thee. [Embraces him.
Ver. But, methinks, she that granted you the last favour, (as they call it,) should not deny you anything.
Nov. [Looking in.] Hey, tarpaulin, have you done? [Retires again.
Ver. I understand not that point of kindness, I confess.
Man. No, thou dost not understand it, and I have not time to let you know all now; for these fools, you see, will interrupt us: but anon, at supper, we'll laugh at leisure together at Olivia's cuckold, who took a young fellow, that goes between his wife and me, for a woman.
Ver. Ha!
Man. Senseless, easy rascal! 'twas no wonder she chose him for a husband; but she thought him, I thank her, fitter than me, for that blind bearing office.
Ver. I could not be deceived in that long woman's hair tied up behind, nor those infallible proofs, her pouting swelling breasts: I have handled too many sure not to know 'em. [Aside.
Man. What, you wonder the fellow could be such a blind coxcomb?
Ver. Yes, yes—
Nov. [Looking in again.] Nay, prithee, come to us, Manly. Gad, all the fine things one says in their company, are lost without thee.
Man. Away, fop! I'm busy yet. [Novel retires.] You see we cannot talk here at our ease: besides, I must be gone immediately, in order to meeting with Olivia again to-night.
Ver. To-night! it cannot be, sure—
Man. I had an appointment just now from her.
Ver. For what time?
Man. At half an hour after seven precisely.
Ver. Don't you apprehend the husband?
Man. He! snivelling gull! he a thing to be feared! a husband! the tamest of creatures!
Ver. Very fine! [Aside.
Man. But, prithee, in the mean time, go try to get me some money. Though thou art too modest to borrow for thyself, thou canst do anything for me, I know. Go; for I must be gone to Olivia. Go, and meet me here, anon.—Freeman, where are you? [Exit.
Ver. Ay, I'll meet with you, I warrant; but it shall be at Olivia's. Sure, it cannot be: she denies it so calmly, and with that honest modest assurance, it cannot be true—and he does not use to lie—but belying a woman when she won't be kind, is the only lie a brave man will least scruple. But then the woman in man's clothes, whom he calls a man—well, but by her breasts I know her to be a woman—but then again, his appointment from her, to meet him again to-night! I am distracted more with doubt than jealousy. Well, I have no way to disabuse or revenge myself, but by going home immediately, putting on a riding-suit, and pretending to my wife the same business which carried me out of town last, requires me again to go post to Oxford to-night. Then, if the appointment he boasts of be true, it's sure to hold, and I shall have an opportunity either of clearing her, or revenging myself on both. Perhaps she is his wench, of an old date, and I am his cully, whilst I think him mine; and he has seemed to make his wench rich, only that I might take her off his hands. Or if he has but lately lain with her, he must needs discover by her my treachery to him; which I'm sure he will revenge with my death, and which I must prevent with his, if it were only but for fear of his too just reproaches; for I must confess, I never had till now any excuse but that of interest, for doing ill to him. [Exit.
Re-enter Manly and Freeman.
Man. Come hither; only, I say, be sure you mistake not the time. You know the house exactly where Olivia lodges, 'tis just hard by.
Free. Yes, yes.
Man. Well then, bring 'em all, I say, thither, and all you know that may be then in the house; for the more witnesses I have of her infamy, the greater will be my revenge: and be sure you come straight up to her chamber without more ado. Here, take the watch; you see 'tis above a quarter past seven; be there in half an hour exactly.
Free. You need not doubt my diligence or dexterity; I am an old scourer, and can naturally beat up a wench's quarters that won't be civil. Shan't we break her windows too?
Man. No, no; be punctual only. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Room in the same.
Enter Widow Blackacre, and two Knights of the Post,[126] a Waiter following with wine.
Wid. Sweetheart, are you sure the door was shut close, that none of those roysters saw us come in?
Wait. Yes, mistress; and you shall have a privater room above, instantly. [Exit.
Wid. You are safe enough, gentlemen; for I have been private in this house ere now, upon other occasions, when I was something younger. Come, gentlemen; in short, I leave my business to your care and fidelity: and so here's to you.
1st Knight. We are ungrateful rogues if we should not be honest to you; for we have had a great deal of your money.
Wid. And you have done me many a good job for't; and so, here's to you again.
2nd Knight. Why, we have been perjured but six times for you.
1st Knight. Forged but four deeds, with your husband's last deed of gift.
2nd Knight. And but three wills.
1st Knight. And counterfeited hands and seals to some six bonds; I think that's all, brother?
Wid. Ay, that's all, gentlemen; and so, here's to you again.
2nd Knight. Nay, 'twould do one's heart good to be forsworn for you. You have a conscience in your ways, and pay us well.
1st Knight. You are in the right on't, brother; one would be damned for her with all one's heart.
2nd Knight. But there are rogues, who make us forsworn for 'em; and when we come to be paid, they'll be forsworn too, and not pay us our wages, which they promised with oaths sufficient.
1st Knight. Ay, a great lawyer that shall be nameless bilked me too.
Wid. That was hard, methinks, that a lawyer should use gentlemen witnesses no better.
2nd Knight. A lawyer! d'ye wonder a lawyer should do't? I was bilked by a reverend divine, that preaches twice on Sundays, and prays half an hour still before dinner.
Wid. How! a conscientious divine and not pay people for damning themselves! sure then, for all his talking, he does not believe damnation. But, come, to our business. Pray be sure to imitate exactly the flourish at the end of this name. [Pulls out a deed or two.
1st Knight. O, he's the best in England at untangling a flourish, madam.
Wid. And let not the seal be a jot bigger. Observe well the dash too, at the end of this name.
2nd Knight. I warrant you, madam.
Wid. Well, these and many other shifts, poor widows are put to sometimes; for everybody would be riding a widow, as they say, and breaking into her jointure. They think marrying a widow an easy business, like leaping the hedge where another has gone over before. A widow is a mere gap, a gap with them.
Enter Major Oldfox, with two Waiters. The Knights of the Post huddle up the writings.
What, he here! Go then, go my hearts, you have your instructions. [Exeunt Knights of the Post.
Old. Come, madam, to be plain with you, I'll be fobbed off no longer.—[Aside.] I'll bind her and gag her but she shall hear me.—[To the Waiters.] Look you, friends, there's the money I promised you; and now do you what you promised me: here my garters, and here's a gag.—[To the Widow.] You shall be acquainted with my parts, lady, you shall.
Wid. Acquainted with your parts! A rape! a rape!—what, will you ravish me? [The Waiters tie her to the chair, gag her, and exeunt.
Old. Yes, lady, I will ravish you: but it shall be through the ear, lady, the ear only, with my well-penned acrostics.
Enter Freeman, Jerry Blackacre, three Bailiffs, a Constable, and his Assistants with the two Knights of the Post.
What, shall I never read my things undisturbed again?
Jer. O la! my mother bound hand and foot, and gaping as if she rose before her time to-day!
Free. What means this, Oldfox? But I'll release you from him; you shall be no man's prisoner but mine. Bailiffs, execute your writ. [Unties her.
Old. Nay, then, I'll be gone, for fear of being bail, and paying her debts without being her husband. [Exit.
1st Bail. We arrest you in the king's name, at the suit of Mr. Freeman, guardian to Jeremiah Blackacre, esquire, in an action of ten thousand pounds.
Wid. How, how, in a choke-bail action! What, and the pen and-ink gentlemen taken too!—Have you confessed, you rogues?
1st Knight. We needed not to confess; for the bailiffs have dogged us hither to the very door, and overheard all that you and we said.
Wid. Undone, undone then! no man was ever too hard for me till now. O Jerry, child, wilt thou vex again the womb that bore thee?
Jer. Ay, for bearing me before wedlock, as you say. But I'll teach you call a Blackacre bastard, though you were never so much my mother.
Wid. [Aside.] Well, I'm undone! not one trick left? no law-mesh imaginable?—[To Freeman.] Cruel sir, a word with you, I pray.
Free. In vain, madam; for you have no other way to release yourself but by the bonds of matrimony.
Wid. How, sir, how! that were but to sue out a habeas-corpus, for a removal from one prison to another.—Matrimony!
Free. Well, bailiffs, away with her.
Wid. O stay, sir! can you be so cruel as to bring me under covert-baron[127] again, and put it out of my power to sue in my own name? Matrimony to a woman is worse than excommunication, in depriving her of the benefit of the law; and I would rather be deprived of life. But hark you, sir, I am contented you should hold and enjoy my person by lease or patent, but not by the spiritual patent called a licence; that is, to have the privileges of a husband, without the dominion; that is, Durante beneplacito. In consideration of which, I will out of my jointure secure you an annuity of three hundred pounds a year, and pay your debts; and that's all you younger brothers desire to marry a widow for, I'm sure.
Free. Well, widow, if—
Jer. What! I hope, bully-guardian, you are not making agreements without me?
Free. No, no. First, widow, you must say no more that he is a son of a whore; have a care of that. And, then, he must have a settled exhibition of forty pounds a year, and a nag of assizes, kept by you, but not upon the common; and have free ingress, egress, and regress, to and from your maids' garret.
Wid. Well, I can grant all that too.
Jer. Ay, ay, fair words butter no cabbage: but guardian, make her sign, sign and seal; for otherwise, if you knew her as well as I, you would not trust her word for a farthing.
Free. I warrant thee, squire.—Well, widow, since thou art so generous, I will be generous too; and if you'll secure me four hundred pounds a year, but during your life, and pay my debts, not above a thousand pounds, I'll bate you your person, to dispose of as you please.
Wid. Have a care, sir, a settlement without a consideration is void in law; you must do something for't.
Free. Prithee, then let the settlement on me be called alimony; and the consideration, our separation. Come; my lawyer, with writings ready drawn, is within, and in haste. Come.
Wid. But, what, no other kind of consideration, Mr. Freeman? Well, a widow, I see, is a kind of sinecure, by custom of which the unconscionable incumbent enjoys the profits, without any duty, but does that still elsewhere. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—Olivia's Lodging.
Enter Olivia with a candle in her hand.
Oliv. So, I am now prepared once more for my timorous young lover's reception. My husband is gone; and go thou out too, thou next interrupter of love.—[Puts out the candle.] Kind darkness, that frees us lovers from scandal and bashfulness, from the censure of our gallants and the world!—So, are you there?
Enter Fidelia, followed softly by Manly.
Come, my dear punctual lover, there is not such another in the world; thou hast beauty and youth to please a wife; address and wit, to amuse and fool a husband; nay, thou hast all things to be wished in a lover, but your fits. I hope, my dear, you won't have one to-night; and that you may not, I'll lock the door, though there be no need of it, but to lock out your fits: for my husband is just gone out of town again. Come, where are you? [Goes to the door and locks it.
Man. Well, thou hast impudence enough to give me fits too, and make revenge itself impotent; hinder me from making thee yet more infamous, if it can be. [Aside.
Oliv. Come, come, my soul, come.
Fid. Presently, my dear, we have time enough sure.
Oliv. How, time enough! True lovers can no more think they ever have time enough, than love enough. You shall stay with me all night; but that is but a lover's moment. Come.
Fid. But won't you let me give you and myself the satisfaction of telling you how I abused your husband last night?
Oliv. Not when you can give me, and yourself too, the satisfaction of abusing him again to-night. Come.
Fid. Let me but tell you how your husband—
Oliv. O name not his, or Manly's more loathsome name, if you love me! I forbid 'em last night: and you know I mentioned my husband but once, and he came. No talking, pray, 'twas ominous to us.—[A noise at the door.] You make me fancy a noise at the door already, but I'm resolved not to be interrupted. Where are you? Come, for rather than lose my dear expectation now, though my husband were at the door, and the bloody ruffian Manly here in the room, with all his awful insolence, I would give myself to this dear hand, to be led away to heavens of joys, which none but thou canst give.—[The noise at the door increases.] But what's this noise at the door? So, I told you what talking would come to. Ha!—O Heavens, my husband's voice!—[Listens at the door.
Man. [Aside.] Freeman is come too soon.
Oliv. O, 'tis he!—Then here's the happiest minute lost that ever bashful boy or trifling woman fooled away! I'm undone! my husband's reconcilement too was false, as my joy all delusion. But come this way, here's a back door.—[Exit, and returns.] The officious jade has locked us in, instead of locking others out: but let us then escape your way, by the balcony; and whilst you pull down the curtains, I'll fetch from my closet what next will best secure our escape. I have left my key in the door, and 'twill not suddenly be broken open. [Exit.
[A noise as if people were forcing the door.
Man. Stir not, yet fear nothing.
Fid. Nothing but your life, sir.
Man. We shall know this happy man she calls husband.
Re-enter Olivia.
Oliv. Oh, where are you? What, idle with fear? Come, I'll tie the curtains, if you will hold. Here take this cabinet and purse, for it is thine, if we escape;—[Manly takes them from her]—therefore let us make haste. [Exit.
Man. 'Tis mine indeed now again, and it shall never escape more from me, to you at least. [The door is broke open, enter Vernish with a dark-lantern and a sword, running at Manly, who draws, puts by the thrust, and defends himself, whilst Fidelia runs at Vernish behind.
Ver. So, there I'm right, sure—[In a low voice.
Man. [Softly.] Sword and dark-lantern, villain, are some odds; but—
Ver. Odds! I'm sure I find more odds than I expected. What, has my insatiable two seconds at once? but—[In a low voice.
[Whilst they fight, Olivia re-enters, tying two curtains together.
Oliv. Where are you now?—What, is he entered then, and are they fighting? O do not kill one that can make no defence!—[Manly throws Vernish down and disarms him.] How! but I think he has the better on't. Here's his scarf, 'tis he. So, keep him down still: I hope thou hast no hurt, my dearest? [Embracing Manly.
Enter Freeman, Lord Plausible, Novel, Jerry Blackacre, and Widow Blackacre, lighted by the two Sailors with torches.
Ha!—what! Manly! and have I been thus concerned for him! embracing him! and has he his jewels again too! What means this? O, 'tis too sure, as well as my shame! which I'll go hide for ever. [Offers to go out, Manly stops her.
Man. No, my dearest; after so much kindness as has passed between us, I cannot part with you yet.—Freeman, let nobody stir out of the room; for notwithstanding your lights, we are yet in the dark, till this gentleman please to turn his face—[Pulls Vernish by the sleeve.] How, Vernish! art thou the happy man then? thou! thou! speak, I say; but thy guilty silence tells me all.—Well, I shall not upbraid thee; for my wonder is striking me as dumb as thy shame has made thee. But what? my little volunteer hurt, and fainting!
Fid. My wound, sir, is but a slight one in my arm; 'tis only my fear of your danger, sir, not yet well over.
Man. But what's here? more strange things—[Observing Fidelia's hair untied behind, and without a peruke, which she lost in the scuffle.] What means this long woman's hair, and face! now all of it appears too beautiful for a man; which I still thought womanish indeed! What, you have not deceived me too, my little volunteer?
Oliv. Me she has, I'm sure. [Aside.
Man. Speak!
Enter Eliza and Lettice.
Eliza. What, cousin, I am brought hither by your woman, I suppose, to be a witness of the second vindication of your honour?
Oliv. Insulting is not generous. You might spare me, I have you.
Eliza. Have a care, cousin, you'll confess anon too much; and I would not have your secrets.
Man. Come, your blushes answer me sufficiently, and you have been my volunteer in love. [To Fidelia.
Fid. I must confess I needed no compulsion to follow you all the world over; which I attempted in this habit, partly out of shame to own my love to you, and fear of a greater shame, your refusal of it; for I knew of your engagement to this lady, and the constancy of your nature; which nothing could have altered but herself.
Man. Dear madam, I desired you to bring me out of confusion, and you have given me more. I know not what to speak to you, or how to look upon you; the sense of my rough, hard, and ill usage of you, (though chiefly your own fault,) gives me more pain now 'tis over, than you had when you suffered it: and if my heart, the refusal of such a woman—[Pointing to Olivia]—were not a sacrifice to profane your love, and a greater wrong to you than ever yet I did you, I would beg of you to receive it, though you used it as she had done; for though it deserved not from her the treatment she gave it, it does from you.
Fid. Then it has had punishment sufficient from her already, and needs no more from me; and, I must confess, I would not be the only cause of making you break your last night's oath to me, of never parting with me; if you do not forget or repent it.
Man. Then take for ever my heart, and this with it;—[Gives her the cabinet] for 'twas given to you before, and my heart was before your due: I only beg leave to dispose of these few.—Here, madam, I never yet left my wench unpaid. [Takes some of the jewels, and offers them to Olivia; she strikes them down: Lord Plausible and Novel take them up.
Oliv. So it seems, by giving her the cabinet.
L. Plau. These pendants appertain to your most faithful humble servant.
Nov. And this locket is mine; my earnest for love, which she never paid: therefore my own again.
Wid. By what law, sir, pray?—Cousin Olivia, a word. What, do they make a seizure on your goods and chattels, vi et armis? Make your demand, I say, and bring your trover, bring your trover. I'll follow the law for you.
Oliv. And I my revenge. [Exit.
Man. [To Vernish.] But 'tis, my friend, in your consideration most, that I would have returned part of your wife's portion; for 'twere hard to take all from thee, since thou hast paid so dear for't, in being such a rascal. Yet thy wife is a fortune without a portion; and thou art a man of that extraordinary merit in villany, the world and fortune can never desert thee, though I do; therefore be not melancholy. Fare you well, sir.—[Exit Vernish doggedly.] Now, madam, I beg your pardon [Turning to Fidelia] for lessening the present I made you; but my heart can never be lessened. This, I confess, was too small for you before; for you deserve the Indian world; and I would now go thither, out of covetousness for your sake only.
Fid. Your heart, sir, is a present of that value, I can never make any return to't.—[Pulling Manly from the company.] But I can give you back such a present as this, which I got by the loss of my father, a gentleman of the north, of no mean extraction, whose only child I was, therefore left me in the present possession of two thousand pounds a-year; which I left, with multitudes of pretenders, to follow you, sir; having in several public places seen you, and observed your actions thoroughly, with admiration, when you were too much in love to take notice of mine, which yet was but too visible. The name of my family is Grey, my other Fidelia. The rest of my story you shall know when I have fewer auditors.
Man. Nay, now, madam, you have taken from me all power of making you any compliment on my part; for I was going to tell you, that for your sake only I would quit the unknown pleasure of a retirement; and rather stay in this ill world of ours still, though odious to me, than give you more frights again at sea, and make again too great a venture there, in you alone. But if I should tell you now all this, and that your virtue (since greater than I thought any was in the world) had now reconciled me to't, my friend here would say, 'tis your estate that hast made me friends with the world.
Free. I must confess I should; for I think most of our quarrels to the world are just such as we have to a handsome woman; only because we cannot enjoy her as we would do.
Man. Nay, if thou art a plain dealer too, give me thy hand; for now I'll say, I am thy friend indeed; and for your two sakes, though I have been so lately deceived in friends of both sexes,—
I will believe there are now in the world
Good-natured friends, who are not prostitutes,
And handsome women worthy to be friends;
Yet, for my sake, let no one e'er confide
In tears, or oaths, in love, or friend untried.
[Exeunt.