ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—A Room in Mrs. Crossbite's House.
Enter Mrs. Joyner and Mrs. Crossbite.
Mrs. Joyn. Good morrow, gossip.
Mrs. Cros. Good morrow;—but why up so early, good gossip?
Mrs. Joyn. My care and passionate concern for you and yours would not let me rest, in truly.
Mrs. Cros. For me and mine?
Mrs. Joyn. You know we have known one another long; I think it be some nine-and-thirty years since you were married.
Mrs. Cros. Nine-and thirty years old, mistress! I'd have you to know, I am no far-born child; and if the register had not been burned in the last great fire, alas!—but my face needs no register sure; nine-and-thirty years old, said you?
Mrs. Joyn. I said you had been so long married; but, indeed, you bear your years as well as any she in Pepper-alley.
Mrs. Cros. Nine-and-thirty, mistress!
Mrs. Joyn. This it is; a woman, now-a-days, had rather you should find her faulty with a man, I warrant you, than discover her age, I warrant you.
Mrs. Cros. Marry, and 'tis the greatest secret far. Tell a miser he is rich, and a woman she is old,—you will get no money of him, not kindness of her. To tell me I was nine-and-thirty—(I say no more) 'twas un-neighbourly done of you, mistress.
Mrs. Joyn. My memory confesses my age, it seems, as much as my face; for I thought—
Mrs. Cros. Pray talk nor think no more of any one's age; but say what brought you hither so early.
Mrs. Joyn. How does my sweet god-daughter, poor wretch?
Mrs. Cros. Well, very well.
Mrs. Joyn. Ah, sweet creature! Alas! alas!—I am sorry for her.
Mrs. Cros. Why, what has she done to deserve your sorrow, or my reprehension?
Enter Lucy, and stands unseen at the door.
Lucy. What, are they talking of me? [Aside.
Mrs. Joyn. In short, she was seen going into the meeting-house of the wicked, otherwise called the playhouse, hand in hand with that vile fellow Dapperwit.
Mrs. Cros. Mr. Dapperwit! let me tell you, if 'twere not for Master Dapperwit, we might have lived all this vacation upon green cheese, tripe, and ox cheek. If he had it, we should not want it; but, poor gentleman! it often goes hard with him,—for he's a wit.
Mrs. Joyn. So, then, you are the dog to be fed, while the house is broken up! I say, beware! The sweet bits you swallow will make your daughter's belly swell, mistress; and, after all your junkets, there will be a bone for you to pick, mistress.
Mrs. Cros. Sure, Master Dapperwit is no such manner of man!
Mrs. Joyn. He is a wit, you say; and what are wits, but contemners of matrons, seducers, or defamers of married women, and deflowerers of helpless virgins, even in the streets, upon the very bulks[36]; affronters of midnight magistracy, and breakers of windows? in a word—
Mrs. Cros. But he is a little wit, a modest wit, and they do no such outrageous things as your great wits do.
Mrs. Joyn. Nay, I dare say, he will not say himself he is a little wit if you ask him.
Lucy. Nay, I cannot hear this with patience.—[Comes forward.] With your pardon, mother, you are as much mistaken as my godmother in Mr. Dapperwit; for he is as great a wit as any, and in what he speaks or writes as happy as any. I can assure you, he contemns all your tearing wits, in comparison of himself.
Mrs. Joyn. Alas, poor young wretch! I cannot blame thee so much as thy mother, for thou art not thyself. His bewitching madrigals have charmed thee into some heathenish imp with a hard name.
Lucy. Nymph, you mean, godmother.
Mrs. Joyn. But you, gossip, know what's what. Yesterday, as I told you, a fine old alderman of the city, seeing your daughter in so ill hands as Dapperwit's, was zealously, and in pure charity, bent upon her redemption; and has sent me to tell you, he will take her into his care and relieve your necessities, if you think good.
Mrs. Cros. Will he relieve all our necessities?
Mrs. Joyn. All.
Mrs. Cros. Mine, as well as my daughter's?
Mrs. Joyn. Yes.
Mrs. Cros. Well fare his heart!—D'ye hear, daughter, Mrs. Joyner has satisfied me clearly; Dapperwit is a vile fellow, and, in short, you must put an end to that scandalous familiarity between you.
Lucy. Leave sweet Mr. Dapperwit!—oh furious ingratitude! Was he not the man that gave me my first Farrendon[37] gown, put me out of worsted stockings and handkerchiefs, taught me to dress, talk, and move well?
Mrs. Cros. He has taught you to talk indeed; but, huswife, I will not have my pleasure disputed.
Mrs. Joyn. Nay, indeed, you are too tart with her, poor sweet soul.
Lucy. He taught me to rehearse, too,—would have brought me into the playhouse, where I might have had as good luck as others: I might have had good clothes, plate, jewels, and things so well about me, that my neighbours, the little gentlemen's wives of fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds a year, should have retired into the country, sick with envy of my prosperity and greatness.
Mrs. Joyn. If you follow your mother's counsel, you are like to enjoy all you talk of sooner than by Dapperwit's assistance:—a poor wretch that goes on tick for the paper he writes his lampoons on, and the very ale and coffee that inspire him, as they say.
Mrs. Cros. I am credibly informed so, indeed, Madam Joyner.
Mrs. Joyn. Well, I have discharged my conscience; good morrow to you both. [Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.—Mrs. Crossbite's Dining-room.
Enter Dapperwit and Ranger.
Dap. This is the cabinet in which I hide my jewel; a small house, in an obscure, little, retired street, too.
Ran. Vulgarly, an alley.
Dap. Nay, I hide my mistress with as much care as a spark of the town does his money from his dun after a good hand at play; and nothing but you could have wrought upon me for a sight of her, let me perish.
Ran. My obligation to you is great; do not lessen it by delays of the favour you promised.
Dap. But do not censure my honour; for if you had not been in a desperate condition,—for as one nail must beat out another, one poison expel another, one fire draw out another, one fit of drinking cure the sickness of another,—so, the surfeit you took last night of Christina's eyes shall be cured by Lucy's this morning; or as—
Ran. Nay, I bar more similitudes.
Dap. What, in my mistress's lodging? that were as hard as to bar a young parson in the pulpit, the fifth of November, railing at the Church of Rome; or as hard as to put you to bed to Lucy and defend you from touching her; or as—
Ran. Or as hard as to make you hold your tongue.—I shall not see your mistress, I see.
Dap. Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!—[Knocks at the door and returns.]—The devil take me, if good men (I say no more) have not been upon their knees to me, to see her, and you at last must obtain it.
Ran. I do not believe you.
Dap. 'Tis such as she; she is beautiful without affectation; amorous without impertinency; airy and brisk without impudence; frolic without rudeness; and, in a word, the justest creature breathing to her assignation.
Ran. You praise her as if you had a mind to part with her; and yet you resolve, I see, to keep her to yourself.
Dap. Keep her! poor creature, she cannot leave me; and rather than leave her, I would leave writing lampoons or sonnets almost.
Ran. Well, I'll leave you with her then.
Dap. What, will you go without seeing her?
Ran. Rather than stay without seeing her.
Dap. Yes, yes, you shall see her; but let me perish if I have not been offered a hundred guineas for a sight of her; by—I say no more.
Ran. [Aside.] I understand you now.—[Aloud.] If the favour be to be purchased, then I'll bid all I have about me for't.
Dap. Fy, fy, Mr. Ranger! you are pleasant, i'faith. Do you think I would sell the sight of my rarity?—like those gentlemen who hang out flags at Charing Cross, or like—
Ran. Nay, then I'm gone again.
Dap. What, you take it ill I refuse your money? rather than that should be, give us it; but take notice I will borrow it. Now I think on't, Lucy wants a gown and some knacks.
Ran. Here.
Dap. But I must pay it you again: I will not take it unless you engage your honour I shall pay it you again.
Ran. You must pardon me; I will not engage my honour for such a trifle. Go, fetch her out.
Dap. Well, she's a ravishing creature: such eyes and lips, Mr. Ranger!
Ran. Prithee go.
Dap. Such neck and breasts, Mr. Ranger!
Ran. Again, prithee go.
Dap. Such feet, legs, and thighs, Mr. Ranger!
Ran. Prithee let me see 'em.
Dap. And a mouth no bigger than your ring!—I need say no more.
Ran. Would thou wert never to speak again!
Dap. And then so neat, so sweet a creature in bed, that, to my knowledge, she does not change her sheets in half a year.
Ran. I thank you for that allay to my impatience.
Dap. Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy! Miss!—[Knocking at the door.
Ran. Will she not open? I am afraid my pretty miss is not stirring, and therefore will not admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's Conduit?[38]
Dap. Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in a morning! What if she should hear us? would you lose a mistress for a quibble? that's more than I could do, let me perish!—She's within, I hear her.
Ran. But she will not hear you; she's as deaf as if you were a dun or a constable.
Dap. Pish! give her but leave to gape, rub her eyes, and put on her day pinner; the long patch under the left eye; awaken the roses on her cheeks with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath with some lemon-peel; the doors fly off the hinges, and she into my arms. She knows there is as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain it; and 'tis a sign she values the conquest of my heart.
Ran. I thought her beauty had not stood in need of art.
Dap. Beauty's a coward still without the help of art, and may have the fortune of a conquest but cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no more be asunder than love and honour.
Ran. Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and judgment.
Dap. Don't you hear the door wag yet?
Ran. Not a whit.
Dap. Miss! miss! 'tis your slave that calls. Come, all this tricking for him!—Lend me your comb, Mr. Ranger.
Ran. No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are to set me off. You are in possession, I will not lend you arms to keep me out.
Dap. A pox! don't let me be ungrateful; if she has smugged herself up for me, let me prune and flounce my peruke a little for her. There's ne'er a young fellow in the town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse.
Ran. A wit's wig has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence.
Dap. But not in the presence of his mistress; 'tis a greater neglect of her than himself. Pray lend me your comb.
Ran. I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop's mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.
Dap. But don't you see every day, though a man have never so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and comb perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and will not receive you my partner.
Ran. Therefore you see I am setting up for myself. [Combs his peruke.
Dap. She comes, she comes!—pray, your comb. [Snatches Ranger's comb.
Enter Mrs. Crossbite.
Mrs. Cros. Bargain!—what, are you offering us to sale?
Dap. A pox! is't she?—Here take your comb again, then. [Returns the comb.
Mrs. Cros. Would you sell us? 'tis like you, y'fads.
Dap. Sell thee!—where should we find a chapman? Go, prithee, mother, call out my dear Miss Lucy.
Mrs. Cros. Your Miss Lucy! I do not wonder you have the conscience to bargain for us behind our backs, since you have the impudence to claim a propriety in us to my face.
Ran. How's this, Dapperwit?
Dap. Come, come, this gentleman will not think the worse of a woman for my acquaintance with her. He has seen me bring your daughter to the lure with a chiney-orange, from one side of the playhouse to the other.
Mrs. Cros. I would have the gentleman and you to know my daughter is a girl of reputation, though she has been seen in your company; but is now so sensible of her past danger, that she is resolved never more to venture her pitcher to the well, as they say.
Dap. How's that, widow? I wonder at your confidence.
Mrs. Cros. I wonder at your old impudence, that where you have had so frequent repulses you should provoke another, and bring your friend here to witness your disgrace.
Dap. Hark you, widow, a little.
Mrs. Cros. What, have you mortgaged my daughter to that gentleman; and now would offer me a snip to join in the security!
Dap. [Aside.] She overhead me talk of a bargain;—'twas unlucky.—[Aloud.] Your wrath is grounded upon a mistake; Miss Lucy herself shall be judge; call her out, pray.
Mrs. Cros. She shall not; she will not come to you.
Dap. Till I hear it from her own mouth, I cannot believe it.
Mrs. Cros. You shall hear her say't through the door.
Dap. I shall doubt it unless she say it to my face.
Mrs. Cros. Shall we be troubled with you no more then?
Dap. If she command my death, I cannot disobey her.
Mrs. Cros. Come out, child.
Enter Lucy, holding down her head.
Dap. Your servant, dearest miss: can you have—
Mrs. Cros. Let me ask her.
Dap. No, I'll ask her.
Ran. I'll throw up cross or pile[39] who shall ask her.
Dap. Can you have the heart to say you will never more break a cheese-cake with me at New Spring Garden,[40] the Neat-house, or Chelsea? never more sit in my lap at a new play? never more wear a suit of knots of my choice? and, last of all, never more pass away an afternoon with me again in the Green Garret?—do not forget the Green Garret.
Lucy. I wish I had never seen the Green Garret.—Damn the Green Garret!
Dap. Damn the Green Garret!—You are strangely altered!
Lucy. 'Tis you are altered.
Dap. You have refused Colby's Mulberry-garden, and the French houses, for the Green Garret; and a little something in the Green Garret pleased you more than the best treat the other places could yield; and can you of a sudden quit the Green Garret?
Lucy. Since you have a design to pawn me for the rent, 'tis time to remove my goods.
Dap. Thou art extremely mistaken.
Lucy. Besides, I have heard such strange things of you this morning.
Dap. What things?
Lucy. I blush to speak 'em.
Dap. I know my innocence, therefore take my charge as a favour. What have I done?
Lucy. Then know, vile wit, my mother has confessed just now thou wert false to me, to her too certain knowledge; and hast forced even her to be false to me too.
Dap. Faults in drink, Lucy, when we are not ourselves, should not condemn us.
Lucy. And now to let me out to hire like a hackney!—I tell you my own dear mother shall bargain for me no more; there are as little as I can bargain for themselves now-a-days, as well as properer women.
Mrs. Cros. Whispering all this while!—Beware of his snares again: come away, child.
Dap. Sweet, dear miss—
Lucy. Bargain for me!—you have reckoned without your hostess, as they say. Bargain for me! bargain for me! [Exit.
Dap. I must return, then, to treat with you.
Mrs. Cros. Treat me no treatings, but take a word for all. You shall no more dishonour my daughter, nor molest my lodgings, as you have done at all hours.
Dap. Do you intend to change 'em, then, to Bridewell, or Long's powdering-tub?[41]
Mrs. Cros. No, to a bailiff's house, and then you'll be so civil, I presume, as not to trouble us.
Ran. Here, will you have my comb again, Dapperwit?
Dap. A pox! I think women take inconstancy from me worse than from any man breathing.
Mrs. Cros. Pray, sir, forget me before you write your next lampoon. [Exit.
Enter Sir Simon Addleplot in the dress of a Clerk.—Ranger retires to the background.
Sir Sim. Have I found you? have I found you in your by-walks, faith and troth? I am almost out of breath in following you. Gentlemen when they get into an alley walk so fast, as if they had more earnest business there than in the broad streets.
Dap. [Aside.]—How came this sot hither? Fortune has sent him to ease my choler.—You impudent rascal, who are you, that dare intrude thus on us? [Strikes him.
Sir Sim. Don't you know me, Dapperwit? sure you know me. [Softly.
Dap. Will thou dishonour me with thy acquaintance too? thou rascally, insolent, pen-and-ink man. [Strikes him again.
Sir Sim. Oh! oh! sure you know me! pray know me. [Softly.
Dap. By thy saucy familiarity, thou shouldst be a marker at a tennis-court, a barber, or a slave that fills coffee.
Sir Sim. Oh! oh!
Dap. What art thou? [Kicks him.
Sir Sim. Nay, I must not discover myself to Ranger for a kick or two. Oh, pray hold, sir: by that you will know me. [Delivers him a letter.
Dap. How, Sir Simon!
Sir Sim. Mum, mum, make no excuses, man; I would not Ranger should have known me for five hundred—kicks.
Dap. Your disguise is so natural, I protest, it will excuse me.
Sir Sim. I know that, prithee make no excuses, I say. No ceremony between thee and I, man:—read the letter.
Dap. What, you have not opened it!
Sir Sim. Prithee, don't be angry, the seal is a little cracked: for I could not help kissing Mrs. Martha's letter. The word is, now or never. Her father she finds will be abroad all this day, and she longs to see your friend Sir Simon Addleplot:—faith 'tis a pretty jest; while I am with her, and praising myself to her at no ordinary rate. Let thee and I alone at an intrigue.
Dap. Tell her I will not fail to meet her at the place and time. Have a care of your charge; and manage your business like yourself, for yourself.
Sir Sim. I warrant you.
Dap. The gaining Gripe's daughter will make me support the loss of this young jilt here. [Aside.
Ran. [Coming forward.] What fellow's that?
Dap. A servant to a friend of mine.
Ran. Methinks he something resembles our acquaintance Sir Simon; but it is no compliment to tell him so: for that knight is the most egregious coxcomb that ever played with lady's fan.
Sir Sim. So! thanks to my disguise, I know my enemies! [Aside.
Ran. The most incorrigible ass, beyond the reproof of a kicking rival or a frowning mistress. But, if it be possible, thou dost use him worse than his mistress or rival can; thou dost make such a cully of him.
Sir Sim. Does he think so too? [Aside.
Dap. Go, friend, go about your business.—[Exit Sir Simon.] A pox! you would spoil all, just in the critical time of projection. He brings me here a summons from his mistress, to meet her in the evening; will you come to my wedding?
Ran. Don't speak so loud, you'll break poor Lucy's heart. Poor creature, she cannot leave you; and, rather than leave her, you would leave writing of lampoons or sonnets—almost.
Dap. Come, let her go, ungrateful baggage!—But now you talk of sonnets, I am no living wit if her love has not cost me two thousand couplets at least.
Ran. But what would you give, now, for a new satire against women, ready made?—'Twould be as convenient to buy satires against women ready made, as it is to buy cravats ready tied.
Dap. Or as—
Ran. Hey, come away, come away, Mr., or as—[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Room in Mrs. Crossbite's House.
Enter Mrs. Joyner and Gripe.
Gripe. Peace, plenty, and pastime be within these walls!
Mrs. Joyn. 'Tis a small house, you see, and mean furniture; for no gallants are suffered to come hither. She might have had ere now as good lodgings as any in town; her Mortlake[42] hangings, great glasses, cabinets, china, embroidered beds, Persia carpets, gold-plate, and the like, if she would have put herself forward. But your worship may please to make 'em remove to a place fit to receive one of your worship's quality; for this is a little scandalous, in truly.
Gripe. No, no; I like it well enough:—I am not dainty. Besides, privacy, privacy, Mrs. Joyner! I love privacy in opposition to the wicked, who hate it. [Looks about.
Mrs. Joyn. What do you look for, sir?
Gripe. Walls have ears; but, besides, I look for a private place to retire to, in time of need. Oh! here's one convenient. [Turns up a hanging, and discovers the slender provisions of the family.]
Mrs. Joyn. But you see, poor innocent souls, to what use they put it;—not to hide gallants.
Gripe. Temperance is the nurse of chastity.
Mrs. Joyn. But your worship may please to mend their fare; and, when you come, may make them entertain you better than, you see, they do themselves.
Gripe. No, I am not dainty, as I told you. I abominate entertainments;—no entertainments, pray, Mrs. Joyner.
Mrs. Joyn. No! [Aside.
Gripe. There can be no entertainment to me more luscious and savoury than communion with that little gentlewoman.—Will you call her out? I fast till I see her.
Mrs. Joyn. But, in truly, your worship, we should have brought a bottle or two of Rhenish and some Naples biscuit, to have entertained the young gentlewoman. 'Tis the mode for lovers to treat their mistresses.
Gripe. Modes! I tell you, Mrs. Joyner, I hate modes and forms.
Mrs. Joyn. You must send for something to entertain her with.
Gripe. Again entertaining!—we will be to each other a feast.
Mrs. Joyn. I shall be ashamed, in truly, your worship.—Besides, the young gentlewoman will despise you.
Gripe. I shall content her, I warrant you; leave it to me.
Mrs. Joyn. [Aside.] I am sure you will not content me, if you will not content her; 'tis as impossible for a man to love and be a miser, as to love and be wise, as they say.
Gripe. While you talk of treats, you starve my eyes; I long to see the fair one; fetch her hither.
Mrs. Joyn. I am ashamed she should find me so abominable a liar; I have so praised you to her, and, above all your virtues, your liberality; which is so great a virtue, that it often excuses youth, beauty, courage, wit, or anything.
Gripe. Pish, pish! 'tis the virtue of fools; every fool can have it.
Mrs. Joyn. And will your worship want it, then? I told her—
Gripe. Why would you tell her anything of me? you know I am a modest man. But come, if you will have me as extravagant as the wicked, take that and fetch us a treat, as you call it.
Mrs. Joyn. Upon my life a groat! what will this purchase?
Gripe. Two black pots of ale and a cake, at the cellar.—Come, the wine has arsenic in't.
Mrs. Joyn. [Aside.] Well, I am mistaken, and my hopes are abused: I never knew any man so mortified a miser, that he would deny his lechery anything; I must be even with thee then another way. [Exit.
Gripe. These useful old women are more exorbitant and craving in their desires than the young ones in theirs. These prodigals in white perukes spoil 'em both; and that's the reason, when the squires come under my clutches, I make 'em pay for their folly and mine, and 'tis but conscience:—oh, here comes the fair one at last!
Re-enter Mrs. Joyner leading in Lucy, who hangs backwards as she enters.
Lucy. Oh Lord, there's a man, godmother!
Mrs. Joyn. Come in, child, thou art so bashful—
Lucy. My mother is from home too, I dare not.
Mrs. Joyn. If she were here, she'd teach you better manners.
Lucy. I'm afraid she'd be angry.
Mrs. Joyn. To see you so much an ass.—Come along, I say.
Gripe. Nay, speak to her gently; if you won't, I will.
Lucy. Thank you, sir.
Gripe. Pretty innocent! there is, I see, one left of her age; what hap have I! Sweet little gentlewoman, come sit down by me.
Lucy. I am better bred, I hope, sir.
Gripe. You must sit down by me.
Lucy. I'd rather stand, if you please.
Gripe. To please me, you must sit, sweetest.
Lucy. Not before my godmother, sure.
Gripe. Wonderment of innocence!
Mrs. Joyn. A poor bashful girl, sir: I'm sorry she is not better taught.
Gripe. I am glad she is not taught; I'll teach her myself.
Lucy. Are you a dancing-master then, sir? But if I should be dull, and not move as you would have me, you would not beat me, sir, I hope?
Gripe. Beat thee, honeysuckle! I'll use thee thus, and thus, and thus. [Kisses her.] Ah, Mrs. Joyner, prithee go fetch our treat now.
Mrs. Joyn. A treat of a groat! I will not wag.
Gripe. Why don't you go? Here, take more money, and fetch what you will; take here, half-a-crown.
Mrs. Joyn. What will half-a-crown do?
Gripe. Take a crown then, an angel, a piece;[43]—begone!
Mrs. Joyn. A treat only will not serve my turn; I must buy the poor wretch there some toys.
Gripe. What toys? what? speak quickly.
Mrs. Joyn. Pendants, necklaces, fans, ribbons, points, laces, stockings, gloves—
Gripe. Hold, hold! before it comes to a gown.
Mrs. Joyn. Well remembered, sir; indeed she wants a gown, for she has but that one to her back. For your own sake you should give her a new gown, for variety of dresses rouses desire, and makes an old mistress seem every day a new one.
Gripe. For that reason she shall have no new gown; for I am naturally constant, and as I am still the same, I love she should be still the same. But here, take half a piece for the other things.
Mrs. Joyn. Half a piece!—
Gripe. Prithee, begone!—take t'other piece then—two pieces—three pieces—five! here, 'tis all I have.
Mrs. Joyn. I must have the broad-seal ring too, or I stir not.
Gripe. Insatiable woman! will you have that too! Prithee spare me that, 'twas my grandfather's.
Mrs. Joyn. That's false, he had ne'er a coat.—So! now I go; this is but a violent fit, and will not hold. [Aside.
Lucy. Oh! whither do you go, godmother? will you leave me alone?
Mrs. Joyn. The gentleman will not hurt you; you may venture yourself with him alone.
Lucy. I think I may, godmother.—[Exit Mrs. Joyner.] What! will you lock me in, sir? don't lock me in, sir. [Gripe, fumbling at the door, locks it.
Gripe. 'Tis a private lesson, I must teach you, fair.
Lucy. I don't see your fiddle, sir; where is your little kit?
Gripe. I'll show it thee presently, sweetest.—[Sets a chair against the door.]—Necessity, mother of invention!—Come, my dearest. [Takes her in his arms.
Lucy. What do you mean, sir? don't hurt me, sir, will you—Oh! oh! you will kill me! Murder! murder!—Oh! oh!—help! help! oh!
The door is broken open; enter Mrs. Crossbite, and her Landlord, and his 'Prentice, in aprons.
Mrs. Cros. What, murder my daughter, villain!
Lucy. I wish he had murdered me.—Oh! oh!
Mrs. Cros. What has he done?
Lucy. Why would you go out, and leave me alone? unfortunate woman that I am!
Gripe. How now, what will this end in? [Aside.
Mrs. Cros. Who brought him in?
Lucy. That witch, that treacherous false woman, my godmother, who has betrayed me, sold me to his lust.—Oh! oh!—
Mrs. Cros. Have you ravished my daughter, then, you old goat? ravished my daughter!—ravished my daughter! speak, villain.
Gripe. By yea and by nay, no such matter.
Mrs. Cros. A canting rogue, too! Take notice, landlord, he has ravished my daughter, you see her all in tears and distraction; and see there the wicked engine of the filthy execution.—[Pointing to the chair.]—Jeremy, call up the neighbours, and the constable,—False villain! thou shalt die for it.
Gripe. Hold! hold!—[Aside.]—Nay, I am caught.
Mrs. Cros. Go, go, make haste—
Lucy. Oh! oh!—
Mrs. Cros. Poor wretch!—Go quickly.
Gripe. Hold! hold!—Thou young spawn of the old serpent! wicked, as I thought thee innocent! wilt thou say I would have ravished thee?
Lucy. I will swear you did ravish me.
Gripe. I thought so, treacherous Eve!—then I am gone, I must shift as well as I can.
Lucy. Oh! oh!—
Mrs. Cros. Will none of you call up the neighbours, and the authority of the alley?
Gripe. Hold, I'll give you twenty mark[44] among you to let me go.
Mrs. Cros. Villain! nothing shall buy thy life.
Land. But stay, Mrs. Crossbite, let me talk with you.
Lucy. Oh! oh!—
Land. Come, sir, I am your friend:—in a word, I have appeased her, and she shall be contented with a little sum.
Gripe. What is it? what is it?
Land. But five hundred pounds.
Gripe. But five hundred pounds!—hang me then, hang me rather.
Land. You will say I have been your friend.
Pren. The constable and neighbours are a-coming.
Gripe. How, how; will you not take a hundred? pray use conscience in your ways. [Kneels to Mrs. Crossbite.
Mrs. Cros. I scorn your money! I will not take a thousand.
Gripe. [Aside.] My enemies are many, and I shall be a scandal to the faithful, as a laughing-stock to the wicked.—[Aloud.] Go, prepare your engines for my persecution; I'll give you the best security I can.
Land. The instruments are drawing in the other room, if you please to go thither.
Mrs. Cros. Indeed, now I consider, a portion will do my daughter more good than his death. That would but publish her shame; money will cover it—probatum est, as they say. Let me tell you, sir, 'tis a charitable thing to give a young maid a portion. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—Lydia's Lodging.
Enter Lydia and Lady Flippant, attended by Leonore.
Lyd. 'Tis as hard for a woman to conceal her indignation from her apostate lover, as to conceal her love from her faithful servant.
L. Flip. Or almost as hard as it is for the prating fellows now-a-days to conceal the favours of obliging ladies.
Lyd. If Ranger should come up, (I saw him just now in the street,) the discovery of my anger to him now would be as mean as the discovery of my love to him before.
L. Flip. Though I did so mean a thing as to love a fellow, I would not do so mean a thing as to confess it, certainly, by my trouble to part with him. If I confessed love, it should be before they left me.
Lyd. So you would deserve to be left, before you were. But could you ever do so mean a thing as to confess love to any?
L. Flip. Yes; but I never did so mean a thing as really to love any.
Lyd. You had once a husband.
L. Flip. Fy! madam, do you think me so ill bred as to love a husband?
Lyd. You had a widow's heart, before you were a widow, I see.
L. Flip. I should rather make an adventure of my honour with a gallant for a gown, a new coach, a necklace, than clap my husband's cheeks for them, or sit in his lap. I should be as ashamed to be caught in such a posture with a husband, as a brisk well-bred spark of the town would be to be caught on his knees at prayers—unless to his mistress.
Enter Ranger and Dapperwit.
Lyd. Mr. Ranger, 'twas obligingly done of you.
Ran. Indeed, cousin, I had kept my promise with you last night, but this gentleman knows—
Lyd. You mistake me; but you shall not lessen any favour you do to me. You are going to excuse your not coming to me last night, when I take it as a particular obligation, that though you threatened me with a visit, upon consideration you were so civil as not to trouble me.
Dap. This is an unlucky morning with me! here's my eternal persecution, the widow Flippant. [Aside.
L. Flip. What, Mr. Dapperwit! [Dapperwit retires to the back of the stage, followed by Lady Flippant.
Ran. Indeed, cousin, besides my business, another cause I did not wait on you was, my apprehension you were gone to the Park, notwithstanding your promise to the contrary.
Lyd. Therefore, you went to the Park to visit me there, notwithstanding your promise to the contrary?
Ran. Who, I at the Park! when I had promised to wait upon you at your lodging! But were you at the Park, madam?
Lyd. Who, I at the Park! when I had promised to wait for you at home! I was no more at the Park than you were. Were you at the Park?
Ran. The Park had been a dismal desert to me, notwithstanding all the good company in it, if I had wanted yours.
Lyd. [Aside.] Because it has been the constant endeavour of men to keep women ignorant, they think us so; but 'tis that increases our inquisitiveness, and makes us know them ignorant as false. He is as impudent a dissembler as the widow Flippant, who is making her importunate addresses in vain, for aught I see.
[Lady Flippant comes forward, driving Dapperwit from one side of the stage to the other.
L. Flip. Dear Mr. Dapperwit! merciful Mr. Dapperwit!
Dap. Unmerciful Lady Flippant!
L. Flip. Will you be satisfied?
Dap. Won't you be satisfied?
L. Flip. That a wit should be jealous; that a wit should be jealous! there's never a brisk young fellow in the town, though no wit, Heaven knows, but thinks too well of himself, to think ill of his wife or mistress. Now, that a wit should lessen his opinion of himself;—for shame!
Dap. I promised to bring you off, but I find it enough to shift for myself—[Softly, apart to Ranger.
Lyd. What! out of breath, madam!
L. Flip. I have been defending our cause, madam; I have beat him out of the pit. I do so mumble these prating, censorious fellows they call wits, when I meet with them.
Dap. Her ladyship, indeed, is the only thing in petticoats I dread. 'Twas well for me there was company in the room; for I dare no more venture myself with her alone, than a cully that has been bit dares venture himself in a tavern with an old rook.
L. Flip. I am the revenger of our sex, certainly.
Dap. And the most insatiable one I ever knew, madam; I dare not stand your fury longer.—Mr. Ranger, I will go before and make a new appointment with your friends that expect you at dinner at the French-house; 'tis fit business still wait on love.
Ran. Do so—but now I think on't, Sir Thomas goes out of town this afternoon, and I shall not see him here again these three months.
Lyd. Nay, pray take him with you, sir.
L. Flip. No, sir, you shall not take the gentleman from his mistress.—[Aside to Dapperwit.] Do not go yet, sweet Mr. Dapperwit.
Lyd. Take him with you, sir; I suppose his business may be there to borrow or win money, and I ought not to be his hindrance: for when he has none, he has his desperate designs upon that little I have;—for want of money makes as devout lovers as Christians.
Dap. I hope, madam, he offers you no less security than his liberty.
Lyd. His liberty is as poor a pawn to take up money on as honour. He is like the desperate bankrupts of this age, who, if they can get people's fortunes into their hands, care not though they spend them in jail all their lives.
L. Flip. And the poor crediting ladies, when they have parted with their money, must be contented with a pitiful composition, or starve, for all them.
Ran. But widows are commonly so wise as to be sure their men are solvable before they trust 'em.
L. Flip. Can you blame 'em! I declare I will trust no man. Pray, do not take it ill, gentlemen: quacks in their bills, and poets in the titles of their plays, do not more disappoint us, than gallants with their promises; but I trust none.
Dap. Nay, she's a very Jew in that particular. To my knowledge, she'll know her man, over and over again, before she trust him.
Ran. Well, my dearest cousin, good-morrow. When I stay from you so long again, blame me to purpose, and be extremely angry; for nothing can make me amends for the loss of your company, but your reprehension of my absence. I'll take such a chiding as kindly as Russian wives do beating.
Lyd. If you were my husband, I could not take your absence more kindly than I do.
Ran. And if you were my wife, I would trust you as much out of my sight as I could, to show my opinion of your virtue.
L. Flip. A well-bred gentleman, I warrant.—Will you go then, cruel Mr. Dapperwit? [Exeunt Ranger and Dapperwit, followed by Lady Flippant.
Lyd. Have I not dissembled well, Leonore?
Leo. But, madam, to what purpose? why do you not put him to his trial, and see what he can say for himself?
Lyd. I am afraid lest my proofs, and his guilt, should make him desperate, and so contemn that pardon which he could not hope for.
Leo. 'Tis unjust to condemn him before you hear him.
Lyd. I will reprieve him till I have more evidence.
Leo. How will you get it?
Lyd. I will write him a letter in Christina's name, desiring to meet him; when I shall soon discover if his love to her be of a longer standing than since last night; and if it be not, I will not longer trust him with the vanity to think she gave him the occasion to follow her home from the Park; so will at once disabuse him and myself.
Leo. What care the jealous take in making sure of ills which they, but in imagination, cannot undergo!
Lyd.
Misfortunes are least dreadful when most near:
'Tis less to undergo the ill, than fear. [Exeunt.