ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—Don Diego's House, in the evening.
Enter Hippolita and Prue.
Hip. To confine a woman just in her rambling age! take away her liberty at the very time she should use it! O barbarous aunt! O unnatural father! to shut up a poor girl at fourteen, and hinder her budding! All things are ripened by the sun:—to shut up a poor girl at fourteen!—
Prue. 'Tis true, miss, two poor young creatures as we are!
Hip. Not suffered to see a play in a twelve-month!—
Prue. Nor go to Punchinello,[52] nor Paradise!—
Hip. Nor to take a ramble to the Park nor Mulberry-garden![53]—
Prue. Nor to Totnam-court, nor Islington![54]—
Hip. Nor to eat a syllabub in New Spring garden[55] with a cousin!—
Prue. Nor to drink a pint of wine with a friend at the Prince in the Sun!—
Hip. Nor to hear a fiddle in good company!—
Prue. Nor to hear the organs and tongs at the Gun in Moorfields!—
Hip. Nay, not suffered to go to church, because the men are sometimes there!—Little did I think I should ever have longed to go to church.
Prue. Or I either;—but between two maids—
Hip. Nor see a man!—
Prue. Nor come near a man!—
Hip. Nor hear of a man!—
Prue. No, miss; but to be denied a man! and to have no use at all of a man!—
Hip. Hold, hold!—your resentment is as much greater than mine, as your experience has been greater. But all this while, what do we make of my cousin, my husband elect, as my aunt says? We have had his company these three days; is he no man?
Prue. No, faith, he's but a monsieur. But you'll resolve yourself that question within these three days; for by that time he'll be your husband, if your father come to-night—
Hip. Or if I provide not myself with another in the mean time: for fathers seldom choose well; and I will no more take my father's choice in a husband, than I a would in a gown, or a suit of knots. So that if that cousin of mine were not an ill-contrived, ugly, freakish fool, in being my father's choice I should hate him. Besides, he has almost made me out of love with mirth and good-humour; for he debases it as much as a jack-pudding, and civility and good breeding more than a city dancing-master.
Prue. What! won't you marry him then, madam?
Hip. Would'st thou have me marry a fool, an idiot?
Prue. Lord! 'tis a sign you have been kept up indeed, and know little of the world, to refuse a man for a husband only because he's a fool! Methinks he's a pretty apish kind of a gentleman, like other gentlemen, and handsome enough to lie with in the dark, when husbands take their privileges; and for the day-times, you may take the privilege of a wife.
Hip. Excellent governess! you do understand the world, I see.
Prue. Then you should be guided by me.
Hip. Art thou in earnest then, damned jade?—would'st thou have me marry him?—Well, there are more poor young women undone, and married to filthy fellows by the treachery and evil counsel of chambermaids, than by the obstinacy and covetousness of parents.
Prue. Does not your father come on purpose out of Spain to marry you to him? Can you release yourself from your aunt or father any other way? Have you a mind to be shut up as long as you live? For my part, though you can hold out upon the lime from the walls here, salt, old shoes, and oatmeal, I cannot live so: I must confess my patience is worn out.
Hip. Alas, alas, poor Prue! your stomach lies another way: I will take pity of you, and get me a husband very suddenly, who may have a servant at your service. But rather than marry my cousin, I will be a nun in the new protestant nunnery they talk of; where, they say, there will be no hopes of coming near a man.
Prue. But you can marry nobody but your cousin, miss: your father you expect to-night; and be certain his Spanish policy and wariness, which has kept you up so close ever since you came from Hackney school, will make sure of you within a day or two at farthest.
Hip. Then 'tis time to think how to prevent him—stay—
Prue. In vain, vain, miss!
Hip. If we knew but any man, any man, though he were but a little handsomer than the devil, so that he were a gentleman!
Prue. What if you did know any man? if you had an opportunity, could you have confidence to speak to a man first? but if you could, how could you come to him, or he to you? nay, how could you send to him? for though you could write, which your father in his Spanish prudence would never permit you to learn, who should carry the letter?—But we need not be concerned for that, since we know not to whom to send it.
Hip. Stay—it must be so—I'll try however—
Enter Monsieur de Paris.
Mons. Serviteur! serviteur! la cousine; I come to give the bon soir, as the French say.
Hip. O, cousin! you know him; the fine gentleman they talk of so much in town.
Prue. What! will you talk to him of any man else?
Mons. I know all the beau monde, cousine.
Hip. Master—
Mons. Monsieur Taileur, Monsieur Esmit, Monsieur—
Hip. These are Frenchmen—
Mons. Non, non; voud you have me say Mr. Taylor, Mr. Smith? Fi! fi! tête non!—
Hip. But don't you know the brave gentleman they talk so much of in town?
Mons. Who? Monsieur Gerrard?
Hip. What kind of man is that Mr. Gerrard? and then I'll tell you.
Mons. Why—he is truly a pretty man, a pretty man—a pretty so so—kind of man, for an Englishman.
Hip. How a pretty man?
Mons. Why, he is conveniently tall—but—
Hip. But what?
Mons. And not ill-shaped—but—
Hip. But what?
Mons. And handsome, as 'tis thought, but—
Hip. But! what are your exceptions to him?
Mons. I can't tell you, because they are innumerable, innumerable, ma foi!
Hip. Has he wit?
Mons. Ay, ay, they say, he's witty, brave, and de bel humeur, and well-bred, with all that—but—
Hip. But what? does he want judgment?
Mons. Non, non: they say he has good sense and judgment; but it is according to the account Englis—for—
Hip. For what?
Mons. For, jarni! if I think it.
Hip. Why?
Mons. Why?—why his tailor lives within Ludgate—his valet de chambre is no Frenchman—and he has been seen at noon-day to go into an English eating-house—
Hip. Say you so, cousin!
Mons. Then for being well-bred, you shall judge:—First, he can't dance a step, nor sing a French song, nor swear a French oate, nor use the polite French word in his conversation; and in fine, can't play at hombre—but speaks base good Englis, with the commune home-bred pronunciation; and in fine, to say no more, he never carries a snuff-box about with him.
Hip. Indeed!
Mons. And yet this man has been abroad as much as any man, and does not make the least show of it, but a little in his mien, not at all in his discour, jarni! He never talks so much as of St. Peter's church at Rome, the Escurial, or Madrid; nay, not so much as of Henry IV., of Pont-neuf, Paris, and the new Louvre, nor of the Grand Roi.
Hip. 'Tis for his commendation, if he does not talk of his travels.
Mons. Auh! auh!—cousine—he is conscious to himself of his wants, because he is very envious; for he cannot endure me.
Hip. [Aside.] He shall be my man then for that.—Ay, ay! 'tis the same, Prue.—[Aloud.] No, I know he can't endure you, cousin.
Mons. How do you know it—who never stir out? tête non!
Hip. Well—dear cousin,—if you will promise me never to tell my aunt, I'll tell you.
Mons. I won't, I won't, jarni!
Hip. Nor to be concerned yourself, so as to make a quarrel of it.
Mons. Non, non—
Hip. Upon the word of a gentleman?
Mons. Foi de chevalier, I will not quarrel.
Prue. Lord, miss! I wonder you won't believe him without more ado.
Hip. Then he has the hatred of a rival for you.
Mons. Malepeste!
Hip. You know my chamber is backward, and has a door into the gallery which looks into the back yard of a tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once spying me at the window, has often since attempted to come in at that window by the help of the leads of a low building adjoining; and, indeed, 'twas as much as my maid and I could do to keep him out.
Mons. Ah, le coquin!—
Hip. But nothing is stronger than aversion; for I hate him perfectly, even as much as I love you—
Prue. I believe so, faith!—but what design have we now on foot? [Aside.
Hip. This discovery is an argument, sure, of my love to you.
Mons. Ay, ay, say no more, cousin, I doubt not your amour for me, because I doubt not your judgment. But what's to be done with this fanfaron?—I know where he eats to-night—I'll go find him out, ventre bleu!—
Hip. O, my dear cousin, you will not make a quarrel of it? I thought what your promise would come to!
Mons. Would you have a man of honour—
Hip. Keep his promise?
Mons. And lose his mistress?—That were not for my honour, ma foi!
Hip. Cousin, though you do me the injury to think I could be false, do not do yourself the injury to think any one could be false to you. Will you be afraid of losing your mistress? To show such a fear to your rival, were for his honour, and not for yours, sure.
Mons. Nay, cousin, I'd have you know I was never afraid of losing my mistress in earnest.—Let me see the man can get my mistress from me, jarni!—But he that loves must seem a little jealous.
Hip. Not to his rival: those that have jealousy hide it from their rivals.
Mons. But there are some who say, jealousy is no more to be hid than a cough:—but it should never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is not French at all—ventre bleu!
Hip. No, you should rally your rival, and rather make a jest of your quarrel to him; and that, I suppose, is French too.
Mons. 'Tis so, 'tis so, cousine; 'tis the veritable French method; for your Englis, for want of wit, drive every thing to a serious grum quarrel, and then would make a jest on't, when 'tis too late, when they can't laugh, jarni!
Hip. Yes, yes, I would have you rally him soundly: do not spare him a jot.—But shall you see him to-night?
Mons. Ay, ay.
Hip. Yes; pray be sure to see him for the jest's sake.
Mons. I will—for I love a jest as well as any bel esprit of 'em all—da!
Hip. Ay, and rally him soundly; be sure you rally him soundly, and tell him just thus:—that the lady he has so long courted, from the great window of the Ship tavern, is to be your wife to-morrow, unless he come at his wonted hour of six in the morning to her window to forbid the banns; for 'tis the first and last time of asking; and if he come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away, and hold his tongue.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! a ver good jest, tête bleu!
Hip. And if the fool should come again, I would tell him his own, I warrant you, cousin. My gentleman should be satisfied for good and all, I'd secure him.
Mons. Bon, bon.
Prue. Well, well, young mistress; you were not at Hackney school for nothing, I see; nor taken away for nothing.—A woman may soon be too old, but is never too young to shift for herself. [Aside.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! cousine, dou art a merry grig, ma foi!—I long to be with Gerrard; and I am the best at improving a jest—I shall have such divertisement to-night, tête bleu!
Hip. He'll deny, may be, at first, that he ever courted any such lady.
Mons. Nay, I am sure he'll be ashamed of it, I shall make him look so sillily, tête non!—I long to find him out.—Adieu, adieu, la cousine.
Hip. Shall you be sure to find him?
Mons. Indubitablement, I'll search the town over, but I'll find him: ha! ha! ha!—[Exit Monsieur, and returns.]—But I'm afraid, cousine, if I should tell him you are to be my wife to-morrow, he would not come: now, I am for having him come for the jest's sake, ventre!—
Hip. So am I, cousin, for having him come too for the jest's sake.
Mons. Well, well, leave it to me:—ha! ha! ha!
Enter Mrs. Caution.
Mrs. Caut. What's all this giggling here?
Mons. Hey! do you tinke we'll tell you? no, fait, I warrant you, tête non!—ha! ha! ha!—
Hip. My cousin is overjoyed, I suppose, that my father is to come to-night.
Mrs. Caut. I am afraid he will not come to-night:—but you'll stay and see, nephew?
Mons. Non, non: I am to sup at t'other end of the town to-night—La, la, la—Ra, ra, ra—[Exit, singing.
Mrs. Caut. I wish the French levity of this young man may agree with your father's Spanish gravity.
Hip. Just as your crabbed old age and my youth agree.
Mrs. Caut. Well, malapert, I know you hate me, because I have been the guardian of your reputation: but your husband may thank me one day.
Hip. If he be not a fool, he would rather be obliged to me for my virtue than to you, since, at long run, he must, whether he will or no.
Mrs. Caut. So, so!
Hip. Nay, now I think on't, I'd have you to know, the poor man, whosoe'er he is, will have little cause to thank you.
Mrs. Caut. No!—
Hip. No; for I never lived so wicked a life as I have done this twelvemonth, since I have not seen a man.
Mrs. Caut. How, how! if you have not seen a man, how could you be wicked? how could you do any ill?
Hip. No, I have done no ill; but I have paid it with thinking.
Mrs. Caut. O that's no hurt! to think, is no hurt:—ancient, grave, and godly, cannot help thoughts.
Hip. I warrant, you have had 'em yourself, aunt?
Mrs. Caut. Yes, yes, when I cannot sleep.
Hip. Ha! ha!—I believe it. But know, I have had those thoughts sleeping and waking; for I have dreamt of a man.
Mrs. Caut. No matter, no matter, so that it was but a dream: I have dreamt myself. For you must know, widows are mightily given to dream; insomuch that a dream is waggishly called "the Widow's Comfort."
Hip. But I did not only dream—[Sighs.
Mrs. Caut. How, how! did you more than dream? speak, young harlotry! confess; did you more than dream? How could you do more than dream in this house? speak, confess!
Hip. Well, I will then. Indeed, aunt, I did not only dream, but I was pleased with my dream when I awaked.
Mrs. Caut. Oh, is that all?—Nay, if a dream only will please you, you are a modest young woman still: but have a care of a vision.
Hip. Ay; but to be delighted when we wake with a naughty dream, is a sin, aunt; and I am so very scrupulous, that I would as soon consent to a naughty man as to a naughty dream.
Mrs. Caut. I do believe you.
Hip. I am for going into the throng of temptations.
Mrs. Caut. There I believe you again.
Hip. And making myself so familiar with them, that I would not be concerned for 'em a whit.
Mrs. Caut. There I do not believe you.
Hip. And would take all the innocent liberty of the town:—to tattle to your men under a vizard in the playhouses, and meet 'em at night in masquerade.
Mrs. Caut. There I do believe you again; I know you would be masquerading: but worse would come on't, as it has done to others who have been in a masquerade, and are now virgins but in masquerade, and will not be their own women again as long as they live. The children of this age must be wise children indeed if they know their fathers, since their mothers themselves cannot inform 'em! O, the fatal liberty of this masquerading age! when I was a young woman—
Hip. Come, come, do not blaspheme this masquerading age, like an ill-bred city-dame, whose husband is half broke by living in Covent-garden, or who has been turned out of the Temple or Lincoln's-Inn upon a masquerading night. By what I've heard, 'tis a pleasant, well-bred, complaisant, free, frolic, good-natured, pretty age: and if you do not like it, leave it to us that do.
Mrs. Caut. Lord, how impudently you talk, niece! I'm sure I remember when I was a maid—
Hip. Can you remember it, reverend aunt?
Mrs. Caut. Yes, modest niece,—that a raw young thing, though almost at woman's estate, (that was then at thirty or thirty-five years of age,) would not so much as have looked upon a man—
Hip. Above her father's butler or coachman.
Mrs. Caut. Still taking me up! Well, thou art a mad girl; and so good night. We may go to bed; for I suppose now your father will not come to-night. [Exit.
Hip. I'm sorry for it; for I long to see him.—[Aside.] But I lie: I had rather see Gerrard here; and yet I know not how I shall like him. If he has wit, he will come; and if he has none, he would not be welcome. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—The French House.—A table, bottles, and candles.
Enter Mr. Gerrard, Martin, and Monsieur de Paris.
Mons. 'Tis ver veritable, jarni! what the French say of you Englis: you use the debauch so much, it cannot have with you the French operation; you are never enjoyee. But come, let us for once be infiniment gaillard, and sing a French sonnet. [Sings,—"La bouteille, la bouteille, glou, glou."
Mar. [To Gerrard.] What a melodious fop it is!
Mons. Auh! you have no complaisance.
Ger. No, we can't sing; but we'll drink to you the lady's health, whom (you say) I have so long courted at her window.
Mons. Ay, there is your complaisance: all your Englis complaisance is pledging complaisance, ventre!—But if I do you reason here, [Takes the glass.]—will you do me reason to a little French chanson à boire I shall begin to you?—[Sings.] "La bouteille, la bouteille—"
Mar. [To Gerrard.] I had rather keep company with a set of wide-mouthed, drunken cathedral choristers.
Ger. Come, sir, drink; and he shall do you reason to your French song, since you stand upon't.—Sing him "Arthur of Bradley," or "I am the Duke of Norfolk."
Mons. Auh! tête bleu!—an Englis catch! fy! fy! ventre!—
Ger. He can sing no damned French song.
Mons. Nor can I drink the damned Englis wine. [Sets down the glass.
Ger. Yes, to that lady's health, who has commanded me to wait upon her to-morrow at her window, which looks (you say) into the inward yard of the Ship tavern, near the end of what-d'ye-call't street.
Mons. Ay, ay; do you not know her? not you! vert bleu!
Ger. But, pray repeat again what she said.
Mons. Why, she said she is to be married to-morrow to a person of honour, a brave gentleman, that shall be nameless, and so, and so forth.—[Aside.] Little does he think who 'tis!
Ger. And what else?
Mons. That if you make not your appearance before her window to-morrow at your wonted hour of six in the morning, to forbid the banns, you must for ever hereafter stay away and hold your tongue; for 'tis the first and last time of asking.—Ha! ha! ha!
Ger. 'Tis all a riddle to me: I should be unwilling to be fooled by this coxcomb. [Aside.
Mons. I won't tell him all she said, lest he should not go: I would fain have him go for the jest's sake—Ha! ha! ha! [Aside.
Ger. Her name is, you say, Hippolita, daughter to a rich Spanish merchant.
Mons. Ay, ay, you don't know her, not you! à d'autre, à d'autre, ma foi!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger. Well, I will be an easy fool for once.
Mar. By all means go.
Mons. Ay, ay, by all means go—ha! ha! ha!
Ger. [Aside.] To be caught in a fool's trap—I'll venture it.—[Drinks to him.] Come, 'tis her health.
Mons. And to your good reception—tête bleu!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger. Well, monsieur, I'll say this for thee, thou hast made the best use of three months at Paris as ever English squire did.
Mons. Considering I was in a dam Englis pension too.
Mar. Yet you have conversed with some French, I see; footmen, I suppose, at the fencing-school? I judge it by your oaths.
Mons. French footmen! well, well, I had rather have the conversation of a French footman than of an Englis 'squire; there's for you, da—
Mar. I beg your pardon, monsieur; I did not think the French footmen had been so much your friends.
Ger. Yes, yes, I warrant they have obliged him at Paris much more than any of their masters did. Well, there shall be no more said against the French footmen.
Mons. Non, de grace!—you are always turning the nation Française into ridicule, dat nation so accomplie, dat nation which you imitate so, dat in the conclusion, you butte turn yourself into ridicule, ma foi! If you are for de raillery, abuse the Dutch, why not abuse the Dutch? les gros villains, pendards, insolents; but here in your England, ma foi!—you have more honeur, respecte, and estimation for de Dushe swabber, who come to cheat your nation, den for de Franch footman, who come to oblige your nation.
Mar. Our nation! then you disown it for yours, it seems.
Mons. Well! wat of dat? are you the disobligee by dat?
Ger. No, monsieur, far from it; you could not oblige us, nor your country, any other way than by disowning it.
Mons. It is de brutal country, which abuse de France, and reverence de Dushe; I will maintain, sustain, and justifie, dat one little Franch footman have more honeur, courage, and generosity, more good blood in his vaines, an mush more good manners an civility den all de State-General together, jarni!—Dey are only wise and valiant wen dey are drunkee.
Ger. That is, always.
Mons. But dey are never honest wen dey are drunkee; dey are de only rogue in de varlde who are not honeste when dey are drunk—ma foi!
Ger. I find you are well acquainted with them, monsieur.
Mons. Ay, ay, I have made the toure of Holland, but it was en poste, dere was no staying for me, tête non!—for de gentleman can no more live dere den de toad in Ir'land, ma foi! for I did not see on' chevalier in de whole countree: alway, you know, de rebel hate de gens de quality. Besides, I had made sufficient observation of the canaille barbare de first nightee of my arrival at Amsterdamme: I did visit, you must know, one of de principal of de State-General, to whom I had recommendation from England, and did find his excellence weighing soap, jarni!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger. Weighing soap!
Mons. Weighing soap, ma foi! for he was a wholesale chandeleer; and his lady was taking de tale of chandels wid her own witer hands, ma foi! and de young lady, his excellence daughter, stringing harring, stringing harring, jarni!—
Ger. So!—and what were his sons doing?
Mons. Augh—his son (for he had but one) was making the tour of France, Espagne, Italy, and Germany, in a coach and six; or rader, now I tink on't, gone of an embassy hider to dere master Cromwell, whom dey did love and fear, because he was someting de greater rebel. But now I talk of de rebelle, none but the rebel can love the rebelle. And so much for you and your friend the Dushe; I'll say no more, and pray do you say no more of my friend de Franch, not so mush as of my friend de Franch footman—da—
Ger. No, no;—but, monsieur, now give me leave to admire thee, that in three months at Paris you could renounce your language, drinking, and your country, (for which we are not angry with you,) as I said, and come home so perfect a Frenchman, that the draymen of your father's own brewhouse would be ready to knock thee on the head.
Mons. Vel, vel, my father was a merchant of his own beer, as the noblesse of Franch of their own wine.—But I can forgive you that raillery, that bob,[56] since you say I have the eyre Français:—but have I the eyre Français?
Ger. As much as any French footman of 'em all.
Mons. And do I speak agreeable ill Englis enough?
Ger. Very ill.
Mons. Véritablement?
Ger. Véritablement.
Mons. For you must know, 'tis as ill breeding now to speak good Englis as to write good Englis, good sense, or a good hand.
Ger. But, indeed, methinks you are not slovenly enough for a Frenchman.
Mons. Slovenly! you mean negligent?
Ger. No, I mean slovenly.
Mons. Then I will be more slovenly.
Ger. You know, to be a perfect Frenchman, you must never be silent, never sit still, and never be clean.
Mar. But you have forgot one main qualification of a true Frenchman, he should never be sound, that is, be very pocky too.
Mons. Oh! if dat be all, I am very pocky; pocky enough, jarni! that is the only French qualification may be had without going to Paris, ma foi!
Enter Waiter.
Wait. Here are a couple of ladies coming up to you, sir.
Ger. To us!—did you appoint any to come hither, Martin?
Mar. Not I.
Ger. Nor you, monsieur?
Mons. Nor I.
Ger. Sirrah, tell your master, if he cannot protect us from the constable, and these midnight coursers, 'tis not a house for us.
Mar. Tell 'em you have nobody in the house, and shut the doors.
Wait. They'll not be satisfied with that, they'll break open the door. They searched last night all over the house for my Lord Fisk, and Sir Jeffery Jantee, who were fain to hide themselves in the bar under my mistress's chair and petticoats.
Mons. Wat, do the women hunt out the men so now?
Mar. Ay, ay, things are altered since you went to Paris; there's hardly a young man in town dares be known of his lodging for 'em.
Ger. Bailiffs, pursuivants, or a city constable, are modest people in comparison of them.
Mar. And we are not so much afraid to be taken up by the watch as by the tearing midnight ramblers, or huzza women.
Mons. Jarni! ha! ha! ha!
Ger. Where are they? I hope they are gone again.
Wait. No, sir, they are below at the stair-foot, only swearing at their coachman.
Ger. Come, you rogue, they are in fee with you waiters, and no gentleman can come hither, but they have the intelligence straight.
Wait. Intelligence from us, sir! they should never come here, if we could help it. I am sure we wish 'em choked when we see them come in; for they bring such good stomachs from St James's Park, or rambling about in the streets, that we poor waiters have not a bit left; 'tis well if we can keep our money in our pockets for 'em. I am sure I have paid seventeen and sixpence in half-crowns for coach-hire at several times for a little damned tearing lady, and when I asked her for it again one morning in her chamber, she bid me pay myself, for she had no money; but I wanted the courage of a gentleman; besides, the lord that kept her was a good customer to our house and my friend, and I made a conscience of wronging him.
Ger. A man of honour!
Mons. Vert and bleu! pleasant, pleasant, ma foi!
Ger. Go, go, sirrah, shut the door, I hear 'em coming up.
Wait. Indeed I dare not; they'll kick me down stairs, if I should.
Ger. Go, you rascal, I say. [The Waiter shuts the door, 'tis thrust open again.
Enter Flounce and Flirt in vizards, striking the Waiter, and come up to the table.
Ger. [Aside.] Flounce and Flirt, upon my life!—[Aloud.] Ladies, I am sorry you have no volunteers in your service; this is mere pressing, and argues a great necessity you have for men.
Flou. You need not be afraid, sir; we will use no violence to you; you are not fit for our service: we know you.
Flirt. The hot service you have been in formerly makes you unfit for ours now; besides, you begin to be something too old for us; we are for the brisk huzzas of seventeen or eighteen.
Ger. Nay, faith, I am not too old yet; but an old acquaintance will make any man old:—besides, to tell you the truth, you are come a little too early for me, for I am not drunk yet. But there are your brisk young men, who are always drunk, and, perhaps, have the happiness not to know you.
Flou. The happiness not to know us!
Flirt. The happiness not to know us!
Ger. Be not angry, ladies; 'tis rather happiness to have pleasure to come than to have it past, and therefore these gentlemen are happy in not knowing you.
Mar. I'd have you to know, I do know the ladies too, and I will not lose the honour of the ladies' acquaintance for anything.
Flou. Not for the pleasure of beginning an acquaintance with us, as Mr. Gerrard says: but it is the general vanity of you town fops to lay claim to all good acquaintance and persons of honour; you cannot let a woman pass in the Mall at midnight, but, damn you, you know her straight, you know her;—but you would be damned before you would say so much for one in a mercer's shop.
Ger. He has spoken it in a French-house, where he has very good credit, and I dare swear you may make him eat his words.
Mons. She does want a gown, indeed; she is in her déshabillé. This déshabillé is a great mode in England; the women love the déshabillé as well as the men, ma foi! [Peeping under her scarf.
Flirt. Well, if we should stay and sup with you, I warrant you would be bragging of it to-morrow amongst your comrades, that you had the company of two women of quality at the French-house, and name us.
Mar. Pleasant jilts! [Aside.
Ger. No, upon our honours, we would not brag of your company.
Flou. Upon your honours?
Mar. No, faith.
Flou. Come, we will venture to sit down then: yet I know the vanity of you men; you could not contain yourselves from bragging.
Ger. No, no; you women now-a-days have found out the pleasure of bragging, and will allow it the men no longer.
Mar. Therefore, indeed, we dare not stay to sup with you; for you would be sure to tell on't.
Ger. And we are young men who stand upon our reputations.
Flou. You are very pleasant, gentlemen.
Mar. For my part I am to be married shortly, and know 'twould quickly come to my mistress's ear.
Ger. And for my part I must go visit to-morrow betimes a new city mistress; and you know they are as inquisitive as precise in the city.
Flirt. Come, come; pray leave this fooling; sit down again, and let us bespeak supper.
Ger. No, faith, I dare not.
Mar. Besides, we have supped.
Flou. No matter, we only desire you should look on while we eat, and put the glass about, or so. [Gerrard and Martin offer to go.
Flirt. Pray, stay.
Ger. Upon my life I dare not.
Flou. Upon our honours we will not tell, if you are in earnest.
Ger. Pshaw! pshaw!—I know the vanity of you women; you could not contain yourselves from bragging.
Mons. Ma foi! is it certain? ha! ha! ha!—Hark you, madam, can't you fare well but you must cry roast-meat?
You spoil your trade by bragging of your gains;
The silent sow (madam) does eat most grains.—da—
Flirt. Your servant, monsieur fop.
Flou. Nay, faith, do not go, we will no more tell—
Mons. Than you would of a clap, if you had it; dat's the only secret you can keep, jarni!
Mar. I am glad we are rid of these jilts.
Ger. And we have taken a very ridiculous occasion.
Mons. Wat! must we leave the lady then? dis is dam civility Englis, ma foi!
Flirt. Nay, sir, you have too much of the French air, to have so little honour and good breeding. [Pulling him back.
Mons. Dee you tinke so then, sweet madam, I have mush of de French eyre?
Flirt. More than any Frenchman breathing.
Mons. Auh, you are the curtoise dame; morbleu! I shall stay then, if you think so. Monsieur Gerrard, you will be certain to see the lady to-morrow? pray not forget, ha! ha! ha!
Ger. No, no, sir.
Mar. You will go then?
Ger. I will go on a fool's errand for once. [Exeunt Gerrard and Martin.
Flou. What will you eat, sir?
Mons. Wat you please, madam.
Flou. D'ye hear, waiter? then some young partridge.
Wait. What else, madam?
Flirt. Some ruffs.
Wait. What else, madam?
Flirt. Some young pheasants.
Wait. What else, madam?
Flirt. Some young rabbits; I love rabbits.
Wait. What else, madam?
Flou. Stay—
Mans. Dis Englis waiter wit his "Wat else, madam," will ruin me, tête non! [Aside.
Wait. What else, madam?
Mans. "Wat else, madam," agen!—call up the French waiter.
Wait. What else, madam?
Mons. Again!—call up the French waiter or cuisinier, mort! tête! ventre! vite!—Auh, madam, the stupidity of the Englis waiter! I hate the Englis waiter, ma foi! [Exit Waiter.
Flirt. Be not in passion, dear monsieur.
Mons. I kiss your hand, obligeante madam.
Enter a French Scullion.
Cher Pierrot, serviteur, serviteur.—[Kisses the Scullion.]—Or-ça à manger.
Scull. En voulez-vous de cram schiquin?
Flou. Yes.
Scull. De partrish, de faysan, de quailles?
Mons. [Aside.] This bougre vil ruine me too; but he speak wit dat bel eyre and grace, I cannot bid him hold his tongue, ventre! C'est assez, Pierrot, va-t'en. [Exit Scullion, and returns.
Scull. And de litel plate de—
Mons. Jarni! va-t'en. [Exit Scullion, and returns.
Scull. And de litel plate de—
Mons. De grace, go dy way. [Exit Scullion, and returns.
Scull. And de litel de—
Mons. De fromage de Brie, va-t'en!—go, go.
Flou. What's that? cheese that stinks?
Mons. Ay, ay, be sure it stinke extremente. Pierrot, va-t'en; but stay till I drink dy health:—here's to dat pretty fellow's health, madam.
Flirt. Must we drink the scullion's health?
Mons. Auh, you will not be désobligeante, madam; he is the cuisinier for a king, nay, for a cardinal or French abbot. [Drinks. Exit Scullion.
Flou. But how shall we divertise ourselves till supper be ready?
Flirt. Can we have better divertissement than this gentleman?
Flou. But I think we had better carry the gentleman home with us, and because it is already late, sup at home, and divertise the gentleman at cards, till it be ready.—D'ye hear, waiter? let it be brought, when 'tis ready, to my lodging hard by, in Mustard-Alley, at the sign of the Crooked-billet.
Mons. At the Crooked-billet!
Flirt. Come, sir, come.
Mons. Morbleu! I have take the vow (since my last clap) never to go again to the bourdel.
Flou. What is the bourdel?
Mons. How call you the name of your house?
Flirt. The Crooked-billet.
Mons. No, no, the—bawdy-house, vert and bleu!
Flirt. How, our lodging! we'd have you to know—
Mons. Auh, morbleu! I would not know it; de Crooked-billet, ha! ha!
Flirt. Come, sir.
Mons. Besides, if I go wit you to the bourdel, you will tell, morbleu!
Flou. Fy! fy! come along.
Mons. Beside, I am to be married within these two days; if you should tell now—
Flirt. Come, come along, we will not tell.
Mons. But you will promise then to have the care of my honour? pray, good madam, have de care of my honour, pray have de care of my honour. Will you have care of my honour? pray have de care of my honour, and do not tell if you can help it; pray, dear madam, do not tell. [Kneels to them.
Flirt. I would not tell for fear of losing you, my love for you will make me secret.
Mons. Why, do you love me?
Flirt. Indeed I cannot help telling you now, what my modesty ought to conceal, but my eyes would disclose it too:—I have a passion for you, sir.
Mons. A passion for me!
Flirt. An extreme passion, dear sir; you are so French, so mightily French, so agreeable French—but I'll tell you more of my heart at home: come along.
Mons. But is your pation sincere?
Flirt. The truest in the world.
Mons. Well then, I'll venture my body with thee for one night.
Flirt. For one night! don't you believe that; and so you would leave me to-morrow? but I love you so, I cannot part with you, you must keep me for good and all, if you will have me. I can't leave you for my heart.
Mons. How! keep, jarni! de whore Englis have notinge but keepe, keepe in dere mouths now-a-days, tête non!—Formerly 'twas enoughe to keep de shild, ma foi!
Flirt. Nay, I will be kept, else—but, come, we'll talk on't at home.
Mons. Umh—so, so, ver vel; de amour of de whore does alway end in keep, ha! keep, ma foi! keep, ha!—
The punk that entertains you wit her passion,
Is like kind host who makes the invitation,
At your own cost, to his fort bonne collation.
[Exeunt.