ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—Manly's Lodging.
Enter Manly, surlily, Lord Plausible, following him; and two Sailors behind.
Man. Tell not me, my good Lord Plausible, of your decorums, supercilious forms, and slavish ceremonies! your little tricks, which you, the spaniels of the world, do daily over and over, for and to one another; not out of love or duty, but your servile fear.
L. Plau. Nay, i' faith, i' faith, you are too passionate; and I must humbly beg your pardon and leave to tell you, they are the arts and rules the prudent of the world walk by.
Man. Let 'em. But I'll have no leading-strings; I can walk alone: I hate a harness, and will not tug on in a faction, kissing my leader behind, that another slave may do the like to me.
L. Plau. What, will you be singular then, like nobody? follow, love, and esteem nobody?
Man. Rather than be general, like you, follow everybody; court and kiss everybody; though perhaps at the same time you hate everybody.
L. Plau. Why, seriously, with your pardon, my dear friend—
Man. With your pardon, my no friend, I will not, as you do, whisper my hatred or my scorn; call a man fool or knave by signs or mouths over his shoulder, whilst you have him in your arms.—For such as you, like common whores and pickpockets, are only dangerous to those you embrace.
L. Plau. Such as I! Heavens defend me!—upon my honour—
Man. Upon your title, my lord, if you'd have me believe you.
L. Plau. Well, then, as I am a person of honour, I never attempted to abuse or lessen any person in my life.
Man. What, you were afraid?
L. Plau. No; but seriously, I hate to do a rude thing: no, faith, I speak well of all mankind.
Man. I thought so: but know, that speaking well of all mankind is the worst kind of detraction; for it takes away the reputation of the few good men in the world, by making all alike. Now, I speak ill of most men, because they deserve it; I that can do a rude thing, rather than an unjust thing.
L. Plau. Well, tell not me, my dear friend, what people deserve; I ne'er mind that. I, like an author in a dedication, never speak well of a man for his sake, but my own; I will not disparage any man, to disparage myself: for to speak ill of people behind their backs, is not like a person of honour; and, truly, to speak ill of 'em to their faces, is not like a complaisant person. But if I did say or do an ill thing to anybody, it should be sure to be behind their backs, out of pure good manners.
Man. Very well; but I, that am an unmannerly sea-fellow, if I ever speak well of people, (which is very seldom indeed,) it should be sure to be behind their backs; and if I would say or do ill to any, it should be to their faces. I would jostle a proud, strutting, overlooking coxcomb, at the head of his sycophants, rather than put out my tongue at him when he were past me; would frown in the arrogant, big, dull face of an overgrown knave of business, rather than vent my spleen against him when his back were turned; would give fawning slaves the lie whilst they embrace or commend me; cowards whilst they brag; call a rascal by no other title, though his father had left him a duke's; laugh at fools aloud before their mistresses; and must desire people to leave me, when their visits grow at last as troublesome as they were at first impertinent.
L. Plau. I would not have my visits troublesome.
Man. The only way to be sure not to have 'em troublesome, is to make 'em when people are not at home; for your visits, like other good turns, are most obliging when made or done to a man in his absence. A pox! why should any one, because he has nothing to do, go and disturb another man's business?
L. Plau. I beg your pardon, my dear friend.—What, you have business?
Man. If you have any, I would not detain your lordship.
L. Plau. Detain me, dear sir!—I can never have enough of your company.
Man. I'm afraid I should be tiresome: I know not what you think.
L. Plau. Well, dear sir, I see you'd have me gone. [Aside.
Man. But I see you won't.
L. Plau. Your most faithful—
Man. God be w'ye, my lord.
L. Plau. Your most humble—
Man. Farewell.
L. Plau. And eternally—
Man. And eternally ceremony—[Aside.] Then the devil take thee eternally.
L. Plau. You shall use no ceremony, by my life.
Man. I do not intend it.
L. Plau. Why do you stir then?
Man. Only to see you out of doors, that I may shut 'em against more welcomes.
L. Plau. Nay, faith, that shall not pass upon your most faithful humble servant.
Man. Nor this any more upon me. [Aside.
L. Plau. Well, you are too strong for me.
Man. [Aside.] I'd sooner be visited by the plague; for that only would keep a man from visits, and his doors shut. [Exit thrusting out Lord Plausible.
1st Sail. Here's a finical fellow, Jack! What a brave fair-weather captain of a ship he would make!
2nd Sail. He a captain of a ship! it must be when she's in the dock then; for he looks like one of those that get the king's commissions for hulls to sell a king's ship, when a brave fellow has fought her almost to a longboat.
1st Sail. On my conscience then, Jack, that's the reason our bully tar sunk our ship; not only that the Dutch might not have her; but that the courtiers, who laugh at wooden legs, might not make her prize.
2nd Sail. A pox of his sinking, Tom! we have made a base, broken, short voyage of it.
1st Sail. Ay, your brisk dealers in honour always make quick returns with their ships to the dock, and their men to the hospitals. 'Tis, let me see, just a month since we set out of the river, and the wind was almost as cross to us as the Dutch.
2nd Sail. Well, I forgive him sinking my own poor truck, if he would but have given me time and leave to have saved black Kate of Wapping's small venture.
1st Sail. Faith, I forgive him, since, as the purser told me, he sunk the value of five or six thousand pound of his own, with which he was to settle himself somewhere in the Indies; for our merry lieutenant was to succeed him in his commission for the ship back; for he was resolved never to return again for England.
2nd Sail. So it seemed, by his fighting.
1st Sail. No; but he was a-weary of this side of the world here, they say.
2nd Sail. Ay, or else he would not have bid so fair for a passage into t'other.
1st Sail. Jack, thou thinkest thyself in the forecastle, thou'rt so waggish. But I tell you, then, he had a mind to go live and bask himself on the sunny side of the globe.
2nd Sail. What, out of any discontent? for he's always as dogged as an old tarpaulin, when hindered of a voyage by a young pantaloon captain.
1st Sail. 'Tis true I never saw him pleased but in the fight; and then he looked like one of us coming from the pay-table, with a new lining to our hats under our arms.
2nd Sail. A pox! he's like the Bay of Biscay, rough and angry, let the wind blow where 'twill.
1st Sail. Nay, there's no more dealing with him, than with the land in a storm, no near—
2nd Sail. 'Tis a hurry-durry blade. Dost thou remember after we had tugged hard the old leaky longboat to save his life, when I welcomed him ashore, he gave me a box on the ear, and called me fawning water-dog?
Re-enter Manly with Freeman.
1st Sail. Hold thy peace, Jack, and stand by; the foul weather's coming.
Man. You rascals! dogs! how could this tame thing get through you?
1st Sail. Faith, to tell your honour the truth, we were at hob in the hall,[94] and whilst my brother and I were quarrelling about a cast, he slunk by us.
2nd Sail. He's a sneaking fellow I warrant for't.
Man. Have more care for the future, you slaves. Go, and with drawn cutlasses stand at the stair-foot, and keep all that ask for me from coming up; suppose you were guarding the scuttle to the powder-room. Let none enter here, at your and their peril.
1st Sail. No, for the danger would be the same: you would blow them and us up, if we should.
2nd Sail. Must no one come to you, sir?
Man. No man, sir.
1st Sail. No man, sir; but a woman then, an't like your honour—
Man. No woman neither, you impertinent dog! Would you be pimping? sea-pimp is the strangest monster she has.
2nd Sail. Indeed, an't like your honour, 'twill be hard for us to deny a woman anything, since we are so newly come on shore.
1st Sail. We'll let no old woman come up, though it were our trusting landlady at Wapping.
Man. Would you be witty, you brandy casks you? you become a jest as ill as you do a horse. Begone, you dogs! I hear a noise on the stairs. [Exeunt Sailors.
Free. Faith, I am sorry you would let the fop go, I intended to have had some sport with him.
Man. Sport with him! A pox! then, why did you not stay? You should have enjoyed your coxcomb, and had him to yourself for me.
Free. No, I should not have cared for him without you neither; for the pleasure which fops afford is like that of drinking, only good when 'tis shared; and a fool, like a bottle, which would make you merry in company, will make you dull alone. But how the devil could you turn a man of his quality down stairs? You use a lord with very little ceremony, it seems.
Man. A lord! What, thou art one of those who esteem men only by the marks and value fortune has set upon 'em, and never consider intrinsic worth! but counterfeit honour will not be current with me: I weigh the man, not his title; 'tis not the king's stamp can make the metal better or heavier. Your lord is a leaden shilling, which you bend every way, and debases the stamp he bears, instead of being raised by it.—Here again, you slaves!
Re-enter Sailors.
1st Sail. Only to receive farther instructions, an't like your honour.—What if a man should bring you money, should we turn him back?
Man. All men, I say: must I be pestered with you too?—You dogs, away!
2nd Sail. Nay, I know one man your honour would not have us hinder coming to you, I'm sure.
Man. Who's that? speak quickly, slaves.
2nd Sail. Why, a man that should bring you a challenge. For though you refuse money, I'm sure you love fighting too well to refuse that.
Man. Rogue! rascal! dog! [Kicks the Sailors out.
Free. Nay, let the poor rogues have their forecastle jests: they cannot help 'em in a fight, scarce when a ship's sinking.
Man. Damn their untimely jests! a servant's jest is more sauciness than his counsel.
Free. But what, will you see nobody? not your friends?
Man. Friends!—I have but one, and he, I hear, is not in town; nay, can have but one friend, for a true heart admits but of one friendship, as of one love. But in having that friend, I have a thousand; for he has the courage of men in despair, yet the diffidency and caution of cowards; the secrecy of the revengeful, and the constancy of martyrs; one fit to advise, to keep a secret, to fight and die for his friend. Such I think him; for I have trusted him with my mistress in my absence: and the trust of beauty is sure the greatest we can show.
Free. Well, but all your good thoughts are not for him alone, I hope? Pray, what d'ye think of me for a friend?
Man. Of thee! Why, thou art a latitudinarian in friendship, that is, no friend; thou dost side with all mankind, but wilt suffer for none. Thou art indeed like your Lord Plausible, the pink of courtesy, therefore hast no friendship: for ceremony and great professing renders friendship as much suspected as it does religion.
Free. And no professing, no ceremony at all in friendship, were as unnatural and as undecent as in religion: and there is hardly such a thing as an honest hypocrite, who professes himself to be worse than he is, unless it be yourself; for though I could never get you to say you were my friend, I know you'll prove so.
Man. I must confess, I am so much your friend, I would not deceive you; therefore must tell you, not only because my heart is taken up, but according to your rules of friendship, I cannot be your friend.[95]
Free. Pray, why?
Man. Because he that is, you'll say, a true friend to a man, is a friend to all his friends. But you must pardon me, I cannot wish well to pimps, flatterers, detractors, and cowards, stiff nodding knaves, and supple, pliant, kissing fools. Now, all these I have seen you use like the dearest friends in the world.
Free. Ha! ha! ha!—What, you observed me, I warrant, in the galleries at Whitehall, doing the business of the place? Pshaw! Court-professions, like court promises, go for nothing, man. But, faith, could you think I was a friend to all those I hugged, kissed, flattered, bowed to? Ha! ha!—
Man. You told 'em so, and swore it too; I heard you.
Free. Ay, but when their backs were turned, did not I tell you they were rogues, villains, rascals, whom I despised and hated?
Man. Very fine! But what reason had I to believe you spoke your heart to me, since you professed deceiving so many?
Free. Why, don't you know, good captain, that telling truth is a quality as prejudicial to a man that would thrive in the world, as square play to a cheat, or true love to a whore? Would you have a man speak truth to his ruin? You are severer than the law, which requires no man to swear against himself. You would have me speak truth against myself I warrant, and tell my promising friend the courtier, he has a bad memory.
Man. Yes.
Free. And so make him remember to forget my business? And I should tell the great lawyer too, that he takes oftener fees to hold his tongue, than to speak?
Man. No doubt on't.
Free. Ay, and have him hang or ruin me, when he should come to be a judge, and I before him? And you would have me tell the new officer, who bought his employment lately, that he is a coward?
Man. Ay.
Free. And so get myself cashiered, not him, he having the better friends, though I the better sword? And I should tell the scribbler of honour, that heraldry were a prettier and fitter study for so fine a gentleman than poetry?
Man. Certainly.
Free. And so find myself mauled in his next hired lampoon? And you would have me tell the holy lady, too, she lies with her chaplain?
Man. No doubt on't.
Free. And so draw the clergy upon my back, and want a good table to dine at sometimes? And by the same reason too, I should tell you that the world thinks you a mad man, a brutal, and have you cut my throat, or worse, hate me. What other good success of all my plain-dealing could I have, than what I've mentioned?
Man. Why, first, your promising courtier would keep his word out of fear of more reproaches, or at least would give you no more vain hopes: your lawyer would serve you more faithfully; for he, having no honour but his interest, is truest still to him he knows suspects him: the new officer would provoke thee to make him a coward, and so be cashiered, that thou, or some other honest fellow, who had more courage than money, might get his place: the noble sonnetteer would trouble thee no more with his madrigals: the praying lady would leave off railing at wenching before thee, and not turn away her chambermaid for her own known frailty with thee: and I, instead of hating thee, should love thee for thy plain dealing; and in lieu of being mortified, am proud that the world and I think not well of one another.
Free. Well, doctors differ. You are for plain dealing, I find: but against your particular notions, I have the practice of the whole world. Observe but any morning what people do when they get together on the Exchange, in Westminster-hall, or the galleries in Whitehall.
Man. I must confess, there they seem to rehearse Bayes's grand dance. Here you see a bishop bowing low to a gaudy atheist; a judge to a door-keeper; a great lord to a fishmonger, or scrivener with a jack-chain about his neck; a lawyer to a sergeant-at-arms; a velvet physician to a threadbare chemist; and a supple gentleman-usher to a surly beefeater: and so tread round in a preposterous huddle of ceremony to each other, whilst they can hardly hold their solemn false countenances.
Free. Well, they understand the world.
Man. Which I do not, I confess.
Free. But, sir, pray believe the friendship I promise you real, whatsoever I have professed to others: try me, at least.
Man. Why, what would you do for me?
Free. I would fight for you.
Man. That you would do for your own honour. But what else?
Free. I would lend you money, if I had it.
Man. To borrow more of me another time. That were putting your money to interest; a usurer would be as good a friend.—But what other piece of friendship?
Free. I would speak well of you to your enemies.
Man. To encourage others to be your friends, by a show of gratitude.—But what else?
Free. Nay, I would not hear you ill spoken of behind your back by my friend.
Man. Nay, then, thou'rt a friend, indeed.—But it were unreasonable to expect it from thee, as the world goes now, when new friends, like new mistresses, are got by disparaging old ones.
Enter Fidelia.
But here comes another, will say as much at least.—Dost thou not love me devilishly too, my little volunteer, as well as he or any man can?
Fid. Better than any man can love you, my dear captain.
Man. Look you there, I told you so.
Fid. As well as you do truth or honour, sir; as well.
Man. Nay, good young gentleman, enough, for shame! Thou hast been a page, by thy flattering and lying, to one of those praying ladies who love flattery so well they are jealous of it; and wert turned away for saying the same things to the old housekeeper for sweetmeats, as you did to your lady; for thou flatterest everything and everybody alike.
Fid. You, dear sir, should not suspect the truth of what I say of you, though to you. Fame, the old liar, is believed when she speaks wonders of you: you cannot be flattered, sir, your merit is unspeakable.
Man. Hold, hold, sir, or I shall suspect worse of you, that you have been a cushion-bearer to some state-hypocrite, and turned away by the chaplains, for out-flattering their probation-sermons for a benefice.
Fid. Suspect me for anything, sir, but the want of love, faith, and duty to you, the bravest, worthiest of mankind; believe me, I could die for you, sir.
Man. Nay, there you lie, sir; did not I see thee more afraid in the fight than the chaplain of the ship, or the purser that bought his place?
Fid. Can he be said to be afraid, that ventures to sea with you?
Man. Fy! fy! no more; I shall hate thy flattery worse than thy cowardice, nay, than thy bragging.
Fid. Well, I own then I was afraid, mightily afraid; yet for you I would be afraid again, a hundred times afraid. Dying is ceasing to be afraid, and that I could do sure for you, and you'll believe me one day. [Weeps.
Free. Poor youth! believe his eyes, if not his tongue: he seems to speak truth with them.
Man. What, does he cry? A pox on't! a maudlin flatterer is as nauseously troublesome as a maudlin drunkard.—No more, you little milksop, do not cry, I'll never make thee afraid again; for of all men, if I had occasion, thou shouldst not be my second; and when I go to sea again, thou shalt venture thy life no more with me.
Fid. Why, will you leave me behind then?—[Aside.] If you would preserve my life, I'm sure you should not.
Man. Leave thee behind! ay, ay, thou art a hopeful youth for the shore only. Here thou wilt live to be cherished by fortune and the great ones; for thou mayst easily come to outflatter a dull poet, outlie a coffee-house or gazette-writer, outswear a knight of the post,[96] outwatch a pimp, outfawn a rook, outpromise a lover, outrail a wit, and outbrag a sea-captain:—all this thou canst do, because thou'rt a coward, a thing I hate; therefore thou'lt do better with the world than with me, and these are the good courses you must take in the world. There's good advice, at least, at parting; go, and be happy with't.
Fid. Parting, sir! O let me not hear that dismal word.
Man. If my words frighten thee, begone the sooner; for to be plain with thee, cowardice and I cannot dwell together.
Fid. And cruelty and courage never dwelt together sure, sir. Do not turn me off to shame and misery, for I am helpless and friendless.
Man. Friendless! there are half a score friends for thee then.—[Offers her gold.] I leave myself no more: they'll help thee a little. Begone, go, I must be cruel to thee (if thou callest it so) out of pity.
Fid. If you would be cruelly pitiful, sir, let it be with your sword, not gold. [Exit.
Re-enter 1st Sailor.
1st Sail. We have, with much ado, turned away two gentlemen, who told us, forty times over, their names were Mr. Novel and Major Oldfox.
Man. Well, to your post again.—[Exit Sailor.] But how come those puppies coupled always together?
Free. O, the coxcombs keep each other company, to show each other, as Novel calls it; or, as Oldfox says, like two knives, to whet one another.
Man. And set other people's teeth on edge.
Re-enter 2nd Sailor.
2nd Sail. Here is a woman, an't like your honour, scolds and bustles with us, to come in, as much as a seaman's widow at the Navy office: her name is Mrs. Blackacre.
Man. That fiend too!
Free. The Widow Blackacre, is it not? that litigious she petty-fogger, who is at law and difference with all the world; but I wish I could make her agree with me in the church. They say she has fifteen hundred pounds a year jointure, and the care of her son, that is, the destruction of his estate.
Man. Her lawyers, attorneys, and solicitors, have fifteen hundred pounds a year, whilst she is contented to be poor, to make other people so. For she is as vexatious as her father was, the great attorney, nay, as a dozen Norfolk attorneys, and as implacable an adversary as a wife suing for alimony, or a parson for his tithes; and she loves an Easter term, or any term, not as other country ladies do, to come up to be fine, cuckold their husbands, and take their pleasure; for she has no pleasure but in vexing others, and is usually clothed and daggled[97] like a bawd in disguise, pursued through alleys by sergeants. When she is in town, she lodges in one of the inns of Chancery, where she breeds her son, and is herself his tutoress in law-French; and for her country abode, though she has no estate there, she chooses Norfolk.—But, bid her come in, with a pox to her! she is Olivia's kinswoman, and may make me amends for her visit, by some discourse of that dear woman. [Exit Sailor.
Enter Widow Blackacre, with a mantle and a green bag, and several papers in the other hand; Jerry Blackacre in a gown, laden with green bags, following her.
Wid. I never had so much to do with a judge's door-keeper, as with yours; but—
Man. But the incomparable Olivia, how does she since I went?
Wid. Since you went, my suit—
Man. Olivia, I say, is she well?
Wid. My suit, if you had not returned—
Man. Damn your suit! how does your cousin Olivia?
Wid. My suit, I say, had been quite lost; but now—
Man. But now, where is Olivia? in town? for—
Wid. For to-morrow we are to have a hearing.
Man. Would you would let me have a hearing to-day!
Wid. But why won't you hear me?
Man. I am no judge, and you talk of nothing but suits; but, pray tell me, when did you see Olivia?
Wid. I am no visitor, but a woman of business; or if I ever visit, 'tis only the Chancery-lane ladies, ladies towards the law; and not any of your lazy, good-for-nothing flirts, who cannot read law-French, though a gallant writ it. But as I was telling you, my suit—
Man. Damn these impertinent vexatious people of business, of all sexes! they are still troubling the world with the tedious recitals of their lawsuits: and one can no more stop their mouths than a wit's when he talks of himself, or an intelligencer's when he talks of other people.
Wid. And a pox of all vexatious, impertinent lovers! they are still perplexing the world with the tedious narrations of their love-suits, and discourses of their mistresses! You are as troublesome to a poor widow of business, as a young coxcombly rhyming lover.
Man. And thou art as troublesome to me, as a rook to a losing gamester, or a young putter of cases to his mistress or sempstress, who has love in her head for another.
Wid. Nay, since you talk of putting of cases, and will not hear me speak, hear our Jerry a little; let him put our case to you, for the trial's to-morrow: and since you are my chief witness, I would have your memory refreshed and your judgment informed, that you may not give your evidence improperly.—Speak out, child.
Jer. Yes, forsooth. Hem! hem! John-a-Stiles—
Man. You may talk, young lawyer, but I shall no more mind you, than a hungry judge does a cause after the clock has struck one.
Free. Nay, you'll find him as peevish too.
Wid. No matter. Jerry, go on.—Do you observe it then, sir; for I think I have seen you in a gown once. Lord, I could hear our Jerry put cases all day long.—Mark him, sir.
Jer. John-a-Stiles—no—there are first, Fitz, Pere, and Ayle,—no, no, Ayle, Pere, and Fitz; Ayle is seised in fee of Blackacre; John-a-Stiles disseises Ayle; Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor dies; then the Ayle—no, the Fitz—
Wid. No, the Pere, sirrah.
Jer. Oh, the Pere! ay, the Pere, sir, and the Fitz—no, the Ayle,—no, the Pere and the Fitz, sir, and—
Man. Damn Pere, Mere, and Fitz, sir!
Wid. No, you are out, child.—Hear me, captain, then. There are Ayle, Pere, and Fitz; Ayle is seised in fee of Blackacre; and, being so seised, John-a-Stiles disseises the Ayle, Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor dies; and then the Pere re-enters, the Pere, sirrah, the Pere—[to Jerry.] and the Fitz enters upon the Pere, and the Ayle brings his writ of disseisin in the post; and the Pere brings his writ of disseisin in the Pere, and—
Man. Canst thou hear this stuff, Freeman? I could as soon suffer a whole noise of flatterers at a great man's levee in a morning; but thou hast servile complacency enough to listen to a quibbling statesman in disgrace, nay, and be beforehand with him, in laughing at his dull no-jest; but I—[Offering to go out.
Wid. Nay, sir, hold! Where's the subpœna, Jerry? I must serve you, sir. You are required by this, to give your testimony—
Man. I'll be forsworn to be revenged on thee. [Exit, throwing away the subpœna.
Wid. Get you gone, for a lawless companion!—Come, Jerry, I had almost forgot, we were to meet at the master's at three: let us mind our business still, child.
Jer. Ay, forsooth, e'en so let's.
Free. Nay, madam, now I would beg you to hear me a little, a little of my business.
Wid. I have business of my own calls me away, sir.
Free. My business would prove yours too, dear madam.
Wid. Yours would be some sweet business, I warrant. What, 'tis no Westminster Hall business? would you have my advice?
Free. No, faith, 'tis a little Westminster Abbey business; I would have your consent.
Wid. O fy, fy, sir! to me such discourse, before my dear minor there!
Jer. Ay, ay, mother, he would be taking livery and seisin of your jointure by digging the turf, but I'll watch your waters,[98] bully, i'fac.—Come away, mother. [Exit, haling away his Mother.
Re-enter Fidelia.
Fid. Dear sir, you have pity; beget but some in our captain for me.
Free. Where is he?
Fid. Within; swearing as much as he did in the great storm, and cursing you, and sometimes sinks into calms and sighs, and talks of his Olivia.
Free. He would never trust me to see her.—Is she handsome?
Fid. No, if you'll take my word: but I am not a proper judge.
Free. What is she?
Fid. A gentlewoman, I suppose, but of as mean a fortune as beauty; but her relations would not suffer her to go with him to the Indies: and his aversion to this side of the world, together with the late opportunity of commanding the convoy, would not let him stay here longer, though to enjoy her.
Free. He loves her mightily then?
Fid. Yes, so well, that the remainder of his fortune (I hear about five or six thousand pounds) he has left her, in case he had died by the way, or before she could prevail with her friends to follow him; which he expected she should do, and has left behind him his great bosom friend to be her convoy to him.
Free. What charms has she for him, if she be not handsome?
Fid. He fancies her, I suppose, the only woman of truth and sincerity in the world.
Free. No common beauty, I confess.
Fid. Or else sure he would not have trusted her with so great a share of his fortune, in his absence, I suppose (since his late loss) all he has.
Free. Why, has he left it in her own custody?
Fid. I am told so.
Free. Then he has showed love to her indeed, in leaving her, like an old husband that dies as soon as he has made his wife a good jointure.—But I'll go in to him, and speak for you, and know more from him of his Olivia. [Exit.
Fid.
His Olivia, indeed, his happy Olivia!
Yet she was left behind, when I was with him:
But she was ne'er out of his mind or heart.
She has told him she loved him; I have show'd it,
And durst not tell him so, till I had done,
Under this habit, such convincing acts
Of loving friendship for him, that through it
He first might find out both my sex and love;
And, when I'd had him from his fair Olivia,
And this bright world of artful beauties here,
Might then have hoped, he would have look'd on me,
Amongst the sooty Indians; and I could,
To choose, there live his wife, where wives are forced
To live no longer, when their husbands die;
Nay, what's yet worse, to share 'em whilst they live
With many rival wives. But here he comes,
And I must yet keep out of his sight, not
To lose it for ever. [Exit.
Re-enter Manly and Freeman.
Free. But pray what strange charms has she that could make you love?
Man. Strange charms indeed! she has beauty enough to call in question her wit or virtue, and her form would make a starved hermit a ravisher; yet her virtue and conduct would preserve her from the subtle lust of a pampered prelate. She is so perfect a beauty, that art could not better it, nor affectation deform it. Yet all this is nothing. Her tongue as well as face ne'er knew artifice; nor ever did her words or looks contradict her heart. She is all truth, and hates the lying, masking, daubing world, as I do: for which I love her, and for which I think she dislikes not me. For she has often shut out of her conversation for mine, the gaudy fluttering parrots of the town, apes and echoes of men only, and refused their common-place pert chat, flattery and submissions, to be entertained with my sullen bluntness, and honest love: and, last of all, swore to me, since her parents would not suffer her to go with me, she would stay behind for no other man; but follow me without their leave, if not to be obtained. Which oath—
Free. Did you think she would keep?
Man. Yes; for she is not (I tell you) like other women, but can keep her promise, though she has sworn to keep it. But, that she might the better keep it, I left her the value of five or six thousand pounds: for women's wants are generally the most importunate solicitors to love or marriage.
Free. And money summons lovers more than beauty, and augments but their importunity, and their number; so makes it the harder for a woman to deny 'em. For my part, I am for the French maxim;—"If you would have your female subjects loyal, keep 'em poor."—But in short, that your mistress may not marry, you have given her a portion.
Man. She had given me her heart first, and I am satisfied with the security; I can never doubt her truth and constancy.
Free. It seems you do, since you are fain to bribe it with money. But how come you to be so diffident of the man that says he loves you, and not doubt the woman that says it?
Man. I should, I confess, doubt the love of any other woman but her, as I do the friendship of any other man but him I have trusted; but I have such proofs of their faith as cannot deceive me.
Free. Cannot!
Man. Not but I know that generally no man can be a great enemy but under the name of friend; and if you are a cuckold, it is your friend only that makes you so, for your enemy is not admitted to your house: if you are cheated in your fortune, 'tis your friend that does it, for your enemy is not made your trustee: if your honour or good name be injured, 'tis your friend that does it still, because your enemy is not believed against you. Therefore, I rather choose to go where honest, downright barbarity is professed, where men devour one another like generous hungry lions and tigers, not like crocodiles; where they think the devil white, of our complexion; and I am already so far an Indian. But if your weak faith doubts this miracle of a woman, come along with me, and believe; and thou wilt find her so handsome, that thou, who art so much my friend, wilt have a mind to lie with her, and so wilt not fail to discover what her faith and thine is to me.
When we're in love, the great adversity,
Our friends and mistresses at once we try.
[Exeunt.