ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—Manly's Lodging.
Enter Manly and Fidelia.
Man. Well, there's success in thy face. Hast thou prevailed? say.
Fid. As I could wish, sir.
Man. So; I told thee what thou wert fit for, and thou wouldst not believe me. Come, thank me for bringing thee acquainted with thy genius. Well, thou hast mollified her heart for me?
Fid. No, sir, not so; but what's better.
Man. How, what's better?
Fid. I shall harden your heart against her.
Man. Have a care, sir; my heart is too much in earnest to be fooled with, and my desire at height, and needs no delay to incite it. What, you are too good a pimp already, and know how to endear pleasure by withholding it? But leave off your page's bawdy-house tricks, sir, and tell me, will she be kind?
Fid. Kinder than you could wish, sir.
Man. So, then: well, prithee, what said she?
Fid. She said—
Man. What? thou'rt so tedious: speak comfort to me; what?
Fid. That of all things you are her aversion.
Man. How!
Fid. That she would sooner take a bedfellow out of an hospital, and diseases into her arms, than you.
Man. What?
Fid. That she would rather trust her honour with a dissolute debauched hector, nay worse, with a finical baffled coward, all over loathsome with affectation of the fine gentleman.
Man. What's all this you say?
Fid. Nay, that my offers of your love to her were more offensive, than when parents woo their virgin-daughters to the enjoyment of riches only; and that you were in all circumstances as nauseous to her as a husband on compulsion.
Man. Hold! I understand you not.
Fid. So, 'twill work, I see. [Aside.
Man. Did you not tell me—
Fid. She called you ten thousand ruffians.
Man. Hold, I say.
Fid. Brutes—
Man. Hold.
Fid. Sea-monsters—
Man. Damn your intelligence! Hear me a little now.
Fid. Nay, surly coward she called you too.
Man. Won't you hold yet? Hold, or—
Fid. Nay, sir, pardon me; I could not but tell you she had the baseness, the injustice, to call you coward, sir; coward, coward, sir.
Man. Not yet—
Fid. I've done:—coward, sir.
Man. Did not you say, she was kinder than I could wish her?
Fid. Yes, sir.
Man. How then?—O—I understand you now. At first she appeared in rage and disdain; the truest sign of a coming woman: but at last you prevailed, it seems; did you not?
Fid. Yes, sir.
Man. So then; let's know that only: come, prithee, without delays. I'll kiss thee for that news beforehand.
Fid. So; the kiss I'm sure is welcome to me, whatsoe'er the news will be to you. [Aside.
Man. Come, speak, my dear volunteer.
Fid. How welcome were that kind word too, if it were not for another woman's sake! [Aside.
Man. What, won't you speak? You prevailed for me at last, you say?
Fid. No, sir.
Man. No more of your fooling, sir: it will not agree with my impatience or temper.
Fid. Then not to fool you, sir, I spoke to her for you, but prevailed for myself; she would not hear me when I spoke in your behalf, but bid me say what I would in my own, though she gave me no occasion, she was so coming, and so was kinder, sir, than you could wish; which I was only afraid to let you know, without some warning.
Man. How's this? Young man, you are of a lying age; but I must hear you out, and if—
Fid. I would not abuse you, and cannot wrong her by any report of her, she is so wicked.
Man. How, wicked! had she the impudence, at the second sight of you only—
Fid. Impudence, sir! oh, she has impudence enough to put a court out of countenance, and debauch a stews.
Man. Why, what said she?
Fid. Her tongue, I confess, was silent; but her speaking eyes gloated such things, more immodest and lascivious than ravishers can act, or women under a confinement think.
Man. I know there are those whose eyes reflect more obscenity than the glasses in alcoves; but there are others too who use a little art with their looks, to make 'em seem more beautiful, not more loving; which vain young fellows like you are apt to interpret in their own favour, and to the lady's wrong.
Fid. Seldom, sir. Pray, have you a care of gloating eyes; for he that loves to gaze upon 'em, will find at last a thousand fools and cuckolds in 'em instead of cupids.
Man. Very well, sir.—But what, you had only eye-kindness from Olivia?
Fid. I tell you again, sir, no woman sticks there; eye-promises of love they only keep; nay, they are contracts which make you sure of 'em. In short, sir, she seeing me, with shame and amazement dumb, unactive, and resistless, threw her twisting arms about my neck, and smothered me with a thousand tasteless kisses. Believe me, sir, they were so to me.
Man. Why did you not avoid 'em then?
Fid. I fenced with her eager arms, as you did with the grapples of the enemy's fireship; and nothing but cutting 'em off could have freed me.
Man. Damned, damned woman, that could be so false and infamous! and damned, damned heart of mine, that cannot yet be false, though so infamous! what easy, tame suffering trampled things does that little god of talking cowards make of us! but—
Fid. So; it works, I find, as I expected. [Aside.
Man. But she was false to me before, she told me so herself, and yet I could not quite believe it; but she was, so that her second falseness is a favour to me, not an injury, in revenging me upon the man that wronged me first of her love. Her love! a whore's, a witch's love!—But what, did she not kiss well, sir?—I'm sure I thought her lips—but I must not think of 'em more—but yet they are such I could still kiss—grow to—and then tear off with my teeth, grind 'em into mammocks,[121] and spit 'em into her cuckold's face.
Fid. Poor man, how uneasy he is! I have hardly the heart to give so much pain, though withal I give him cure, and to myself new life. [Aside.
Man. But what, her kisses sure could not but warm you into desire at last, or a compliance with hers at least?
Fid. Nay, more, I confess—
Man. What more? speak.
Fid. All you could fear had passed between us, if I could have been made to wrong you, sir, in that nature.
Man. Could have been made! you lie, you did.
Fid. Indeed, sir, 'twas impossible for me; besides, we were interrupted by a visit; but I confess, she would not let me stir, till I promised to return to her again within this hour, as soon as it should be dark; by which time she would dispose of her visit, and her servants, and herself, for my reception. Which I was fain to promise, to get from her.
Man. Ha!
Fid. But if ever I go near her again, may you, sir, think me as false to you, as she is; hate and renounce me, as you ought to do her, and, I hope, will do now.
Man. Well, but now I think on't, you shall keep your word with your lady. What, a young fellow, and fail the first, nay, so tempting an assignation!
Fid. How, sir?
Man. I say, you shall go to her when 'tis dark, and shall not disappoint her.
Fid. I, sir! I should disappoint her more by going.
Man. How so?
Fid. Her impudence and injustice to you will make me disappoint her love, loathe her.
Man. Come, you have my leave; and if you disgust[122] her, I'll go with you, and act love, whilst you shall talk it only.
Fid. You, sir! nay, then I'll never go near her. You act love, sir! You must but act it indeed, after all I have said to you. Think of your honour, sir: love!—
Man. Well, call it revenge, and that is honourable: I'll be avenged on her; and thou shalt be my second.
Fid. Not in a base action, sir, when you are your own enemy. O go not near her, sir; for Heaven's sake, for your own, think not of it!
Man. How concerned you are! I thought I should catch you. What, you are my rival at last, and are in love with her yourself; and have spoken ill of her out of your love to her, not me: and therefore would not have me go to her!
Fid. Heaven witness for me, 'tis because I love you only, I would not have you go to her.
Man. Come, come, the more I think on't, the more I'm satisfied you do love her. Those kisses, young man, I knew were irresistible; 'tis certain.
Fid. There is nothing certain in the world, sir, but my truth and your courage.
Man. Your servant, sir. Besides, false and ungrateful as she has been to me, and though I may believe her hatred to me great as you report it, yet I cannot think you are so soon and at that rate beloved by her, though you may endeavour it.
Fid. Nay, if that be all, and you doubt it still, sir, I will conduct you to her; and, unseen, your ears shall judge of her falseness, and my truth to you, if that will satisfy you.
Man. Yes, there is some satisfaction in being quite out of doubt; because 'tis that alone withholds us from the pleasure of revenge.
Fid. Revenge! What revenge can you have, sir? Disdain is best revenged by scorn; and faithless love, by loving another, and making her happy with the other's losings. Which, if I might advise—
Enter Freeman.
Man. Not a word more.
Free. What, are you talking of love yet, captain? I thought you had done with't.
Man. Why, what did you hear me say?
Free. Something imperfectly of love, I think.
Man. I was only wondering why fools, rascals, and desertless wretches, should still have the better of men of merit with all women, as much as with their own common mistress, Fortune.
Free. Because most women, like Fortune, are blind, seem to do all things in jest, and take pleasure in extravagant actions. Their love deserves neither thanks, nor blame, for they cannot help it: 'tis all sympathy; therefore, the noisy, the finical, the talkative, the cowardly, and effeminate, have the better of the brave, the reasonable, and man of honour; for they have no more reason in their love, or kindness, than Fortune herself.
Man. Yes, they have their reason. First, honour in a man they fear too much to love; and sense in a lover upbraids their want of it; and they hate anything that disturbs their admiration of themselves; but they are of that vain number, who had rather show their false generosity, in giving away profusely to worthless flatterers, than in paying just debts. And, in short, all women, like fortune (as you say) and rewards, are lost by too much meriting.
Fid. All women, sir! sure there are some who have no other quarrel to a lover's merit, but that it begets their despair of him.
Man. Thou art young enough to be credulous; but we—
Enter Sailor.
Sail. Here are now below, the scolding daggled gentlewoman, and that Major Old—Old—Fop, I think you call him.
Free. Oldfox:—prithee bid 'em come up, with your leave, captain, for now I can talk with her upon the square, if I shall not disturb you. [Exit Sailor.
Man. No; for I'll begone. Come, volunteer.
Free. Nay, pray stay; the scene between us will not be so tedious to you as you think. Besides, you shall see how I rigged my 'squire out, with the remains of my shipwrecked wardrobe; he is under your sea valet-de-chambre's hands, and by this time dressed, and will be worth your seeing. Stay, and I'll fetch my fool.
Man. No; you know I cannot easily laugh: besides, my volunteer and I have business abroad. [Exeunt Manly and Fidelia on one side; Freeman on the other.
Enter Major Oldfox and Widow Blackacre.
Wid. What, nobody here! did not the fellow say he was within?
Old. Yes, lady; and he may be perhaps a little busy at present; but if you think the time long till he comes, [Unfolding papers] I'll read you here some of the fruits of my leisure, the overflowings of my fancy and pen.—[Aside.] To value me right, she must know my parts.—[Aloud.] Come—
Wid. No, no; I have reading work enough of my own in my bag, I thank you.
Old. Ay, law, madam; but here's a poem, in blank verse, which I think a handsome declaration of one's passion.
Wid. O, if you talk of declarations, I'll show you one of the prettiest penned things, which I mended too myself, you must know.
Old. Nay, lady, if you have used yourself so much to the reading harsh law, that you hate smooth poetry, here is a character for you, of—
Wid. A character! nay, then I'll show you my bill in chancery here, that gives you such a character of my adversary, makes him as black—
Old. Pshaw! away, away, lady! But if you think the character too long, here is an epigram, not above twenty lines, upon a cruel lady, who decreed her servant should hang himself, to demonstrate his passion.
Wid. Decreed! if you talk of decreeing, I have such a decree here, drawn by the finest clerk—
Old. O lady, lady, all interruption, and no sense between us, as if we were lawyers at the bar! but I had forgot, Apollo and Littleton never lodge in a head together. If you hate verses, I'll give you a cast of my politics in prose. 'Tis "a Letter to a Friend in the Country;" which is now the way of all such sober solid persons as myself, when they have a mind to publish their disgust to the times; though perhaps, between you and I, they have no friend in the country. And sure a politic, serious person may as well have a feigned friend in the country to write to, as an idle poet a feigned mistress to write to. And so here's my letter to a friend, or no friend, in the country, concerning the late conjuncture of affairs, in relation to coffee-houses; or, "The Coffee-man's Case."
Wid. Nay, if your letter have a case in't, 'tis something; but first I'll read you a letter of mine to a friend in the country, called a letter of attorney.
Re-enter Freeman, with Jerry Blackacre in an old gaudy suit and red breeches of Freeman's.
Old. What, interruption still! O the plague of interruption! worse to an author than the plague of critics. [Aside.
Wid. What's this I see? Jerry Blackacre, my minor, in red breeches! What, hast thou left the modest seemly garb of gown and cap for this? and have I lost all my good inns-of-chancery breeding upon thee then? and thou wilt go a-breeding thyself from our inn of chancery and Westminster Hall, at coffee-houses, and ordinaries, play-houses, tennis-courts, and bawdy-houses?
Jer. Ay, ay, what then? perhaps I will; but what's that to you? Here's my guardian and tutor now, forsooth, that I am out of your huckster's hands.
Wid. How! thou hast not chosen him for thy guardian yet?
Jer. No, but he has chosen me for his charge, and that's all one; and I'll do anything he'll have me, and go all the world over with him; to ordinaries, and bawdy-houses, or anywhere else.
Wid. To ordinaries and bawdy-houses! have a care, minor, thou wilt enfeeble there thy estate and body: do not go to ordinaries and bawdy-houses, good Jerry.
Jer. Why, how come you to know any ill by bawdy-houses? you never had any hurt by 'em, had you, forsooth? Pray hold yourself contented; if I do go where money and wenches are to be had, you may thank yourself; for you used me so unnaturally, you would never let me have a penny to go abroad with; nor so much as come near the garret where your maidens lay; nay, you would not so much as let me play at hotcockles with 'em, nor have any recreation with 'em though one should have kissed you behind, you were so unnatural a mother, so you were.
Free. Ay, a very unnatural mother, faith, squire.
Wid. But, Jerry, consider thou art yet but a minor; however, if thou wilt go home with me again, and be a good child, thou shalt see—
Free. Madam, I must have a better care of my heir under age, than so; I would sooner trust him alone with a stale waiting-woman and a parson, than with his widow-mother and her lover or lawyer.
Wid. Why, thou villain, part mother and minor! rob me of my child and my writings! but thou shalt find there's law; and as in the case of ravishment of guard—Westminster the Second.
Old. Young gentleman squire, pray be ruled by your mother and your friends.
Jer. Yes, I'll be ruled by my friends, therefore not by my mother, so I won't: I'll choose him for my guardian till I am of age; nay, maybe, for as long as I live.
Wid. Wilt thou so, thou wretch? and when thou'rt of age, thou wilt sign, seal and deliver too, wilt thou?
Jer. Yes, marry will I, if you go there too.
Wid. O do not squeeze wax, son; rather go to ordinaries and bawdy-houses, than squeeze wax. If thou dost that, farewell the goodly manor of Blackacre, with all its woods, underwoods, and appurtenances whatever! Oh, oh! [Weeps.
Free. Come, madam, in short, you see I am resolved to have a share in the estate, yours or your son's; if I cannot get you, I'll keep him, who is less coy, you find; but if you would have your son again, you must take me too. Peace or war? love or law? You see my hostage is in my hand: I'm in possession.
Wid. Nay, if one of us must be ruined, e'en let it be him. By my body, a good one! Did you ever know yet a widow marry or not marry for the sake of her child? I'd have you to know, sir, I shall be hard enough for you both yet, without marrying you, if Jerry won't be ruled by me. What say you, booby, will you be ruled? speak.
Jer. Let one alone, can't you?
Wid. Wilt thou choose him for guardian, whom I refuse for husband?
Jer. Ay, to choose, I thank you.
Wid. And are all my hopes frustrated? Shall I never hear thee put cases again to John the butler, or our vicar? never see thee amble the circuit with the judges; and hear thee, in our town-hall, louder than the crier?
Jer. No, for I have taken my leave of lawyering and pettifogging.
Wid. Pettifogging! thou profane villain, hast thou so? Pettifogging!—then you shall take your leave of me, and your estate too; thou shalt be an alien to me and it forever. Pettifogging!
Jer. O, but if you go there too, mother, we have the deeds and settlements, I thank you. Would you cheat me of my estate, i'fac?
Wid. No, no, I will not cheat your little brother Bob; for thou wert not born in wedlock.
Free. How's that?
Jer. How? what quirk has she got in her head now?
Wid. I say, thou canst not, shalt not inherit the Blackacres' estate.
Jer. Why? why, forsooth? What d'ye mean, if you go there too?
Wid. Thou art but my base child; and according to the law, canst not inherit it. Nay, thou art not so much as bastard eigne.[123]
Jer. What, what, am I then the son of a whore, mother?
Wid. The law says—
Free. Madam, we know what the law says; but have a care what you say. Do not let your passion, to ruin your son, ruin your reputation.
Wid. Hang reputation, sir! am not I a widow? have no husband, nor intend to have any? Nor would you, I suppose, now have me for a wife. So I think now I'm revenged on my son and you, without marrying, as I told you.
Free. But consider, madam.
Jer. What, have you no shame left in you, mother?
Wid. Wonder not at it, major. 'Tis often the poor pressed widow's case, to give up her honour to save her jointure; and seem to be a light woman, rather than marry: as some young men, they say, pretend to have the filthy disease, and lose their credit with most women, to avoid the importunities of some. [Aside to Oldfox.
Free. But one word with you, madam.
Wid. No, no, sir. Come, major, let us make haste now to the Prerogative-court.
Old. But, lady, if what you say be true, will you stigmatise your reputation on record? and if it be not true, how will you prove it?
Wid. Pshaw! I can prove anything: and for my reputation, know, major, a wise woman will no more value her reputation, in disinheriting a rebellious son of a good estate, than she would in getting him, to inherit an estate. [Exeunt Widow Blackacre and Major Oldfox.
Free. Madam.—We must not let her go so, squire.
Jer. Nay, the devil can't stop her though, if she has a mind to't. But come, bully-guardian, we'll go and advise with three attorneys, two proctors, two solicitors, and a shrewd man of Whitefriars, neither attorney, proctor, nor solicitor, but as pure a pimp to the law as any of 'em: and sure all they will be hard enough for her, for I fear, bully-guardian, you are too good a joker to have any law in your head.
Free. Thou'rt in the right on't, squire, I understand no law; especially that against bastards, since I'm sure the custom is against that law, and more people get estates by being so, than lose 'em. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Olivia's Lodging.
Enter Lord Plausible and Boy with a candle.
L. Plau. Little gentleman, your most obedient, faithful, humble servant. Where, I beseech you, is that divine person, your noble lady?
Boy. Gone out, my lord; but commanded me to give you this letter. [Gives him a letter.
Enter Novel.
L. Plau. Which he must not observe. [Aside. Puts letter up.
Nov. Hey, boy, where is thy lady?
Boy. Gone out, sir; but I must beg a word with you. [Gives him a letter, and exit.
Nov. For me? So.—[Puts up the letter.] Servant, servant, my lord; you see the lady knew of your coming, for she is gone out.
L. Plau. Sir, I humbly beseech you not to censure the lady's good breeding: she has reason to use more liberty with me than with any other man.
Nov. How, viscount, how?
L. Plau. Nay, I humbly beseech you, be not in choler; where there is most love, there may be most freedom.
Nov. Nay, then 'tis time to come to an eclaircissement with you, and to tell you, you must think no more of this lady's love.
L. Plau. Why, under correction, dear sir?
Nov. There are reasons, reasons, viscount.
L. Plau. What, I beseech you, noble sir?
Nov. Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my lord; some of you lords are such conceited, well-assured, impertinent rogues.
L. Plau. And you noble wits are so full of shamming and drolling, one knows not where to have you seriously.
Nov. Well, you shall find me in bed with this lady one of these days.
L. Plau. Nay, I beseech you, spare the lady's honour; for hers and mine will be all one shortly.
Nov. Prithee, my lord, be not an ass. Dost thou think to get her from me? I have had such encouragements—
L. Plau. I have not been thought unworthy of 'em.
Nov. What, not like mine! Come to an eclaircissement, as I said.
L. Plau. Why, seriously then, she has told me viscountess sounded prettily.
Nov. And me, that Novel was a name she would sooner change hers for than for any title in England.
L. Plau. She has commended the softness and respectfulness of my behaviour.
Nov. She has praised the briskness of my raillery, of all things, man.
L. Plau. The sleepiness of my eyes she liked.
Nov. Sleepiness! dulness, dulness. But the fierceness of mine she adored.
L. Plau. The brightness of my hair she liked.
Nov. The brightness! no, the greasiness, I warrant. But the blackness and lustre of mine she admires.
L. Plau. The gentleness of my smile.
Nov. The subtilty of my leer.
L. Plau. The clearness of my complexion.
Nov. The redness of my lips.
L. Plau. The whiteness of my teeth.
Nov. My jaunty way of picking them.
L. Plau. The sweetness of my breath.
Nov. Ha! ha! nay, then she abused you, 'tis plain; for you know what Manly said:—the sweetness of your pulvillio she might mean; but for your breath! ha! ha! ha! Your breath is such, man, that nothing but tobacco can perfume; and your complexion nothing could mend but the small-pox.
L. Plau. Well, sir, you may please to be merry; but, to put you out of all doubt, sir, she has received some jewels from me of value.
Nov. And presents from me; besides what I presented her jauntily, by way of ombre, of three or four hundred pounds value, which I'm sure are the earnest-pence for our love-bargain.
L. Plau. Nay, then, sir, with your favour, and to make an end of all your hopes, look you there, sir, she has writ to me—
Nov. How! how! well, well, and so she has to me; look you there—[They deliver to each other their letters.
L. Plau. What's here?
Nov. How's this? [Reads out.]—"My dear lord,—You'll excuse me for breaking my word with you, since 'twas to oblige, not offend you; for I am only gone abroad but to disappoint Novel, and meet you in the drawing-room; where I expect you with as much impatience as when I used to suffer Novel's visits—the most impertinent fop that ever affected the name of a wit, therefore not capable, I hope, to give you jealousy; for, for your sake alone, you saw I renounced an old lover, and will do all the world. Burn the letter, but lay up the kindness of it in your heart, with your—Olivia." Very fine! but pray let's see mine.
L. Plau. I understand it not; but sure she cannot think so of me.
Nov. [Reads the other letter.] Hum! ha!—"meet—for your sake"—hum—"quitted an old lover—world—burn—in your heart—with your—Olivia." Just the same, the names only altered.
L. Plau. Surely there must be some mistake, or somebody has abused her and us.
Nov. Yes, you are abused, no doubt on't, my lord; but I'll to Whitehall, and see.
L. Plau. And I, where I shall find you are abused.
Nov. Where, if it be so, for our comfort, we cannot fail of meeting with fellow-sufferers enough; for, as Freeman said of another, she stands in the drawing room, like the glass, ready for all comers, to set their gallantry by her: and, like the glass too, lets no man go from her unsatisfied with himself. [Exeunt.
Enter Olivia and Boy.
Oliv. Both here, and just gone?
Boy. Yes, madam.
Oliv. But are you sure neither saw you deliver the other a letter?
Boy. Yes, yes, madam, I am very sure.
Oliv. Go then to the Old Exchange, to Westminster, Holborn, and all the other places I told you of; I shall not need you these two hours: begone, and take the candle with you, and be sure you leave word again below, I am gone out, to all that ask.
Boy. Yes, madam. [Exit.
Oliv. And my new lover will not ask, I'm sure; he has his lesson, and cannot miss me here, though in the dark: which I have purposely designed, as a remedy against my blushing gallant's modesty; for young lovers, like game-cocks, are made bolder by being kept without light.
Enter Vernish, as from a journey.
Ver. Where is she? Darkness everywhere? [Softly.
Oliv. What! come before your time? My soul! my life! your haste has augmented your kindness; and let me thank you for it thus, and thus—[Embracing and kissing him.] And though, my soul, the little time since you left me has seemed an age to my impatience, sure it is yet but seven—
Ver. How! who's that you expected after seven?
Oliv. Ha! my husband returned! and have I been throwing away so many kind kisses on my husband, and wronged my lover already? [Aside.
Ver. Speak, I say, who was't you expected after seven?
Oliv. [Aside.] What shall I say?—oh—[Aloud.] Why 'tis but seven days, is it, dearest, since you went out of town? and I expected you not so soon.
Ver. No, sure, 'tis but five days since I left you.
Oliv. Pardon my impatience, dearest, I thought 'em seven at least.
Ver. Nay, then—
Oliv. But, my life, you shall never stay half so long from me again; you shan't indeed, by this kiss you shan't.
Ver. No, no; but why alone in the dark?
Oliv. Blame not my melancholy in your absence.—But, my soul, since you went, I have strange news to tell you: Manly is returned.
Ver. Manly returned! Fortune forbid!
Oliv. Met with the Dutch in the channel, fought, sunk his ship, and all he carried with him. He was here with me yesterday.
Ver. And did you own our marriage to him?
Oliv. I told him I was married to put an end to his love and my trouble; but to whom, is yet a secret kept from him and all the world. And I have used him so scurvily, his great spirit will ne'er return to reason it farther with me: I have sent him to sea again, I warrant.
Ver. 'Twas bravely done. And sure he will now hate the shore more than ever, after so great a disappointment. Be you sure only to keep a while our great secret, till he be gone. In the mean time, I'll lead the easy, honest fool by the nose, as I used to do; and whilst he stays, rail with him at thee; and when he's gone, laugh with thee at him. But have you his cabinet of jewels safe? part not with a seed-pearl to him, to keep him from starving.
Oliv. Nor from hanging.
Ver. He cannot recover 'em; and, I think, will scorn to beg 'em again.
Oliv. But, my life, have you taken the thousand guineas he left in my name out of the goldsmith's hands?
Ver. Ay, ay; they are removed to another goldsmith's.
Oliv. Ay, but, my soul, you had best have a care he find not where the money is; for his present wants, as I'm informed, are such as will make him inquisitive enough.
Ver. You say true, and he knows the man too; but I'll remove it to-morrow.
Oliv. To-morrow! O do not stay till to-morrow; go to-night, immediately.
Ver. Now I think on't, you advise well, and I will go presently.
Oliv. Presently! instantly! I will not let you stay a jot.
Ver. I will then, though I return not home till twelve.
Oliv. Nay, though not till morning, with all my heart. Go, dearest; I am impatient till you are gone.—[Thrusts him out.] So, I have at once now brought about those two grateful businesses, which all prudent women do together, secured money and pleasure; and now all interruptions of the last are removed. Go, husband, and come up, friend; just the buckets in the well; the absence of one brings the other. But I hope, like them too, they will not meet in the way, jostle, and clash together.
Enter Fidelia, and Manly treading softly and staying behind at some distance.
So, are you come? (but not the husband-bucket, I hope, again.)—Who's there? my dearest? [Softly.
Fid. My life—
Oliv. Right, right.—Where are thy lips? Here, take the dumb and best welcomes, kisses and embraces; 'tis not a time for idle words. In a duel of love, as in others, parleying shows basely. Come, we are alone; and now the word is only satisfaction, and defend not thyself.
Man. How's this? Why, she makes love like a devil in a play; and in this darkness, which conceals her angel's face, if I were apt to be afraid, I should think her a devil. [Aside.
Oliv. What, you traverse ground, young gentleman! [Fidelia avoiding her.
Fid. I take breath only.
Man. Good Heavens! how was I deceived! [Aside.
Oliv. Nay, you are a coward; what, are you afraid of the fierceness of my love?
Fid. Yes, madam, lest its violence might presage its change; and I must needs be afraid you would leave me quickly, who could desert so brave a gentleman as Manly.
Oliv. O, name not his name! for in a time of stolen joys, as this is, the filthy name of husband were not a more allaying sound.
Man. There's some comfort yet. [Aside.
Fid. But did you not love him?
Oliv. Never. How could you think it?
Fid. Because he thought it; who is a man of that sense, nice discerning, and diffidency, that I should think it hard to deceive him.
Oliv. No; he that distrusts most the world, trusts most to himself, and is but the more easily deceived, because he thinks he can't be deceived. His cunning is like the coward's sword, by which he is oftener worsted than defended.
Fid. Yet, sure, you used no common art to deceive him.
Oliv. I knew he loved his own singular moroseness so well, as to dote upon any copy of it; wherefore I feigned a hatred to the world too that he might love me in earnest: but, if it had been hard to deceive him, I'm sure 'twere much harder to love him. A dogged, ill-mannered—
Fid. D'ye hear, sir? pray, hear her. [Aside to Manly.
Oliv. Surly, untractable, snarling brute! He! a mastiff dog were as fit a thing to make a gallant of.
Man. Ay, a goat, or monkey, were fitter for thee. [Aside.
Fid. I must confess, for my part, though my rival, I cannot but say he has a manly handsomeness in's face and mien.
Oliv. So has a Saracen in the sign.
Fid. Is proper, and well made.
Oliv. As a drayman.
Fid. Has wit.
Oliv. He rails at all mankind.
Fid. And undoubted courage.
Oliv. Like the hangman's; can murder a man when his hands are tied. He has cruelty indeed; which is no more courage, than his railing is wit.
Man. Thus women, and men like women, are too hard for us, when they think we do not hear 'em: and reputation, like other mistresses, is never true to a man in his absence. [Aside.
Fid. He is—
Oliv. Prithee, no more of him: I thought I had satisfied you enough before, that he could never be a rival for you to apprehend. And you need not be more assured of my aversion to him, than by the last testimony of my love to you; which I am ready to give you. Come, my soul, this way. [Pulls Fidelia.
Fid. But, madam, what could make you dissemble love to him, when 'twas so hard a thing for you; and flatter his love to you?
Oliv. That which makes all the world flatter and dissemble, 'twas his money: I had a real passion for that. Yet I loved not that so well, as for it to take him; for as soon as I had his money I hastened his departure like a wife, who when she has made the most of a dying husband's breath, pulls away his pillow.
Man. Damned money! its master's potent rival still; and like a saucy pimp, corrupts itself the mistress it procures for us. [Aside.
Oliv. But I did not think with you, my life, to pass my time in talking. Come hither, come; yet stay, till I have locked a door in the other room, that may chance to let us in some interruption; which reciting poets or losing gamesters fear not more than I at this time do. [Exit.
Fid. Well, I hope you are now satisfied, sir, and will be gone to think of your revenge?
Man. No, I am not satisfied, and must stay to be revenged.
Fid. How, sir? You'll use no violence to her, I hope, and forfeit your own life, to take away hers? that were no revenge.
Man. No, no, you need not fear: my revenge shall only be upon her honour, not her life.
Fid. How, sir? her honour? O Heavens! consider, sir, she has no honour. D'ye call that revenge? can you think of such a thing? But reflect, sir, how she hates and loathes you.
Man. Yes, so much she hates me, that it would be a revenge sufficient to make her accessory to my pleasure, and then let her know it.
Fid. No, sir, no; to be revenged on her now, were to disappoint her. Pray, sir, let us begone. [Pulls Manly.
Man. Hold off! What, you are my rival then! and therefore you shall stay, and keep the door for me, whilst I go in for you; but when I'm gone, if you dare to stir off from this very board, or breathe the least murmuring accent, I'll cut her throat first; and if you love her, you will not venture her life.—Nay, then I'll cut your throat too; and I know you love your own life at least.
Fid. But, sir; good sir.
Man. Not a word more, lest I begin my revenge on her by killing you.
Fid. But are you sure 'tis revenge that makes you do this? how can it be?
Man. Whist!
Fid. 'Tis a strange revenge, indeed.
Man. If you make me stay, I shall keep my word, and begin with you. No more. [Exit at the same door Olivia went out by.
Fid.
O Heavens! is there not punishment enough
In loving well, if you will have't a crime,
But you must add fresh torments daily to't,
And punish us like peevish rivals still,
Because we fain would find a heaven here?
But did there never any love like me,
That untried tortures you must find me out?
Others at worst, you force to kill themselves;
But I must be self-murdress of my love,
Yet will not grant me power to end my life,
My cruel life; for when a lover's hopes
Are dead and gone, life is unmerciful.
[Sits down and weeps.
Re-enter Manly.
Man. I have thought better on't: I must not discover myself now I am without witnesses; for if I barely should publish it, she would deny it with as much impudence, as she would act it again with this young fellow here.—Where are you?
Fid. Here—oh—now I suppose we may be gone.
Man. I will; but not you. You must stay and act the second part of a lover, that is, talk kindness to her.
Fid. Not I, sir.
Man. No disputing, sir, you must; 'tis necessary to my design of coming again to-morrow night.
Fid. What, can you come again then hither?
Man. Yes; and you must make the appointment, and an apology for your leaving her so soon; for I have said not a word to her; but have kept your counsel, as I expect you should do mine. Do this faithfully, and I promise you here, you shall run my fortune still, and we will never part as long as we live; but if you do not do it, expect not to live.
Fid. 'Tis hard, sir; but such a consideration will make it easier. You won't forget your promise, sir?
Man. No, by Heavens! But I hear her coming. [Exit.
Re-enter Olivia.
Oliv. Where is my life? Run from me already! You do not love me, dearest; nay, you are angry with me, for you would not so much as speak a kind word to me within: what was the reason?
Fid. I was transported too much.
Oliv. That's kind.—But come, my soul, what make you here? Let us go in again; we may be surprised in this room, 'tis so near the stairs.
Fid. No, we shall hear the better here, if anybody should come up.
Oliv. Nay, I assure you, we shall be secure enough within: come, come—
Fid. I am sick, and troubled with a sudden dizziness; and cannot stir yet.
Oliv. Come, I have spirits within.
Fid. O! don't you hear a noise, madam?
Oliv. No, no; there is none: come, come. [Pulls her.
Fid. Indeed there is; and I love you so much, I must have a care of your honour, if you won't, and go; but to come to you to-morrow night, if you please.
Oliv. With all my soul. But you must not go yet; come, prithee.
Fid. Oh!—I'm now sicker, and am afraid of one of my fits.
Oliv. What fits?
Fid. Of the falling sickness; and I lie generally an hour in a trance: therefore pray consider your honour for the sake of my love, and let me go, that I may return to you often.
Oliv. But will you be sure then to come to-morrow night?
Fid. Yes.
Oliv. Swear.
Fid. By our past kindness!
Oliv. Well, go your ways then, if you will, you naughty creature you.—[Exit Fidelia.] These young lovers, with their fears and modesty, make themselves as bad as old ones to us; and I apprehend their bashfulness more than their tattling.
Re-enter Fidelia.
Fid. O madam, we're undone! There was a gentleman upon the stairs, coming up with a candle, which made me retire. Look you, here he comes!
Re-enter Vernish, and his Servant with a light.
Oliv. How, my husband! Oh, undone indeed! This way. [Exit.
Ver. Ha! You shall not escape me so, sir. [Stops Fidelia.
Fid. O Heavens! more fears, plagues, and torments yet in store! [Aside.
Ver. Come, sir, I guess what your business was here, but this must be your business now. Draw. [Draws.
Fid. Sir—
Ver. No expostulations; I shall not care to hear of't. Draw.
Fid. Good sir!
Ver. How, you rascal! not courage to draw; yet durst do me the greatest injury in the world? Thy cowardice shall not save thy life. [Offers to run at Fidelia.
Fid. O hold, sir, and send but your servant down, and I'll satisfy you, sir, I could not injure you as you imagine.
Ver. Leave the light and begone.—[Exit Servant.] Now, quickly, sir, what have you to say, or—
Fid. I am a woman, sir, a very unfortunate woman.
Ver. How! a very handsome woman, I'm sure then: here are witnesses of't too, I confess—[Pulls off her peruke and feels her breasts; then aside,] Well, I'm glad to find the tables turned; my wife is in more danger of cuckolding than I was.
Fid. Now, sir, I hope you are so much a man of honour, as to let me go, now I have satisfied you, sir.
Ver. When you have satisfied me, madam, I will.
Fid. I hope, sir, you are too much a gentleman to urge those secrets from a woman which concern her honour. You may guess my misfortune to be love by my disguise: but a pair of breeches could not wrong you, sir.
Ver. I may believe love has changed your outside, which could not wrong me; but why did my wife run away?
Fid. I know not, sir; perhaps because she would not be forced to discover me to you, or to guide me from your suspicions, that you might not discover me yourself; which ungentlemanlike curiosity I hope you will cease to have, and let me go.
Ver. Well, madam, if I must not know who you are, 'twill suffice for me only to know certainly what you are; which you must not deny me. Come, there is a bed within, the proper rack for lovers; and if you are a woman, there you can keep no secrets; you'll tell me there all unasked. Come. [Pulls her.
Fid. Oh! what d'ye mean? Help! oh!
Ver. I'll show you: but 'tis in vain to cry out: no one dares help you; for I am lord here.
Fid. Tyrant here!—But if you are master of this house, which I have taken for a sanctuary, do not violate it yourself.
Ver. No, I'll preserve you here, and nothing shall hurt you, and will be as true to you as your disguise; but you must trust me then. Come, come. [Pulls her.
Fid. Oh! oh! rather than you should drag me to a deed so horrid and so shameful, I'll die here a thousand deaths.—But you do not look like a ravisher, sir.
Ver. Nor you like one would put me to't; but if you will—
Fid. Oh! oh! help! help!
Re-enter Servant.
Ver. You saucy rascal, how durst you come in? When you heard a woman squeak, that should have been your cue to shut the door.
Serv. I come, sir, to let you know, the alderman coming home immediately after you were at his house, has sent his cashier with the money, according to your note.
Ver. Damn his money! Money never came to any, sure, unseasonably till now. Bid him stay.
Serv. He says, he cannot a moment.
Ver. Receive it you then.
Serv. He says he must have your receipt for it:—he is in haste, for I hear him coming up, sir.
Ver. Damn him! Help me in here then with this dishonourer of my family.
Fid. Oh! oh!
Serv. You say she is a woman, sir.
Ver. No matter, sir: must you prate?
Fid. Oh Heavens! is there—[They thrust her in, and lock the door.
Ver. Stay there, my prisoner; you have a short reprieve.
I'll fetch the gold, and that she can't resist,
For with a full hand 'tis we ravish best.
[Exeunt.