ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—A Room in Don Diego's House.
Enter Monsieur de Paris without a peruke, with a Spanish hat, a Spanish doublet, stockings, and shoes, but in pantaloons, a waist-belt, and a Spanish dagger in it, and a cravat about his neck.—Hippolita and Prue behind laughing.
Mons. To see wat a fool love do make of one, jarni! It do metamorphose de brave man in de beast, de sot, de animal.
Hip. Ha! ha! ha!
Mons. Nay, you may laugh, 'tis ver vell, I am become as ridicule for you as can be, morbleu! I have deform myself into a ugly Spaniard.
Hip. Why, do you call this disguising yourself like a Spaniard, while you wear pantaloons still, and the cravat?
Mons. But is here not the double doublet, and the Spanish dagger aussi?
Hip. But 'tis as long as the French sword, and worn like it. But where's your Spanish beard, the thing of most consequence?
Mons. Jarni! do you tink beards are as easy to be had as in the playhouses? non; but if here be no the ugly long Spanish beard, here are, I am certain, the ugly long Spanish ear.
Hip. That's very true, ha! ha! ha!
Mons. Auh de ingrate, dat de woman is! wen we poor men are your gallants, you laugh at us yourselves, and wen we are your husband, you make all the world laugh at us, jarni!—Love, dam love, it makes the man more ridicule, than poverty, poetry, or a new title of honour, jarni!
Enter Don Diego and Mrs. Caution.
Don. What! at your jarnis still? voto!
Mons. Why, oncle, you are at your votos still.
Don. Nay, I'll allow you to be at your votos too, but not to make the incongruous match of Spanish doublet, and French pantaloons. [Holding his hat before his pantaloons.
Mons. Nay, pray, dear oncle, let me unite France and Spain; 'tis the mode of France now, jarni, voto!
Don. Well, I see I must pronounce: I told you, if you were not dressed in the Spanish habit to-night, you should not marry my daughter to-morrow, look you.
Mons. Well! am I not habillé in de Spanish habit? my doublet, ear and hat, leg and feet, are Spanish, that dey are.
Don. I told you I was a Spanish positivo, voto!
Mons. Will you not spare my pantaloon! begar, I will give you one little finger to excuse my pantaloon, da—
Don. I have said, look you.
Mons. Auh, cher pantaloons! Speak for my pantaloons, cousin. My poor pantaloons are as dear to me as de scarf to de countree capitane, or de new-made officer: therefore have de compassion for my pantaloons, Don Diego, mon oncle. Hélas! hélas! hélas! [Kneels.
Don. I have said, look you, your dress must be Spanish, and your language English: I am un positivo.
Mons. And must speak base good English too! Ah! la pitié! hélas!
Don. It must be done; and I will see this great change ere it be dark, voto!—Your time is not long; look to't, look you.
Mons. Hélas! hélas! hélas! dat Espagne should conquer la France in England! Hélas! hélas! hélas! [Exit.
Don. You see what pains I take to make him the more agreeable to you, daughter.
Hip. But indeed, and indeed, father, you wash the blackamoor white, in endeavouring to make a Spaniard of a monsieur, nay, an English monsieur too; consider that, father: for when once they have taken the French plie (as they call it) they are never to be made so much as Englishmen again, I have heard say.
Don. What! I warrant you are like the rest of the young silly baggages of England, that like nothing but what is French? You would not have him reformed, you would have a monsieur to your husband, would you, cuerno?
Hip. No, indeed, father, I would not have a monsieur to my husband; not I indeed: and I am sure you'll never make my cousin otherwise.
Don. I warrant you.
Hip. You can't, you can't indeed, father: and you have sworn, you know, he shall never have me, if he does not leave off his monsieurship. Now, as I told you, 'tis as hard for him to cease being a monsieur, as 'tis for you to break a Spanish oath; so that I am not in any great danger of having a monsieur to my husband.
Don. Well, but you shall have him for your husband, look you.
Hip. Then you will break your Spanish oath.
Don. No, I will break him of his French tricks; and you shall have him for your husband, cuerno!
Hip. Indeed and indeed, father, I shall not have him.
Don. Indeed you shall, daughter.
Hip. Well, you shall see, father.
Mrs. Caut. No, I warrant you, she will not have him, she'll have her dancing-master rather: I know her meaning, I understand her.
Don. Thou malicious foolish woman! you understand her!—But I do understand her; she says, I will not break my oath, nor he his French customs; so, through our difference, she thinks she shall not have him: but she shall.
Hip. But I shan't.
Mrs. Caut. I know she will not have him, because she hates him.
Don. I tell you, if she does hate him, 'tis a sign she will have him for her husband; for 'tis not one of a thousand that marries the man she loves, look you. Besides, 'tis all one whether she loves him now or not; for as soon as she's married, she'd be sure to hate him. That's the reason we wise Spaniards are jealous, and only expect, nay, will be sure our wives shall fear us, look you.
Hip. Pray, good father and aunt, do not dispute about nothing; for I am sure he will never be my husband to hate.
Mrs. Caut. I am of your opinion, indeed; I understand you. I can see as far as another.
Don. You! you cannot see so much as through your spectacles!—But I understand her: 'tis her mere desire to marriage makes her say she shall not have him; for your poor young things, when they are once in the teens, think they shall never be married.
Hip. Well, father, think you what you will; but I know what I think.
Re-enter Monsieur de Paris in the Spanish habit entire, only with a cravat, and followed by the little Blackamoor with a golilla[62] in his hand.
Don. Come, did not I tell you, you should have him? look you there, he has complied with me, and is a perfect Spaniard.
Mons. Ay! ay! I am ugly rogue enough now, sure, for my cousin. But 'tis your father's fault, cousin, that you han't the handsomest, best-dressed man in the nation; a man bien mis.
Don. Yet again at your French! and a cravat on still! voto á St. Jago! off, off, with it!
Mons. Nay, I will ever hereafter speak clownish good English, do but spare me my cravat.
Don. I am un positivo, look you.
Mons. Let me not put on that Spanish yoke, but spare me my cravat; for I love cravat furieusement.
Don. Again at your furieusements!
Mons. Indeed I have forgot myself: but have some mercy. [Kneels.
Don. Off, off, off with it, I say! Come, refuse the ornamento principal of the Spanish habit! [Takes him by the cravat, pulls it off, and the Black puts on the golilla.
Mons. Will you have no mercy, no pity? alas! alas! alas! Oh! I had rather put on the English pillory, than that Spanish golilla, for 'twill be all a case I'm sure: for when I go abroad, I shall soon have a crowd of boys about me, peppering me with rotten eggs and turnips. Hélas! hélas! [Don Diego puts on the golilla.
Don. Hélas, again!
Mons. Alas! alas! alas!
Hip. I shall die! }
} Ha! ha! ha!
Prue. I shall burst! }
Mons. Ay! ay! you see what I am come to for your sake, cousin: and, uncle, pray take notice how ridiculous I am grown to my cousin, that loves me above all the world: she can no more forbear laughing at me, I vow and swear, than if I were as arrant a Spaniard as yourself.
Don. Be a Spaniard like me, and ne'er think people laugh at you: there was never a Spaniard that thought any one laughed at him. But what! do you laugh at a golilla, baggage? Come, sirrah black, now do you teach him to walk with the verdadero gesto, gracia, and gravidad of a true Castilian.
Mons. Must I have my dancing-master too?—Come, little master, then, lead on. [The Black struts about the stage, Monsieur follows him, imitating awkwardly all he does.
Don. Malo! malo! with your hat on your poll, as it it hung upon a pin!—the French and English wear their hats as if their horns would not suffer 'em to come over their foreheads, voto!
Mons. 'Tis true, there are some well-bred gentlemen have so much reverence for their peruke, that they would refuse to be grandees of your Spain for fear of putting on their hats, I vow and swear!
Don. Come, black, teach him now to make a Spanish leg.[63]
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! your Spanish leg is an English courtesy, I vow and swear, hah! hah! hah!
Don. Well, the hood does not make the monk; the ass was an ass still, though he had the lion's skin on. This will be a light French fool, in spite of the grave Spanish habit, look you.—But, black, do what you can; make the most of him; walk him about.
Prue. Here are the people, sir, you sent to speak about provisions for the wedding; and here are clothes brought home too, mistress. [Goes to the door and returns.
Don. Well, I come.—Black, do what you can with him; walk him about.
Mons. Indeed, uncle, if I were as you, I would not have the grave Spanish habit so travestied: I shall disgrace it, and my little black master too, I vow and swear.
Don. Learn, learn of him; improve yourself by him—and do you walk him, walk him about soundly.—Come, sister, and daughter, I must have your judgments, though I shall not need 'em, look you.—Walk him, see you walk him. [Exeunt Don Diego, Hippolita, and Mrs. Caution.
Mons. Jarni! he does not only make a Spaniard of me, but a Spanish jennet, in giving me to his lackey to walk.—But come along, little master. [The Black instructs Monsieur on one side of the stage, Prue standing on the other.
Prue. O the unfortunate condition of us poor chambermaids! who have all the carking and caring, the watching and sitting up, the trouble and danger of our mistresses' intrigues, whilst they go away with all the pleasure! And if they can get their man in a corner, 'tis well enough; they ne'er think of the poor watchful chambermaid, who sits knocking her heels in the cold, for want of better exercise, in some melancholy lobby or entry, when she could employ her time every whit as well as her mistress, for all her quality, if she were but put to't. [Aside.
Black. Hold up your head, hold up your head sir:—a stooping Spaniard, malo!
Mons. True, a Spaniard scorns to look upon the ground.
Prue. We can shift for our mistresses, and not for ourselves. Mine has got a handsome proper young man, and is just going to make the most of him; whilst I must be left in the lurch here with a couple of ugly little blackamoor boys in bonnets, and an old withered Spanish eunuch; not a servant else in the house, nor have I hopes of any comfortable society at all. [Aside.
Black. Now let me see you make your visit-leg, thus.
Mons. Auh, tête non!—ha! ha! ha!
Black. What! a Spaniard, and laugh aloud! No, if you laugh, thus only—so—Now your salutation in the street, as you pass by your acquaintance; look you, thus—if to a woman, thus—putting your hat upon your heart; if to a man, thus, with a nod—so—but frown a little more, frown:—but if to a woman you would be very ceremonious to, thus—so—your neck nearer your shoulder—so—Now, if you would speak contemptibly of any man, or thing, do thus with your hand—so—and shrug up your shoulders till they hide your ears.—[Monsieur imitating the Black.] Now walk again. [The Black and Monsieur walk off the stage.
Prue. All my hopes are in that coxcomb there: I must take up with my mistress's leavings, though we chambermaids are wont to be beforehand with them. But he is the dullest, modestest fool, for a frenchified fool, as ever I saw; for nobody could be more coming to him than I have been, though I say it, and yet I am ne'er the nearer. I have stolen away his handkerchief, and told him of it; and yet he would never so much as struggle with me to get it again: I have pulled off his peruke, untied his ribbons, and have been very bold with him: yet he would never be so with me: nay, I have pinched him, punched him and tickled him; and yet he would never do the like for me.
Re-enter the Black and Monsieur.
Black. Nay, thus, thus, sir.
Prue. And to make my person more acceptable to him, I have used art, as they say; for every night since he came, I have worn the forehead-piece of bees-wax and hog's-grease, and every morning washed with butter-milk and wild tansy; and have put on every day for his only sake my Sunday's bowdy[64] stockings, and have new-chalked my shoes, as constantly as the morning came: nay, I have taken occasion to garter my stockings before him, as if unawares of him; for a good leg and foot, with good shoes and stockings, are very provoking, as they say; but the devil a bit would he be provoked.—But I must think of a way. [Aside.
Black. Thus, thus.
Mons. What, so! Well, well, I have lessons enough for this time, little master; I will have no more, lest the multiplicity of them make me forget them, da.—Prue, art thou there and so pensive? what art thou thinking of?
Prue. Indeed, I am ashamed to tell your worship.
Mons. What, ashamed! wert thou thinking then of my beastliness? ha! ha! ha!
Prue. Nay, then I am forced to tell your worship in my own vindication.
Mons. Come then.
Prue. But indeed, your worship—I'm ashamed, that I am, though it was nothing but a dream I had of your sweet worship last night.
Mons. Of my sweet worship! I warrant it was a sweet dream then:—what was it? ha! ha! ha!
Prue. Nay, indeed, I have told your worship enough already; you may guess the rest.
Mons. I cannot guess; ha! ha! ha! What should it be? prithee let's know the rest.
Prue. Would you have me so impudent?
Mons. Impudent! ha! ha! ha! Nay, prithee tell me; for I can't guess, da—
Prue. Nay, 'tis always so, for want of the men's guessing the poor women are forced to be impudent:—but I am still ashamed.
Mons. I will know it; speak.
Prue. Why then, methought last night you came up into my chamber in your shirt when I was in bed; and that you might easily do, for I have ne'er a lock to my door.—Now I warrant I am as red as my petticoat.
Mons. No, thou'rt as yellow as e'er thou wert.
Prue. Yellow, sir!
Mons. Ay, ay: but let's hear the dream out.
Prue. Why, can't you guess the rest now?
Mons. No, not I, I vow and swear: come, let's hear.
Prue. But can't you guess, in earnest?
Mons. Not I, the devil eat me!
Prue. Not guess yet! why then, methought you came to bed to me.—Now am I as red as my petticoat again.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha!—well, and what then? ha! ha! ha!
Prue. Nay, now I know by your worship's laughing you guess what you did. I'm sure I cried out, and waked all in tears, with these words in my mouth—"You have undone me! you have undone me! your worship has undone me!"
Mons. Ha! ha! ha!—but you waked, and found it was but a dream.
Prue. Indeed it was so lively, I know not whether 'twas a dream, or no.—But if you were not there, I'll undertake you may come when you will, and do anything to me you will, I sleep so fast.
Mons. No, no; I don't believe that.
Prue. Indeed you may, your worship—
Mons. It cannot be.
Prue. Insensible beast! he will not understand me yet; and one would think I speak plain enough. [Aside.
Mons. Well, but, Prue, what art thou thinking of?
Prue. Of the dream, whether it were a dream or no.
Mons. 'Twas a dream, I warrant thee.
Prue. Was it? I am hugeous glad it was a dream.
Mons. Ay, ay, it was a dream: and I am hugeous glad it was a dream too.
Prue. But now I have told your worship my door has neither lock nor latch to it, if you should be so naughty as to come one night, and prove the dream true—I am so afraid on't.
Mons. Ne'er fear it:—dreams go by the contraries.
Prue. Then, by that I should come into your worship's chamber, and come to bed to your worship.—Now am I as red as my petticoat again, I warrant.
Mons. No, thou art no redder than a brick unburnt, Prue.
Prue. But if I should do such a trick in my sleep, your worship would not censure a poor harmless maid, I hope?—for I am apt to walk in my sleep.
Mons. Well, then, Prue, because thou shalt not shame thyself, poor wench, I'll be sure to lock my door every night fast.
Prue. [Aside.] So! so! this way I find will not do:—I must come roundly and downright to the business, like other women, or—
Enter Gerrard.
Mons. O, the dancing-master!
Prue. Dear sir, I have something to say to you in your ear, which I am ashamed to speak aloud.
Mons. Another time, another time, Prue. But now go call your mistress to her dancing-master. Go, go.
Prue. Nay, pray hear me, sir, first.
Mons. Another time, another time, Prue; prithee begone.
Prue. Nay, I beseech your worship hear me.
Mons. No; prithee begone.
Prue. [Aside.] Nay, I am e'en well enough served for not speaking my mind when I had an opportunity.—Well, I must be playing the modest woman, forsooth! a woman's hypocrisy in this case does only deceive herself. [Exit.
Mons. O, the brave dancing master! the fine dancing-master! Your servant, your servant.
Ger. Your servant sir: I protest I did not know you at first—[Aside.] I am afraid this fool should spoil all, notwithstanding Hippolita's care and management; yet I ought to trust her:—but a secret is more safe with a treacherous knave than a talkative fool.
Mons. Come, sir, you must know a little brother dancing-master of yours—walking master I should have said; for he teaches me to walk and make legs, by-the-bye. Pray, know him, sir; salute him, sir.—You Christian dancing-masters are so proud.
Ger. But, monsieur, what strange metamorphosis is this? You look like a Spaniard, and talk like an Englishman again, which I thought had been impossible.
Mons. Nothing impossible to love: I must do't, or lose my mistress, your pretty scholar; for 'tis I am to have her. You may remember I told you she was to be married to a great man, a man of honour and quality.
Ger. But does she enjoin you to this severe penance?—such I am sure it is to you.
Mons. No, no: 'tis by the compulsion of the starched fop her father, who is so arrant a Spaniard, he would kill you and his daughter, if he knew who you were: therefore have a special care to dissemble well. [Draws him aside.
Ger. I warrant you.
Mons. Dear Gerrard—Go, little master, and call my cousin: tell her her dancing-master is here. [Exit the Black]—I say, dear Gerrard, faith, I'm obliged to you for the trouble you have had. When I sent you, I intended a jest indeed; but did not think it would have been so dangerous a jest: therefore pray forgive me.
Ger. I do, do heartily forgive you.
Mons. But can you forgive me for sending you at first, like a fool as I was? 'Twas ill done of me: can you forgive me?
Ger. Yes, yes, I do forgive you.
Mons. Well, thou art a generous man, I vow and swear, to come and take upon you all this trouble, danger, and shame, to be thought a paltry dancing-master; and all this to preserve a lady's honour and life, who intended to abuse you. But I take the obligation upon me.
Ger. Pish! pish! you are not obliged to me at all.
Mons. Faith, but I am strangely obliged to you.
Ger. Faith, but you are not.
Mons. I vow and swear but I am.
Ger. I swear you are not.
Mons. Nay, thou art so generous a dancing-master, ha! ha! ha!
Re-enter Don Diego, Hippolita, Mrs. Caution, and Prue.
Don. You shall not come in, sister.
Mrs. Caut. I will come in.
Don. You will not be civil.
Mrs. Caut. I'm sure they will not be civil, if I do not come in:—I must, I will.
Don. Well, honest friend, you are very punctual, which is a rare virtue in a dancing-master; I take notice of it, and will remember it; I will, look you.
Mons. So, silly, damned, politic Spanish uncle!—ha! ha! ha! [Aside.
Ger. My fine scholar, sir, there, shall never have reason, as I have told you, sir, to say I am not a punctual man; for I am more her servant than to any scholar I ever had.
Mons. Well said, i'faith!—[Aside.] Thou dost make a pretty fool of him, I vow and swear. But I wonder people can be made such fools of:—ha! ha! ha!
Hip. Well, master, I thank you; and I hope I shall be a grateful, kind scholar to you.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! cunning little jilt, what a fool she makes of him too! I wonder people can be made such fools of, I vow and swear:—ha! ha! ha! [Aside.
Hip. Indeed, it shall go hard but I'll be a grateful, kind scholar to you.
Mrs. Caut. As kind as ever your mother was to your father, I warrant.
Don. How! again with your senseless suspicions.
Mons. Pish! pish! aunt—[Aside.] Ha! ha! ha! she's a fool another way: she thinks she loves him, ha! ha! ha! Lord! that people should be such fools!
Mrs. Caut. Come, come, I cannot but speak: I tell you, beware in time; for he is no dancing-master, but some debauched person who will mump you of your daughter.
Don. Will you be wiser than I still? Mump me of my daughter! I would I could see any one mump me of my daughter.
Mrs. Caut. And mump you of your mistress too, young Spaniard.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! will you be wiser than I too, voto? Mump me of my mistress! I would I could see any one mump me of my mistress.—[Aside to Gerrard and Hippolita.] I am afraid this damned old aunt should discover us, I vow and swear: be careful therefore and resolute.
Mrs. Caut. He! he does not go about his business like a dancing-master. He'll ne'er teach her to dance; but he'll teach her no goodness soon enough, I warrant.—He a dancing-master!
Mons. Ay, the devil eat me if he be not the best dancing-master in England now!—[Aside to Gerrard and Hippolita.] Was not that well said, cousin? was it not? for he's a gentleman dancing-master, you know.
Don. You know him, cousin, very well? cousin, you sent him to my daughter?
Mons. Yes, yes, uncle:—know him!—[Aside.] We'll ne'er be discovered, I warrant, ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Caut. But will you be made a fool of too?
Mons. Ay, ay, aunt, ne'er trouble yourself.
Don. Come, friend, about your business; about with my daughter.
Hip. Nay, pray, father, be pleased to go out a little, and let us practise awhile, and then you shall see me dance the whole dance to the violin.
Don. Tittle tattle! more fooling still!—Did not you say, when your master was here last, I should see you dance to the violin when he came again?
Hip. So I did, father: but let me practise a little first before, that I may be perfect. Besides, my aunt is here, and she will put me out; you know I cannot dance before her.
Don. Fiddle faddle!
Mons. [Aside.] They're afraid to be discovered by Gerrard's bungling, I see.—[Aloud.] Come, come, uncle turn out! let 'em practise.
Don. I won't, voto á St. Jago! what a fooling's here.
Mons. Come, come, let 'em practise: turn out, turn out, uncle.
Don. Why can't she practise it before me?
Mons. Come, dancers and singers are sometimes humoursome; besides, 'twill be more grateful to you to see it danced all at once to the violin. Come, turn out, turn out, I say.
Don. What a fooling's here still among you, voto!
Mons. So, there he is with you, voto!—Turn out, turn out; I vow and swear you shall turn out. [Takes him by the shoulder.
Don. Well, shall I see her dance it to the violin at last?
Ger. Yes, yes, sir; what do you think I teach her for?
Mons. Go, go, turn out.—[Exit Don Diego.] And you too, aunt.
Mrs. Caut. Seriously, nephew, I shall not budge; royally, I shall not.
Mons. Royally, you must, aunt: come.
Mrs. Caut. Pray hear me, nephew.
Mons. I will not hear you.
Mrs. Caut. 'Tis for your sake I stay: I must not suffer you to be wronged.
Mons. Come, no wheedling, aunt: come away.
Mrs. Caut. That slippery fellow will do't.
Mons. Let him do't.
Mrs. Caut. Indeed he will do't; royally he will.
Mons. Well, let him do't, royally.
Mrs. Caut. He will wrong you.
Mons. Well, let him, I say; I have a mind to be wronged: what's that to you? I will be wronged, if you go there too, I vow and swear.
Mrs. Caut. You shall not be wronged.
Mons. I will.
Mrs. Caut. You shall not.
Re-enter Don Diego.
Don. What's the matter? won't she be ruled?—Come, come away; you shall not disturb 'em. [Don Diego and Monsieur try to thrust Mrs. Caution out.
Mrs. Caut. D'ye see how they laugh at you both?—Well, go to; the troth-telling Trojan gentlewoman of old was ne'er believed till the town was taken, rummaged, and ransacked. Even, even so—
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! turn out—[Exeunt Mrs. Caution and Don Diego.]—Lord, that people should be such arrant cuddens![65] ha! ha! ha! But I may stay, may I not?
Hip. No, no; I'd have you go out and hold the door, cousin; or else my father will come in again before his time.
Mons. I will, I will then, sweet cousin.—'Tis well thought on; that was well thought on, indeed, for me to hold the door.
Hip. But be sure you keep him out, cousin, till we knock.
Mons. I warrant you, cousin.—Lord, that people should be made such fools of! Ha! ha! ha! [Exit.
Ger. So, so:—to make him hold the door, while I steal his mistress, is not unpleasant.
Hip. Ay, but would you do so ill a thing, so treacherous a thing? Faith 'tis not well.
Ger. Faith, I can't help it, since 'tis for your sake.—Come, sweetest, is not this our way into the gallery?
Hip. Yes; but it goes against my conscience to be accessory to so ill a thing.—You say you do it for my sake?
Ger. Alas, poor miss! 'tis not against your conscience, but against your modesty, you think, to do it frankly.
Hip. Nay, if it be against my modesty, too, I can't do it indeed.
Ger. Come, come, miss, let us make haste:—all's ready.
Hip. Nay, faith, I can't satisfy my scruple.
Ger. Come, dearest, this is not a time for scruples nor modesty.—Modesty between lovers is as impertinent as ceremony between friends; and modesty is now as unseasonable as on the wedding night.—Come away, my dearest.
Hip. Whither?
Ger. Nay, sure we have lost too much time already. Is that a proper question now? If you would know, come along; for I have all ready.
Hip. But I am not ready.
Ger. Truly, miss, we shall have your father come in upon us, and prevent us again, as he did in the morning.
Hip. 'Twas well for me he did:—for, on my conscience, if he had not come in, I had gone clear away with you when I was in the humour.
Ger. Come, dearest, you would frighten me, as if you were not yet in the same humour.—Come, come away; the coach and six is ready.
Hip. 'Tis too late to take the air, and I am not ready.
Ger. You were ready in the morning.
Hip. Ay, so I was.
Ger. Come, come, miss:—indeed the jest begins to be none.
Hip. What! I warrant you think me in jest then?
Ger. In jest, certainly; but it begins to be troublesome.
Hip. But, sir, you could believe I was in earnest in the morning, when I but seemed to be ready to go with you; and why won't you believe me now when I declare to the contrary?—I take it unkindly, that the longer I am acquainted with you, you should have the less confidence in me.
Ger. For Heaven's sake, miss, lose no more time thus; your father will come in upon us, as he did—
Hip. Let him if he will.
Ger. He'll hinder our design.
Hip. No, he will not; for mine is to stay here now.
Ger. Are you in earnest?
Hip. You'll find it so.
Ger. How! why, you confessed but now you would have gone with me in the morning.
Hip. I was in the humour then.
Ger. And I hope you are in the same still; you cannot change so soon.
Hip. Why, is it not a whole day ago?
Ger. What! are you not a day in the same humour?
Hip. Lord! that you who know the town, they say, should think any woman could be a whole day together in a humour!—ha! ha! ha!
Ger. Hey! this begins to be pleasant.—What! won't you go with me then after all?
Hip. No indeed, sir, I desire to be excused.
Ger. Then you have abused me all this while?
Hip. It may be so.
Ger. Could all that so natural innocency be dissembled?—faith, it could not, dearest miss.
Hip. Faith, it was, dear master.
Ger. Was it, faith?
Hip. Methinks you might believe me without an oath. You saw I could dissemble with my father, why should you think I could not with you?
Ger. So young a wheedle!
Hip. Ay, a mere damned jade I am.
Ger. And I have been abused, you say?
Hip. 'Tis well you can believe it at last.
Ger. And I must never hope for you?
Hip. Would you have me abuse you again?
Ger. Then you will not go with me?
Hip. No: but, for your comfort, your loss will not be great; and that you may not resent it, for once I'll be ingenuous, and disabuse you.—I am no heiress, as I told you, to twelve hundred pounds a-year; I was only a lying jade then.—Now will you part with me willingly, I doubt not.
Ger. I wish I could. [Sighs.
Hip. Come, now I find 'tis your turn to dissemble:—but men use to dissemble for money; will you dissemble for nothing?
Ger. 'Tis too late for me to dissemble.
Hip. Don't you dissemble, faith?
Ger. Nay, this is too cruel.
Hip. What! would you take me without the twelve hundred pounds a-year? would you be such a fool as to steal a woman with nothing?
Ger. I'll convince you; for you shall go with me:—and since you are twelve hundred pounds a-year the lighter, you'll be the easier carried away. [He takes her in his arms, she struggles.
Prue. What! he takes her way against her will:—I find I must knock for my master then. [She knocks.
Re-enter Don Diego and Mrs. Caution.
Hip. My father! my father is here!
Ger. Prevented again! [Gerrard sets her down again.
Don. What, you have done I hope now, friend, for good and all?
Ger. Yes, yes; we have done for good and all indeed.
Don. How now!—you seem to be out of humour, friend.
Ger. Yes, so I am; I can't help it.
Mrs. Caut. He's a dissembler in his very throat, brother.
Hip. Pray do not carry things so as to discover yourself, if it be but for my sake, good master. [Aside to Gerrard.
Ger. She is grown impudent. [Aside.
Mrs. Caut. See, see, they whisper, brother!—to steal a kiss under a whisper!—O the harlotry!
Don. What's the matter, friend?
Hip. I say, for my sake be in humour, and do not discover yourself, but be as patient as a dancing-master still. [Aside to Gerrard.
Don. What, she is whispering to him indeed! What's the matter? I will know it, friend, look you.
Ger. Will you know it?
Don. Yes, I will know it.
Ger. Why, if you will know it then, she would not do as I would have her; and whispered me to desire me not to discover it to you.
Don. What, hussy, would you not do as he'd have you? I'll make you do as he'd have you.
Ger. I wish you would.
Mrs. Caut. 'Tis a lie; she'll do all he'll have her do, and more too, to my knowledge.
Don. Come, tell me what 'twas then she would not do—come, do it, hussy, or—Come, take her by the hand, friend. Come, begin:—let's see if she will not do anything now I'm here!
Hip. Come, pray be in humour, master.
Ger. I cannot dissemble like you.
Don. What, she can't dissemble already, can she?
Mrs. Caut. Yes, but she can: but 'tis with you she dissembles: for they are not fallen out, as we think. For I'll be sworn I saw her just now give him the languishing eye, as they call it, that is, the whiting's eye, of old called the sheep's eye:—I'll be sworn I saw it with these two eyes; that I did.
Hip. You'll betray us; have a care, good master. [Aside to Gerrard.
Don. Hold your peace, I say, silly woman!—but does she dissemble already?—how do you mean?
Ger. She pretends she can't do what she should do; and that she is not in humour.—The common excuse of women for not doing what they should do.
Don. Come, I'll put her in humour.—Dance, I say.—Come, about with her, master.
Ger. [Aside.] I am in a pretty humour to dance.—[To Hippolita.] I cannot fool any longer, since you have fooled me.
Hip. You would not be so ungenerous as to betray the woman that hated you! I do not do that yet. For Heaven's sake! for this once be more obedient to my desires than your passion. [Aside to Gerrard.
Don. What! is she humoursome still?—but methinks you look yourself as if you were in an ill-humour:—but about with her.
Ger. I am in no good dancing humour, indeed.
Re-enter Monsieur.
Mons. Well, how goes the dancing forward?—What, my aunt here to disturb 'em again?
Don. Come! come! [Gerrard leads her about.
Mrs. Caut. I say, stand off;—thou shall not come near. Avoid, Satan! as they say.
Don. Nay, then we shall have it:—nephew, hold her a little, that she may not disturb 'em.—Come, now away with her.
Ger. One, two, and a coupee.—[Aside.] Fooled and abused—
Mrs. Caut. Wilt thou lay violent hands upon thy own natural aunt, wretch? [To Monsieur.
Don. Come, about with her.
Ger. One, two, three, four, and turn round—[Aside.] by such a piece of innocency!
Mrs. Caut. Dost thou see, fool, how he squeezes her hand? [To Monsieur.
Mons. That won't do, aunt.
Hip. Pray, master, have patience, and let's mind our business.
Don. Why did you anger him then, hussy, look you?
Mrs. Caut. Do you see how she smiles in his face, and squeezes his hand now? [To Monsieur.
Mons. Your servant, aunt.—That won't do, I say.
Hip. Have patience, master.
Ger. [Aside.] I am become her sport!—[Aloud.] One, two, three—Death! hell! and the devil!
Don. Ay, they are three indeed!—But pray have patience.
Mrs. Caut. Do you see how she leers upon him, and clings to him? Can you suffer it? [To Monsieur.
Mons. Ay, ay.
Ger. One, two, three, and a slur.—Can you be so unconcerned after all?
Don. What! is she unconcerned?—Hussy, mind your business.
Ger. One, two, three, and turn round;—one, two, fall back—hell and damnation!
Don. Ay, people fall back indeed into hell and damnation, Heaven knows!
Ger. One, two, three, and your honour.—I can fool no longer!
Mrs. Caut. Nor will I be withheld any longer, like a poor hen in her pen, while the kite is carrying away her chicken before her face.
Don. What, have you done?—Well then, let's see her dance it now to the violin.
Mons. Ay, ay, let's see her dance it to the violin.
Ger. Another time, another time.
Don. Don't you believe that, friend:—these dancing-masters make no bones of breaking their words. Did not you promise just now, I should see her dance it to the violin? and that I will too, before I stir.
Ger. Let monsieur play then while I dance with her—she can't dance alone.
Mons. I can't play at all; I'm but a learner:—but if you'll play, I'll dance with her.
Ger. I can't play neither.
Don. What! a dancing-master, and not play!
Mrs. Caut. Ay, you see what a dancing-master he is. 'Tis as I told you, I warrant.—A dancing-master, and not play upon the fiddle!
Don. How!
Hip. O you have betrayed us all! If you confess that, you undo us for ever. [Apart to Gerrard.
Ger. I cannot play;—what would you have me say? [Apart to Hippolita.
Mons. I vow and swear we are all undone if you cannot play. [Apart to Gerrard.
Don. What! are you a dancing-master, and cannot play? Umph—
Hip. He is only out of humour, sir.—Here, master, I know you will play for me yet;—for he has an excellent hand. [She offers Gerrard the violin.
Mons. Ay, that he has.—[Aside.] At giving a box on the ear.
Don. Why does he not play, then?
Hip. Here, master, pray play for my sake. [Gives Gerrard the violin.
Ger. What would you have me do with it?—I cannot play a stroke. [Apart to Hippolita.
Hip. No! stay—then seem to tune it, and break the strings. [Apart to Gerrard.
Ger. Come then.—[Aside.] Next to the devil's, the invention of women! They'll no more want an excuse to cheat a father with, than an opportunity to abuse a husband.—[Aloud.] But what do you give me such a damned fiddle with rotten strings, for? [Winds up the strings till they break, and throws the violin on the ground.
Don. Hey-day! the dancing-master is frantic.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! That people should be made such fools of! [Aside.
Mrs. Caut. He broke the strings on purpose, because he could not play.—You are blind, brother.
Don. What! will you see further than I, look you?
Hip. But pray, master, why in such haste? [Gerrard offers to go.
Ger. Because you have done with me.
Don. But don't you intend to come to-morrow, again?
Ger. Your daughter does not desire it.
Don. No matter; I do; I must be your paymaster, I'm sure. I would have you come betimes too; not only to make her perfect, but since you have so good a hand upon the violin, to play your part with half-a-dozen of musicians more, whom I would have you bring with you: for we will have a very merry wedding, though a very private one.—You'll be sure to come?
Ger. Your daughter does not desire it.
Don. Come, come, baggage, you shall desire it of him; he is your master.
Hip. My father will have me desire it of you, it seems.
Ger. But you'll make a fool of me again if I should come; would you not?
Hip. If I should tell you so, you'd be sure not to come.
Don. Come, come, she shall not make a fool of you, upon my word. I'll secure you, she shall do what you will have her.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! So, so, silly Don. [Aside.
Ger. But, madam, will you have me come?
Hip. I'd have you to know, for my part, I care not whether you come or no:—there are other dancing-masters to be had:—it is my father's request to you. All that I have to say to you is a little good advice, which, because I will not shame you, I'll give you in private. [Whispers Gerrard.
Mrs. Caut. What! will you let her whisper with him too?
Don. Nay, if you find fault with it, they shall whisper, though I did not like it before:—I'll ha' nobody wiser than myself. But do you think, if 'twere any hurt, she would whisper it to him before us?
Mrs. Caut. If it be no hurt, why does she not speak aloud?
Don. Because she says she will not put the man out of countenance.
Mrs. Caut. Hey-day! put a dancing-master out of countenance!
Don. You say he is no dancing-master.
Mrs. Caut. Yes, for his impudence he may be a dancing-master.
Don. Well, well, let her whisper before me as much as she will to-night, since she is to be married to-morrow;—especially since her husband (that shall be) stands by consenting too.
Mons. Ay, ay, let 'em whisper, as you say, as much as they will before we marry.—[Aside.] She's making more sport with him, I warrant.—But I wonder how people can be fooled so.—Ha! ha! ha!
Don. Well, a penny for the secret, daughter.
Hip. Indeed, father, you shall have it for nothing to-morrow.
Don. Well, friend, you will not fail to come?
Ger. No, no, sir.—[Aside.] Yet I am a fool if I do.
Don. And be sure you bring the fiddlers with you, as I bid you.
Hip. Yes, be sure you bring the fiddlers with you, as I bid you.
Mrs. Caut. So, so: he'll fiddle your daughter out of the house.—Must you have fiddles, with a fiddle faddle?
Mons. Lord! that people should be made such fools of! Ha! ha! [Aside.
[Exeunt Don Diego, Hippolita, Monsieur, Mrs. Caution, and Prue.
Ger.
Fortune we sooner may than woman trust:
To her confiding gallant she is just;
But falser woman only him deceives,
Who to her tongue and eyes most credit gives.
[Exit.