THE LADY's REVENGE: OR, The ROVER Reclaim'd. A COMEDY. As it is Acted at the THEATRE ROYAL in Covent-Garden.
LONDON: Printed for J. BRINDLEY at the King's-Arms, New Bond-Street, Bookbinder to her Majeſty, and his Royal Highneſs the Prince of Wales. And Sold by A. DODD, without Temple-Bar; J. ROBERTS, in Warwick-Lane; J. WILFORD, behind the Chapter-Houſe, St. Paul's Church-Yard; and E. NUTT, at the Royal-Exchange. M.DCC.XXXIV.
TO His ROYAL HIGHNESS The PRINCE.
[]THE Advantage, which a Nation reaps from an Encouragement gi⯑ven, by Princes, to Letters in general, cannot be unknown to your Royal Highneſs, whoſe extenſive Knowledge in all Parts of Hiſtory, would make it the higheſt Piece of Preſumption in me to pretend to quote Au⯑thorities to ſhew, what Altera⯑tions [] the Study or Neglect of Letters have cauſed in the ſame People.
Your Royal Highneſs's Good⯑neſs in being graciouſly pleaſed to accept the Dedication of the following Scenes, ſhews not only how much your Royal High⯑neſs has at Heart the Advance⯑ment of Learning in general, but of that Branch in particu⯑lar, whoſe End is to expoſe the Vices, and ridicule the Follies of Mankind.
I could have wiſh'd this firſt Attempt had been an Offering more worthy of the high Pro⯑tection it receives from your Royal Highneſs's Name. But Comedy, tho' not the nobleſt Production of the Mind, is not [] the leaſt unuſeful; and it is ſuf⯑ficient if there is a Tendency towards doing Good, in any Work, to make that Work ap⯑pear deſerving in your Royal Highneſs's Eye.
This being the only Merit I pretend to, I beg Leave, as the moſt grateful Heart always feels more than it can expreſs, to be allow'd to return my moſt dutiful Acknowledgments by an inward Conſciouſneſs of that profound Truth, Reſpect, and Gratitude, with which I am,
PREFACE TO THE READER.
[]THE diſcontinuing the acting of a Play, that has been well re⯑ceived by the Town in general, at a Time when it might have gone on, makes it neceſſary to give ſome Account of what has paſt ſince the firſt Night of its Re⯑preſentation, and of the Motives that made the Author put a Stop to its Run.
A Report having been maliciouſly raiſed, and induſtriouſly ſpread all over the Town, that the Play was a Party Play, and ſupported by the Court, and therefore to be oppoſed, Numbers of Perſons came into the Houſe with an Intent, (as the Term is) to damn it at all Events.
[] Thus determin'd, they took hold of every little Slip that,
and were very clamorous: However, the Play having had a fair Hearing, went off with infinitely more Applauſe than Blame.
The Second Night the particular Things objected to, being taken out, the Play was acted from Beginning to End, without one ſingle Mark of Diſplea⯑ſure in the Audience.
The Third Night it went off in the ſame Manner, to the moſt numerous and ſplendid Audience that could be ſeen.
The Fourth Night a Set of about eight or ten young Fellows went to the Bedford Coffee-Houſe in the Piazza, and declared publickly that they came purpoſely to damn the Play, and would not leave the Play-houſe till they had compaſſed their Ends. The ſame De⯑claration they repeated when in the Houſe to ſome Gentlemen that wero there, [] Friends (but unknown to them) to the Author.
Accordingly Mr. Ryan coming on to ſpeak the Prologue, they began their Up⯑roar, but were ſoon ſilenced, and the Prologue was heard with Applauſe: The Play beginning, they began again, and were ſo loud that Mr. Ryan ac⯑quainted them, that as he could not ima⯑gine there was any thing in the Play they could except againſt, he was appre⯑henſive he had the Misfortune to diſ⯑pleaſe them. Mr. Quin then came on, and told them he found the Houſe was divided, and as the Majority was for hearing the Play, he hop'd thoſe who were not, would go out. The Houſe on that were unanimous, and cry'd, Turn them out, Turn them out, but they ſaved the Audience the Trouble of doing it, and retired under the general Hiſs of every Perſon then preſent: After which the Play went on without the leaſt Diſturbance.
The Author having reflected that Malice, tho' it could do the Play no Hurt, might affect Mr. Rich, by keeping Per⯑ſons [] from the Houſe, who have no great Reliſh for Noiſe, choſe rather to diſ⯑continue the further acting of the Play, and to refer himſelf to the Judgment of every impartial Reader, to whom he freely commits it, being determin'd as frankly to acknowledge any real Fault found with it, as to juſtify it, if cenſur'd without Reaſon.
The Author cannot conclude, without declaring how much he thinks himſelf obliged to every Actor for the Care taken in the acting it, and more particularly to thoſe who having the principal Parts to perform, had an Opportunity to exert themſelves, as they did, in the moſt ſa⯑tisfactory Manner.
PROLOGUE.
[]EPILOGUE.
[]EPILOGUE
[]Dramatis Perſonae.
[]- Sir Harry Lovejoy.
- Mr. Ryan.
- Heartly.
- Mr. Walker.
- Sir Lively Brainleſs.
- Mr. Chapman.
- Tom.
- Mr. Salway.
- Lady Traffick.
- Mrs. Hallam.
- Angelina.
- Mrs. Buchanan.
- Laetitia Lovejoy.
- Mrs. Bullock.
- Betty.
- Mrs. Younger.
- Jenny.
- Miſs Norſa.
[] THE LADY's REVENGE: OR, The ROVER Reclaim'd.
ACT I.
A Lovely Morn! How gay the Pro⯑ſpect from this Window! The Park is now in all its Glory. How ſweet the Air! Methinks, I feel myſelf renew'd. Let me indulge a while. This vernal Breath awakes my Senſes, gives Vi⯑gour to my Underſtanding. O Joy, thou neceſſa⯑ry Friend to Human Minds! Without thee, what were Life, attended even with all its Sweets! And yet how ſmall a Part of Life doſt thou fill up!
What a ſubjected Thing is Man!—How ſoon he changes? A Breath of Wind too hot or cold; an ill-digeſted Meal, a Wiſh unſatisfy'd, in a Moment ſhall deſtroy this happy Turn of Mind.—And then—the Morn no [2] longer lovely, the Proſpect dull—taſteleſs the Air!—If it was not for dear Woman.
Sir, Mr. Heartly is come to Town, and deſires to know when he may wait on you.
Ha! Heartly come to Town! I am glad on't. Here, Tom, my Service, and tell him the ſooner he comes the better.—An honeſt Fel⯑low, this Heartly, but a little too ſcrupulous. He denies himſelf the Pleaſures of Life, from a Notion, that unleſs the Law has preſcrib'd the Manner of uſing them, they ought not to be enjoy'd.
Good Morrow, Brother; I want ſome Diſcourſe with you: But you are ſo eternally taken up, there's not an Hour free, to give Audience to a Siſter. I come to talk with you, about your Be⯑haviour of late.
Pr'ythee, Laetitia, don't affect Gra⯑vity. It becomes you as ill—
As it does you. But this is an Affair that requires a ſerious Anſwer, which I deſire therefore you'll give me. What do you mean by your Ad⯑dreſſes to Angelina? Do you really love her; or is it mere Gallantry?
Before I give you a ſerious Anſwer, I muſt deſire to know the Reaſon of your aſking.
I won't tell him Angelina has diſcover'd her Paſſion for him to me; that would be unfair; nor ſhou'd I like to be ſerv'd ſo myſelf.
—Nay, nothing but Curioſity. You ſeem, of late, con⯑trary to your uſual Cuſtom, to be very particular to her, among other Ladies; and I own I love her ſo, that I cou'd wiſh our Friendſhip were cement⯑ed yet cloſer. That's all.
Well, Siſter, to deal frankly with you, as much as I can love, I love Angelina. She has Youth, Beauty, good Senſe, and Fortune; but ſo have a thouſand other Women. Now whe⯑ther theſe will always pleaſe in Angelina, as much as they do now, or whether I ſhall not want to try, if theſe Perfections will not pleaſe more in other Women,—Gad, I can't tell.—I'm of ſuch a fluctuating Temper, I can't anſwer for my⯑ſelf long.—At preſent, I own I ſee her with a Lover's Eye.
Well, that's enough for me! 'Tis Ange⯑lina's Buſineſs to keep you conſtant, when once ſhe gets you.
I hope then you're ſatisfy'd. And now, Siſter, give me Leave in my Turn to queſtion you.—But firſt I muſt tell you Heartly is come to Town.
What does he mean?—Bro⯑ther, I can't ſtay now: Some other Time. I muſt dreſs myſelf to meet Angelina. We are to go to the Auction together.
Nay, I ſhan't keep you long: I've only one Queſtion to aſk you.
Sir, Mr. Heartly's below.
Shew him up.
Let me be gone. I would not for the World he ſhould ſee me thus.
Methinks, you're well enough dreſs'd.
O fye, how can you ſay ſo?
Ah, Laetitia, this Delicacy diſcovers what you wou'd conceal.
I don't care what it diſcovers, ſo I get away. O Lud, I hear him coming. I won't ſtay one Moment.
My deareſt Heartly, I am overjoy'd to ſee you.
I do aſſure you, Sir Harry, I thought the Time long on many Accounts. But will you forgive me an abrupt Queſtion? Was not that your Siſter that left you, as I came up? I got a Glimpſe as ſhe ſhot along, and thought it was that dear Figure, whoſe Reſemblance, ſtill freſh in my Memory, during my Retirement, ever kept me Company.
It was indeed. But ſhe was not well dreſs'd enough; ſhe wanted a Pin, or a Patch, I ſuppoſe, or ſome ſuch important Matter. A fooliſh Maxim in the Sex, Ned, always to ap⯑pear to the beſt Advantage before Marriage. It makes the Difference but too ſenſible after, when we ſee and feel the Neglect.
The Reaſon of her going was however kind. But tell me, Sir Harry, are you a little more reconcil'd to old England than you was, when we laſt parted? Have our pretty Country⯑women made any Impreſſion on your Heart?
My Heart, Ned, was ever ſoft, and will, like Wax, as eaſily take as loſe an Impreſ⯑ſion. But I'm ſuch a Convert to my Country⯑women's Charms, that I think they want nothing but a little more Gaiety and Life to make them as much more agreeable, as they are already more beautiful than thoſe of other Nations.
This is ſomething. I am pleas'd to ſee you can do Juſtice to your own Country.
Pr'ythee, dear Ned, for once lay aſide thy Partiality to thy own Country. Look upon thyſelf as a Foreigner. That done, obſerve our charming Countrywomen, at a Viſit or a Play; ſee how they ſit with their Hands rivetted to their [5] Fans, and plac'd juſt in the Centre of their pretty Perſons; motionleſs, unleſs it be to diſplay the Furbelows of that little Engine, and as ſilent.
You are the firſt that ever complain'd of that.
I'd have 'em ſpeak in every Geſture. Give me a Woman, whoſe very Air and Manner ſpeak, and are a tacit Confeſſion that they have—
Have—what?
What? Why as much Inclination as Power to charm.
And have you found none ſuch? How did Sir Peregrine's Lady prove? I think I left you hot in that charitable Purſuit. I don't expect to find you ſo now?
Why faith, Ned, it wou'd be odd if you did. A beautiful Woman is like a well-wrote Book, every Leaf you turn over, at firſt affords new Pleaſure; but when you're forc'd to read it daily, from one End to the other, you'll find but little Inclination to begin again.
You're witty, Sir. But is this Argument only to hold good for the Men? Have not Women the ſame Plea for Inconſtancy?
Ah, Friend! That it was but ſo! How happy ſhould we be! But there's a Fatality in the Way of loving, of the two Sexes, that renders both miſerable. Enjoyment leſſens our Paſſion, and increaſes theirs.
Then you was ſucceſsful? And now, like a reſtleſs Tyrant, deſpiſe your Conqueſt, and ſeek for new Acquiſitions.
Succeſsful! Ay, that I was, to tell you a Secret, long before honeſt Sir Peregrine took a Bargain off my Hands, that began to puzzle me a little how to diſpoſe of.
How, Sir Harry!
In few Words then, thus: Lady Traf⯑fick, [6] then Lucia Bellfaſt, old Colonel Bellfaſt's Daughter, was very pretty, I very amorous. Our Neighbourhood gave me many Opportunities of ſeeing her, which I improv'd, till at laſt I found myſelf tenderly beloved. I caught the Infection too, and doated on her; promiſed Marriage; which I intended to execute. The Saints in Hea⯑ven, and her Maid, were Witneſſes to my Vows. Lucia thought the Security good, and delivered into my Arms the lovelieſt Perſon they had ever held. With Joy we often met, and with Reluc⯑tance parted, curſing the Day that came ſo ſoon, and oblig'd me to diſappear, before any of the Family was up, but the truſty Maid. Much about this Time Sir Peregrine came down to Lucia's Fa⯑ther, fell in Love with the Daughter, aſk'd her of him, and obtain'd her. She wou'd have declar'd our Affair, to avoid a Match ſhe hated, and to have been mine, as I had promis'd; but having no great Stomach to the Match, and finding ſhe wou'd not ſuffer in her Reputation by the Affair, I advis'd her to accept the Gentleman's Offer, in ſuch a Manner, that ſhe ſaw ſhe muſt, or be un⯑done. I own 'twas unkind.—She did not ſee me for a long Time after ſhe was married, and, I believe, never wou'd, had not her Huſband's Affairs call'd him abroad.
And ſo, not content with forcing this fond Creature to give her Vows to a Man ſhe hated, you forc'd her too, to violate thoſe very Vows, and—
Hold, Ned, not ſo faſt. I did all I cou'd, indeed, but ſhe was obſtinate, and never wou'd. It was in vain to alledge former Intima⯑cies; ſhe wept, and anſwer'd me with her Huſband, her Huſband, at ever Word. Is it not odd, Ned, a Woman ſhou'd be conſtant to a Man ſhe hates, and refuſe one ſhe loves?
It may ſeem ſo to you. But People that think there is ſomething beſide Paſſion, that ought to be liſten'd to, may, perhaps, be of a different Opinion. But now you mention her Huſband, pray what's become of him?
Gone.
Gone! What do you mean, Sir?
Why gone—Gone to Heaven, Man.
What dead!
Ay, Sir.—And the generous, good⯑natur'd Creature, left his Widow all he had: If he had not, it would have been a heavy Tax on me.
'Twas generous indeed. I heard he was a worthy Man.
Yes, faith, too worthy to make a Cuckold of.
Pr'ythee, be ſerious.
Why then, in few Words,—her Huſband, Sir Peregrine's private Affairs, oblig'd him to go to Leghorn. Theſe very private Affairs oblig'd him to leave that Place ſoon after, and make a ſhort Voyage. Short, indeed, it was; for the Ship and Crew were all caſt away on the Coaſt of Barbary, near Sallee. Like a prudent Man, he had made his Will before he went, and thus my Lady Traffick became a young and rich Widow. Now, Ned, you know a Woman can't hold out for ever againſt a Man ſhe loves. Her Huſband's Death left her without any Excuſe, and her own Heart pleaded ſtrongly for me. Then ſhe hop'd too to make me more than ever fond, and like a fond Fool marry her. She took the wrong Method.—However our Commerce, which now I am very ſorry for, was renewed again; again ſhe truſted me, and was again deceiv'd.
So ſoon cool!
I ſhould be tir'd of an Angel, unleſs ſhe cou'd vary her Form. Like Ovid, I'm for the [8] black, the fair, the plump, the lean, the tall, the ſhort. All, all.—To be plain, I never ſaw a Woman, but had ſomething pleaſing in her.
Still wild and inconſtant!
Ay, faith. And when I grow other⯑wiſe, it muſt be for a very bad Reaſon. Why, Sir, to ſhew you what a Man of Buſineſs I am, I have at preſent an honourable Affair upon my Hands, which does not hinder me from amuſing myſelf with my Miſtreſs's Woman.
Thou art a bold Lover, faith.
Pſha, pſha, Women don't like one the worſe for that.
But who is it that has kindled this honour⯑able Flame in your Breaſt?
One that might warm a Hermit's frozen Breaſt. Angelina.
My Lord Lovewell's Daughter. I think ſhe's an only Child. She muſt be rich.
Ay, Sir, ſhe wants for nothing. Then, Sir, I have, which with all my Soul I wiſh I had not, this Lady Traffick, as troubleſome as a Dun. when a Man has nothing to pay.—But this does not hinder me from laying cloſe Siege to another, who is on the Point of dropping into my Arms, Young and pretty as an Angel.
But can this Angel vary her Form?
Time enough for that yet. She's a Virgin. O Ned, there's ſomething ſo charming in the firſt Struggles of a young and yielding Heart!—We quarrelled laſt Night, which I am confident will advance my Affair more than the moſt favourable Opportunity wou'd.
Well, Sir, you are an Adept in the Myſ⯑tery of Love. For my Part, I have but one Heart, and find one Miſtreſs fills it quite up. Your Siſter, Sir Harry, holds me at full Play. I came to Town once more, in order to try my Fate.
I wiſh you Succeſs with all my Heart.
Sir Lively, Sir, come to wait on you.
Cou'd the Coxcomb take no other Time? I wou'd enjoy thy Company now. Well, ſhew him up. Do you know him, Heartly?
I had ſome ſmall Acquaintance with him before he went abroad.
A travell'd Coxcomb, with great good Nature, and very little Senſe, by which you may judge of the Improvement he has made. A Scrap of a French Song, and a Coupee after Marcels, ſum up his whole Character. Oh, here he is.
Good Morrow, Knight. Mr. Heartly—This Rencontre is indeed fortunate. Sir, I am totally yours.—Hey, what's the Matter? Sir Harry, you look out of Sorts, diſcompos'd, or, as one might ſay, Piqué.
Piqué.
Ay, piqué. Why, I own, I was a little ſevere upon you laſt Night before your Miſ⯑treſs; nay, and with her too. Angelina and I jok'd away. Ah Knight! 'Tis a witty Rogue.
Ay, Sir, ſo it ſeems, by the Choice ſhe made of you to be witty with.
'T was prudently done. She'd a Mind to have all the Wit to herſelf.
Prettily ſaid! Now, by this Light, tho' he calls one Fool, I can't be angry with him.
Heartly, thou haſt Wit too. Well, I think [10] there are not three prettier Fellows in England. Pr'ythee let's from a Triumvirate together, and proſcribe. I love proſcribing dearly. We'll ba⯑niſh all Coxcombs out of the Mall.
Not all, Sir Lively.
Thou ſhalt ſave a Friend, or ſo. All elſe.
And the Women! What will you do with them, Sir Lively?
Sir Harry ſhall take Care of them. He has made the Sex his Study. He is a great Connoiſſeur that Way. He knows a Whore from a modeſt Woman, by her Looks only. Now, I am not ſo deep learn'd; for I think there's nothing ſo like a modeſt Woman as a Whore; and I am very apt to miſtake one for t'other.
'Twas a curs'd Miſtake, Sir Lively, you made at Paris.
Mum for that, dear Knight; ſpare your Friend.
Nay, no whiſpering, Sir. Come, come, what was that Miſtake, Sir Harry?
Pſha, a mere Trifle. A Lady of Qua⯑lity in France, that was deeply in Love with Sir Lively, deſir'd him to walk thro'a Common Sewer at Midnight, in order to ſkreen him from the Fury of an incens'd Huſband, who unluckily re⯑turning from Verſailles, had like to have ſurpriz'd him dans la Ruelle de Madam.
'Twas unlucky indeed. But I hope, Sir Lively, you had been before-hand with him, and ha—ha—ha Rogue!
Why faith, Ned, ſhe was kind! 'Twas a dear Wench, ſplit me.
The Knight ſays true. What with the Loſs of his Cloaths, and Purſe, and Surgeon's Bill, I believe it might have coſt him about—let me ſee,—How many hundred Livres was it, Sir Lively?
S'life, he'll tell all, and I ſhall loſe my Reputation with Heartly.—Her Huſband was a damn'd Debauchée, a Man of Quality! A Wife that has ſuch a Huſband, you know, is never ſafe. Faith, ſhe made me weep to ſee the Concern ſhe was under on my Account. She never minded herſelf, not ſhe.
That I dare ſwear. She was too wel ſeaſon'd.
Well, well, you will have your Jeſt. Nay, I can bear a Jeſt from a Friend. Sir Harry, where do you dine to Day?
Come, come, that ſha'nt ſave you. Heartly ſhall know all. This Lady's Huſband, this Man of Quality, this damn'd Debauchée—
Pox on him, I ſhall be quite undone, quite ruin'd.
Appeared in the Tuilleries the next Day, in the very Suit this jilting Whore, this Lady of Quality, I mean, had robb'd Sir Lively of, and was miſtaken for him, by all the Engliſh of his Ac⯑quaintance.
How's this, Sir Lively!
Falſe, by this Light. Sir Harry's a Railleur, and is angry with me, becauſe I'm better with Angelina than he. But I'll be even with him. I know what I know. Are you for a Turn in the Park this Morning, Gentlemen.
I would with all my Heart. But Sir Harry and I have ſome little Buſineſs.
Your Pardon, for having been thus long troubleſome. We ſhall meet anon at Ange⯑lina's. Sir Harry, I intend to dine there. I am welcome at all Hours. I receive vaſt Encourage⯑ment from her. But I won't teize you longer. Adieu.—Nay, you ſha'nt ſtir.
I'll but wait on you to the Door.
Not a Step—by my Soul's ſoft Paſ⯑ſion.—Adieu, my Dears.
At length we have ſhook off this Cox⯑comb. But he has ſtaid ſo long, I have not Time to enjoy thy Company now. I muſt to Lady Traffick's, who keeps me to as ſtrict Attendance, as if, 'fore Gad, I was her Huſband.
And pray, Sir Harry, how d'you intend to diſpoſe of this Lady?
Why, faith, Ned, I am a little puzzled as to that, I have not Ill-nature enough to for⯑ſake her, nor Complaiſance enough to forſake my Pleaſures for her. She knows my Love is at its loweſt Ebb; and that there is little left but Grati⯑tude to keep it alive. And ſince that Time, what have I not ſuffer'd? To give you a Sketch of my Life with her, Each Day I ſee her, and each Day am regularly entertain'd with the ſame Reproaches.—I hear myſelf accus'd as Author of her Ruin; my own Words, Words, which at certain Mo⯑ments in my firſt Paſſion's Heat, or when com⯑pell'd by the fond Queſtion, Do you love, and will you ever love me?—Words, which, indeed, I may have ſaid, quoted back and retorted as ſo many Proofs of my Inconſtancy. In ſhort, my Temper's quite broke, quite wearied out with ſtruggling. Neither Company nor Friends divert me. Were I to conſult her Humour, I ſhould never be from her. When I but miſs a Day, there's no End of her upbraiding. A Recapitulation of all that has paſs'd, from the firſt Moment of our Acquaintance, as ſurely follows, as ſuch Recapitulation is follow'd by Tears, Threats, Paſſion, Hope, Deſpair, each in their Turn.
But I think you mention'd a Promiſe of Marriage. Her Huſband's Death leaves that Pro⯑miſe ſtill open, and renews the Juſtice of her Claim.
You would adviſe me, then, to marry my—
I know your Meaning—your—Give me Leave to aſk you one ſerious Queſtion.
Let it be a ſhort one.
Does your Conſcience never reproach you?
Hold, Friend. If you love me, touch not that String. It founds harſh. I myſelf avoid to touch it.
I've done. Time, and your own good Senſe, will make you reflect.
Ay, ay, Time's the beſt Remedy for Diſtempers of this kind. Age and Impotence is your only Specific for an Amorous Conſtitution. But I muſt leave you now, Friend. It will be E⯑vening before I can ſee you. Till then adieu. At Angelina's.
I'll meet you. Adieu, Sir Harry.
ACT II.
[14]NO News of Laetitia yet? She promis'd to come before this Time. Betty, what's o' Clock?
Mem, you've your Watch by your Side.
Lord, that's true. I forgot it, I proteſt. Well, I've the ſtrangeſt Memory!
Ah, Mem, our Memory's very apt to leave us, when ſomething pertic'lar takes up all our Thoughts.
Something pertic'lar!
Nay, Mem, I beg your Ladiſhip's Par⯑don. I'm but a Servant; and Servants ſhou'd ſee no farther than their Miſtreſſes pleaſe: but they will make Remarks ſometimes.
They will ſo, ha? And—what may your wiſe Remarks infer, if I may be ſo bold?
Why, Mem, when your Ladiſhip ſpills your Tea, and ſcalds your Fingers, or beats your Dog for not making a Noiſe; when your Ladiſhip ſighs, looks penſive, and talks to yourſelf, I con⯑clude your Ladiſhip's in Love.
A very wiſe Concluſion, truly. And pray, Mem, has not your penetrating Brain diſcover'd the Object of my Affections?
O dear Mem! But will your Ladiſhip for⯑give me if I tell my Conjectures? Well, he's the [15] ſweeteſt and moſt inſinuating Gentleman; he's a Man for my Money.
He! What He? Whom does the Crea⯑ture mean?
Mean, Mem! Who can I mean, but Sir Harry.
Sir Harry!—The Wench makes me uneaſy. I don't know what to think of her Talk.—You ſeem mighty well acquainted with his Merit.
Better than ſhe imagines. She'd be glad to know as much of him as I do, for all her demure Looks. Well, I'm reſolv'd I'll make her tiff a little, for refuſing me her caſt-off quilted Petticoat.
—O law, Mem, I mean no Harm. He only romp'd with me a little, and thruſt his Hand—
You are very free with Gentlemen, me⯑thinks.
Nay, Mem, 'twas only down my Boſom a little: but it was to admire better the Fineneſs of the Edging of the laſt Tucker your Ladiſhip was pleas'd to give me. O Gemini, how my Heart did beat, and my Boſom ſwell! I'm ſure if he had not preſs'd it down with his Hand, 'twould have burſt my Stays. I was never in ſuch a Taking be⯑fore. I trembled every Joint of me.—Wou'd he had ſtopt there!
What's that you mutter between your Teeth?
Nothing, Mem, only Sir Harry told me he had ſome pretty French Trinkets, and if I would call at a Place I know, I ſhould take my Choice.
So, and you went, be ſure, Minx?
No indeed, Mem.—Would I had not. I had not then loſt in one Minute, what I had been Years keeping, with much Pain and Difficul⯑ty, the Lord knows.
Fetch me my Mantille.
Yes, Mem.—She's rarely vex'd.—I'm afraid I've ſaid too much. If ſhe ſhould really ſuſpect me.
Stay. Is my laced Head come back from Mrs. Darnwell's yet?
No, Mem.
And why did not you go fetch it? You're ſtrangely heedleſs of late.
Mem, I did go, upon my Honour.
Your Honour! Hold your Prating, and get yourſelf ready. I'll walk to Laetitia's.
This Wench has been ſeduc'd too by that deceiving Man. So near me! Sure this would cure another Woman. May be ſo: But it won't cure me for all that. I have in me that Principle, which has ruin'd, and will for ever ruin thoſe of our Sex, that truſt in it. I've Vanity enough to think I can reclaim him. Fame ſpeaks of him, as a Man that yields to none in Knowledge or true Worth; but all lies buried and abſorb'd in that wild Bent his Temper has taken. Why then, fooliſh Angelina, doſt thou love him, yet know him thus?
Mem, Mrs. Laetitia to wait on your Ladi⯑ſhip.
My deareſt Angelina!
My wild Friend!
You ſeem diſturb'd. What's the Matter, my Dear?
O nothing, Mem, only my Lady is tiff'd a little at ſomething I told her about your Ladi⯑ſhip's Brother.
Peace, Impertinence, and leave the Room. [17] This Girl is grown ſo confident, there's no endur⯑ing her. Well, my Dear, and how ſtands your Heart affected to your old Lover Heartly? He came to Town laſt Night, I hear.
Lover do you call him! 'Tis the coldeſt I ever ſaw. So grave a Lover muſt make a very ſtay'd Huſband. I ſhall never endure him.
Oh, he'll mend upon your Hands. Would your wild Brother had ſome of his Staidneſs. I ſhould like him the better for't.
Faith, ſo ſhould not I. Give me a Huſ⯑band, whoſe Behaviour would make me miſtake him for a Lover. I hate thoſe grave, matrimonial Fops, that take away one's Liking to Marriage, by preaching up the Solemnity of it.
Fye, my Dear, you make me bluſh.
Pretty Angelina, how that Bluſh becomes you!
Laetitia!
Oh, that Smile! There fell ten thouſand Lovers; or would have fallen, had they been here.
You're ſtrangely Romantic to-day, my Dear.
Ay, full of Life and Spirits. Are you for the Auction or the Park?
Which you will. You may there get rid, perhaps, of this Flow of Spirits.
Rather acquire more, from the Variety of Objects we ſhall meet there. Nothing ſo raiſes the Spirits, as a Crowd of gay Creatures fluttering about one.
You'll ſome time or other alter this wild Way of thinking, and find more Pleaſure in the Converſation of one Man of Senſe—
Pr'ythee, Angelina, don't be ſo very wiſe. I tell you, the ſolemn Talk of one Man of Senſe, is ſometimes more tireſome than the Tittle-tattle of ten Fools.
Yes, in the Opinion of ſuch a giddy Girl as you.
Mem, Mr. Heartly's below to wait on your Ladiſhip, and you, Madam, too.
Conduct him up.
Mr. Heartly, you're welcome to Town.
Your moſt obedient humble Servant, La⯑dies. I ought, Madam, to make ſome Apology for this Viſit. For, to be ſincere, the whole of it was not deſign'd for you.
Lovers need make no Apologies. I take as much of it as was intended me.
Madam, I would have done myſelf the Honour of waiting on you laſt Night, but it was ſo late when I arriv'd, I fear'd my Viſit might have been unſeaſonable.
'Tis as well as it is. All Times are equal to me.
To the Indifferent all Times, indeed, are equal. But you affect ſo total an Indifference, it ſcarce ſeems natural.
You may, perhaps, find it is, tho'.—I've a good mind to uſe him ill, for daring to think otherwiſe.
I have juſt now parted with Sir Harry, whom I find the very ſame I left him, as well as you, Madam.
Mrs. Laetitia and I were juſt talking of go⯑ing to the Auction. Will you go with us? We'll conclude with a Turn in the Park, and come home and dine at my Houſe.
With all my Heart, Madam. But I be⯑lieve 'tis too late for the firſt.
We can but ſee. If it is, we'll take up with the Park. Come, my Dear, ſhall we go? Betty,
Do you ſtay at home.
Yes, Mem. If I am not miſtaken, my dear Miſtreſs, Sir Harry will cut you out Buſineſs enough. Well, I ſhall have a happy Time on't, if they come together. I'm ſure he likes me; and there is a ſe⯑cret Pleaſure in rivalling one's Miſtreſs. When my Lady's out of Humour, and ſcolds Betty, my Ma⯑ſter, behind her Back, careſſes Betty, and comforts her with kind Words, and ſomething elſe. Oh the Sweets of ſuch Revenge! Wou'd ſhe'd ſcold me every Day. Well, I think a Lady's Woman, that's great with her Maſter, is the happieſt Condition in Life. I promis'd him to call at Mrs. Darnwell's after Dinner. I know what he wants. I'm ready enough to go. 'Tis but the firſt Step that coſts dear. When a Woman has once given up—
Mrs. Betty, your Lady wants to ſpeak with you. She's waiting in her Chair, at the Door.
Not yet come! How ſlow we move when Incli⯑nation does not lead us! Can I remember with what Eagerneſs he us'd to fly to ſee me, and can I bear his Slowneſs now! Oh Love, fantaſtic Deity, or rather impotent and weak! Thou yield'ſt to every different Temper, and appear'ſt, not what thou art, in thy true Nature, but what Man's va⯑rious Humour makes thee. When firſt our Boſoms [20] take thee in, thou ſeem'ſt, indeed, what flattering Poets call thee, gay, ſmiling, full of Tenderneſs and Truth. We promiſe ourſelves thou art a Deity indeed, and, as a Deity, immortal and unchange⯑able: but ſoon, too ſoon, alas! thou ſicken'ſt, the pleaſing Warmth decays. Poſſeſſion, thy proper Food, that which ſhould nouriſh thee, kills thee.
Not yet come! What can ſtay him!—What?—The firſt fair Face he meets. And yet he knows that I expect him; knows too that I'm diſtracted when he out⯑ſtays his Time, or diſappoints me.
Ha, is not that he? It is. Now cannot I forbear to tell him how impatient I have been, tho' I know it will draw on ſome angry Words.
You would be ſorry, Sir Harry, to come a Mo⯑ment before your Time.
So, ſits the Wind thus?—And you, Madam, to loſe an Opportunity of making me ſome Reproach.
The Reproach is rather kind than diſobliging.—Another wou'd be pleas'd to be ſo reproach'd.
Perhaps ſo.
Perhaps ſo! Nay, 'tis ſo. Fye, fye, can you be angry that I long to ſee you?
No, Madam.—Now ſhall I be perſecuted with ſo much Fondneſs, that my Tem⯑per will never bear it, and I ſhall fly out.
That I bear your Abſence with Pain, and that I wiſh to paſs each Moment of my Life with you, I know it is a fooliſh Wiſh: But I muſt make it, tho' I know it ſhou'd offend you; and yet I am miſerable when you are diſpleas'd.
Why all this Tenderneſs for me! Un⯑happy Lucia, wou'd I cou'd love thee as thou de⯑ſerv'ſt.
Whence this Silence? You ſeem un⯑eaſy. Shall I not ſhare your Pain!
Uneaſy, Madam!
Why do you echo thus my Words? and with ſuch cold Formality? Uneaſy, Madam! Have I no other Name, no ſofter Appellation? There was a Time I had.—Then 'twas deareſt Lucia, my Life, kind Lucia.—Such Words, and ſuch a Tone of Voice,—an Angel wou'd have fallen.
She weeps!—Nay, give not Way to ſuch a Weakneſs. You hurt yourſelf. In what am I chang'd? Have I not ſtill the ſame Regard I ever had? Is there a Perſon I eſteem like you?
Regard, Eſteem! And is that all? Is there no Love left?
Keep your Regard and your Eſteem, and give 'em to your Friends;
your Miſtreſs ought to ſhare your ſofter Sentiments. And I have quitted all, to ſhare thoſe ſofter Sentiments, and would, were it to do again.—Will you then rob me of the Price of ſuch a Sacrifice, and pay me with Regard, Eſteem!
You ſtill miſconſtrue what I ſaid. Can there be Love without Eſteem, without Regard? We differ but in Words.
And why not call it Love? Is there any thing frightful in the Word?
Well, call it Love. How weak you Women are? Each idle Fancy ſwells into a Truth with you, when ſome one pettiſh Humour which you have, is pleas'd to ſhew itſelf. Let a Man act with the moſt ſtrict Regard, to all the Ties of [22] Honour and Conſcience, fails he but in one little trifling exterior Mark of Tenderneſs, (when, per⯑haps, he is of a Temper not apt to be fond) 'tis as if he had done nothing. No Regard is had for what he does. The little he omits, has only Power to make Impreſſion on your Minds. 'Tis ſuch a Weakneſs.—One of your Senſe, Lucia, ſhould be above thoſe little Follies of your Sex.
Had you not us'd me to thoſe little Follies of my Sex, as you call them, to thoſe trifling Marks of Tenderneſs, I had ne'er expected 'em; nor felt the Want of 'em now. But when I think on what you once was—
There 'tis again. If a Man once fool's away an idle Hour in ſoft Careſſes and fond Blan⯑diſhments, in the Beginning of an Amour, or when the Blood boils high, he muſt be ever after toying, ever ſooling, or there is no Quiet for him, and he muſt expect to be baited and reproach'd as I am.
Falſe and ſcandalous Accuſation! made only to colour your violated Faith, and Breach of Truth. You accuſe us only, when you know yourſelves are falſe. Becauſe we love with greater Truth, and that our Paſſions grow, while yours decreaſe and leſſen by Poſſeſſion, you cry out with a ſaucy Inſolence, and Shew of Wiſdom, Muſt we be for ever toying, ever fooling? As if thoſe little Marks of Fondneſs and Affection that Lovers give and take, were a Diſgrace to your ſuperior Natures, and a Weakneſs ſcarce tolerable in ours. Curſe on your falſe, diſſembling Arts! You can employ thoſe little Marks of Fondneſs and Affec⯑tion; you can fool and toy away not Hours, but Days and Months, when you'd inſpire us with a Paſſion for you. How well you act, when you'd ſeduce us! You are more fond and fooliſh even than we; or ſeem ſo, the better to deceive us. You fawn like Spaniels, and lick the Foot [23] that ſpurns you. Whilſt we, pleas'd with a Shew of Tenderneſs, that flatters our Weakneſs, ſuſpect no Guile; receive you as welcome Gueſts, and cheriſh you with ſtill encreaſing Love.
Proceed, Madam, I hear you.
Your Empire ſettled o'er us, you ſhew yourſelves. Firſt you begin to languiſh, and grow tir'd in our Company; you want Diverſion to relieve your Minds. As we love you with un⯑feign'd Affection, and prefer your Pleaſures to our own, we bear your Abſence, in that View, with Satisfaction. That Point gain'd, you go on far⯑ther. A Coolneſs ſucceeds. Our Beauties fade in your Eyes, want Edge for your pall'd Appetites: Faintly you deny it; and, to excuſe yourſelves, you tell us, Love's a Paſſion that ought not to make the Buſineſs but the Amuſement of Life, and ſhou'd be never ſuffer'd to grow ſerious.
Pray, Madam, go on.
Our Minds affected by ſuch new and unknown Doctrine, we reproach you. Our Reproaches, arm'd with Truth, perplex and gaul you, and at laſt beget Averſion in you; which once born, never dies. Your Averſion draws new Reproaches from us, and our Reproaches ſtrengthen your Averſion; 'till at laſt, Love long ſince fled, Pity forſakes you too. You leave the miſerable Wretch, you made ſo, to Sorrow and Repentance; to dear-bought Experience, Guilt and Shame; unable to conquer her Paſſion, and condemn'd never to have it repaid.
What a deal of Truth ſhe utters! That ſo much Senſe, and ſuch Experience, ſhould not be able to get the better of her Paſſion!
Well, Lucia, is there any thing more? I'm at⯑tentive.
No, I've done. Perhaps I've ſaid too much. I know ſuch Plain-dealing is odious to [24] you, and baniſhes you hence.—I'm more con⯑cern'd at the cool Blood with which he has heard me, than at the Heat he us'd to ſhew.
—Perhaps you're offended. Come, you muſt forgive me. 'Tis much againſt my Will; but I am as full of Weakneſs, as of Love, and merit more your Pity than your Anger.
Madam, Dinner waits you.
Come, Sir Harry.
I'll follow you. What can I do? Go on in this uncomfortable Way! Impoſſible.—I'm now ſo us'd to her Perſon, ſhe moves me no more than if I had loſt my Faculties: And yet to an impartial Eye, ſhe has all that Man can wiſh in Form and outward Shew. The Fault's not on my Side neither; if I can't taſte her Beauties, 'tis no Defect of Appetite; a coarſer Meal goes down.—A pretty Wench, this. How long haſt thou been here, Child?
But this Morning, Sir.
Now am I mad for this Wench, and every Wench I ſee. What ſtrange Stuff am I made of!
The Gentleman talks to himſelf; ſure he's mad. I'll in and tell my Lady.
This Wench runs ſtrangely in my Mind. I muſt talk to her a little.
And ſo, Child, you came hither but this Morning?
No, Sir. But my Lady ſays ſhe'll turn me away before Night, for fear you ſhould ruin me as you've done her.
Ha, Lucia!—You ſee, Child, I was talking to your Maid. I love to ſee human Nature in all its Shapes. You know my Humour.
I'm not to learn it now. But come, Sir Harry, let's go in to Dinner. Nay, I'll not truſt you; you're ſuch a Rover, you muſt be kept within Sight.
ACT III.
[26]YOu've entertain'd me nobly, Lucia; you grow prodigal.
To whom then ſhould I laviſh what I have but you? Can I too well receive you? What is there I would not ſacrifice for you? I'd part even with Life, cou'd it procure a Moment's Pleaſure to you, or remove a Moment's Pain.
Nay, that wou'd be too much. I am not ſo voluptuous, tho' you often reproach me with my Pleaſures; nor ſo afraid of Pain, as to purchaſe one, or avoid the other, at ſo dear a Price.
Well, I cou'd give it tho'. But come, Sir Harry, I know you love a Song, and I am always happy when I can give you any Satis⯑faction. My Maid ſhall entertain you with one. She has both Taſte and Voice.
I need not aſk whoſe Words theſe are.
The Time of my Appointment's come.
So ſoon!
Did not I tell you I muſt leave you ſoon?
Yes. But I did not think 'twou'd have been quite ſo ſoon.
Something of Conſequence, I can't neglect, obliges me to go. Heartly, that Friend I've often mention'd to you, waits for me at my Lodgings.
When ſhall I ſee you again?
Perhaps this Evening. But To-morrow without fail. Adieu.
Will you then go?
I muſt.
You ſhall—but—can't you ſtay a little longer?
I underſtand her well, but have ano⯑ther, newer Call at preſent.
For what? That Time gone, you'll ſtill aſk more, and more. I know you, you'll be as unwilling in an Hour, to let me go, as you are now. You are too kind.
No, by Heaven. Stay but a little longer, and I will let you go.
I cannot ſtay one Moment now, but I'll return this Evening. Upon my Honour I will.
Well, go then. Yet I cou'd wiſh you wou'd ſtay. Something within me tells me I'm ruin'd, loſt for ever, if you go.
Fye, ſuch Weakneſs becomes a Girl. Go to your Harpſichord, and raiſe your Spirits. I'll be with you in an Hour.
The Strings, like me, are out of Tune. I cannot play. I know not what it is that ſinks me me thus at once. Me⯑thinks I am going to loſe him for ever. Ha, what's this! A Letter! directed to Sir Harry! A Wo⯑man's Hand too.—O my Heart!
YOU left me Yeſterday in Anger, becauſe I would not ruin myſelf for ever. How could you be ſo barbarous! For well you knew, ſhould I conſent, I am loſt for ever.
Loſt indeed, if you conſent. O Villain! Will not one Victim ſuffice? But let's ſee farther:
I can bear any Thing but your Anger: Tho' your Smiles are yet more dangerous; for then 'tis hard, hard to reſiſt you.
Poor Creature! Thou art on the Brink of Ruin. Thou ſtand'ſt upon a Precipice. Thou ſeeſt the Danger, yet avoid'ſt it not:
My Aunt is gone out. I dare not ſee you at her Houſe in her Abſence. Be at Mrs. Darnwell's, and I'll meet you there. I'll go aſſoon as this Letter will be delivered to you. I am, I fear too much yours, Maria.
[29] I fear ſo too. But hold, I may prevent her Ruin yet. I'll after him, and my by Preſence confound him.—Perhaps, enrag'd, he may abandon me. No Matter. Within—Jenny.
Get me my Things ready, and order my Chair immediately.
Sirrah, do you wait below.
Whither am I going, and for what? To take Ad⯑vantage of a Weakneſs which a young and inno⯑cent Creature has for me. To rob her of the Calm ſhe now enjoys, and fill her Breaſt with Tumult and Diſorder. To make thoſe Eyes ere long o'er⯑flow with Tears, that us'd to ſmile in Innocence; and all to gratify a brutal Appetite, which I could gratify another Way, and without Prejudice to her. Why what a Villain am I! No ſooner will ſhe have given up her laſt and deareſt Stake, but ſhe will give a Looſe to all thoſe warm Deſires, that yet lie ſmother'd in her Breaſt. Deſire fed, grows ſtrong and violent. No Tie, no Reſtraint then. Warm—tender—fond—Ha! The Thought tranſports me. To ſee the firſt hard Struggles 'twixt Modeſty and Love! To ſee her trembling with Deſire, afraid to ſhew it, and yet ſhewing it thro' all. By Heaven there's not a Joy in Life that equals ſuch a Scene. But then the following Scene! To ſee her drown'd in Tears, regretting what ſhe has done. Hiding her Eyes, not daring to look up, and conſcious that ſhe's not what ſhe was, yet charm'd with what ſhe is; for Love will conquer. I will not think on't. Futurity muſt an⯑ſwer [30] for itſelf; the preſent Time muſt be paſs'd away. The Scene of Life muſt ſhift, or we ſleep; but—
Sir, there's a Lady within, that deſires to ſpeak with you.
I come. Well, theſe are the moſt con⯑venient Houſes, a Man cou'd wiſh to have. The Thoughts of a private Houſe has brought more young Girls to their Ruin, than the Fear of being ſeen in a publick one has kept from it.
'Tis ſtrange, Madam, you won't be⯑lieve me, when I know it ſo well. I tell you, at this very Moment he is at a certain Place I can name you, with a Lady.
What is it to me where he is,
or with whom.—Yet I long to know the Truth.
If I can but perſuade her to go, and do but catch him there, I ſhall be reveng'd of him for this Morning's Raillery.
—Nay, nay, Madam, you ſhall go, and ſurprize him. 'Twill be moſt excellent Diverſion. I can't help ſmiling at the Thoughts of his Confuſion. Have you no Curioſity, Madam?
More than I ſhall diſcover to you.
—That, Sir Lively, our Sex, you know, never wants.
Then, Madam, to engage you to go, I'll lay a Wager with you. D'you ſee this Snuff-Box? It coſt me forty Loui's at Paris; 'tis finely fancied, and moſt excellently wrought. Look at it, Madam. I'll wager this Box againſt the Qua⯑drille [31] Set you bought this Morning, that if we go, we find him Tete a Tete with—
You'll loſe, Sir Lively.
No matter, Madam, I'll venture.
Well, if you will be ſo raſh.—But under what Pretence can we go to this Houſe, Sir Lively?
Why, Madam, 'tis only aſking Mrs. Laetitia to go with you to Mrs. Darnwell's to ſee ſome Lace. For the reſt you muſt truſt to Chance.
Mrs. Darnwell's! She's my Milliner.
Lucky, beyond Expectation! Why you may queſtion her the more eaſily, and with the leſs Suſpicion.
Nay, that wou'd ſeem too curious in me, as it is but to rally that Indifference he affects, that I ſhould deſire to catch him there, too particular an Inquiry wou'd make him think oddly of me.
Catch him there! I cou'd give you five hundred Inſtances of it. Why, Madam, I've known him been oblig'd to jump out of a Win⯑dow five Stories high, at Paris, on an unexpected Return of a Huſband or Lover.
Five Stories high, Sir Lively! What ſort of a Lady muſt that have been, that lodg'd ſo high?
A Woman of Quality, upon my Ho⯑nour. A Counteſs, Madam. In Paris I've known many a Counteſs and Marquiſe lodge in a Cin⯑quieme, egad, and glad to lodge there too.
Fye, fye, Sir Lively, you wrong the French.
Why, Madam, would you believe it; he had the Aſſurance to rival me—me, Madam.
I'm ſurpriz'd, indeed, Sir Lively, you two ſhould enter into Competition in any thing.
Ah, Ma—dam.
But ſee, Mr. Heartly and Laetitia; they come a propos to go with us.
My Dear, I was going to Mrs. Darnwell's. She ſent me Word ſhe had a freſh Cargo of Lace, juſt arriv'd. Will you go?
Any thing, to get rid of this tormenting Creature. He has ſo tiez'd me with Darts, that I ſhall never ſee him, but I ſhall think of the Picture of St. Sebaſtian we ſaw this Morning, ſtuck all over with Darts.
With all my Heart, Madam; provided that Thought give Birth to another; I mean the Recompence for his Sufferings. Nothing leſs than the Joys of Paradiſe.
Come, my Dear,
let's go, or I ſhall be turn'd into a Paradiſe in an Inſtant, and be claim'd by him as a Reward for his Suffer⯑ings.—Is it not ſo?—Nay, don't anſwer me, for I won't hear it.
Come, Mr. Heartly, you ſhall anſwer her as we go along.
Mrs. Darnwell's! Ha, is not that a Houſe Sir Harry makes Uſe of on particular Occa⯑ſions? That Rogue, Sir Lively, has been prating; he mutter'd ſomething this Morning of what he knew. Hark'ee, Sir Lively, prevent their going, or by Heaven I'll cut your Throat.
I prevent it! How can I!—prevent it!—No, no, I know a Trick worth two of that.
Well, Sir, you may repent it tho'.
All's one for that, Ned.
What ſay you, Mr. Heartly?
Madam, I'll wait on you. But had not we better firſt ſend to Sir Harry? Perhaps he'll go with us.
Heartly wou'd prevent our going. Nay, then 'tis true.—Generous Friend!—No, I think [33] we may as well go without him. He does not un⯑derſtand Lace.
As well as I do, Madam, at leaſt.—Prevent their going, Madam,
if poſſible. I can't tell you now my Reaſons: But be aſſur'd, Sir Harry will thank you, if you do.
Now I think on't, my Dear, I can't go, nor you neither.
I ſhan't ſtay. Come, Sir Lively, you and I will go. They want to be left alone.
Nay, then we'll all go.
I tell you, Child, my Maſter is engag'd, and you poſitively cannot ſee him.
And I tell you, Sir, that if your Maſter was ten times more engag'd, I muſt and will ſee him. But pray, Sir, how long have you and I been ſo well acquainted?
Child, is a pretty familiar Expreſſion. You uſe no Cere⯑mony, I ſee, with your Betters.
Betters! What does the Baggage mean? Becauſe my Maſter does her the Honour to take a little Notice of her, ſhe thinks herſelf exalted a De⯑gree above one of her own Rank.—Betters, Mrs. Betty! Why, I don't know, but methinks there's no ſuch great Difference between us. I'm Valet to a very fine Gentleman, and Inheritor of all his Vices, you Waiting-Woman to a very fine Lady, and Poſſeſſor in full of all her Follies and Affectations. So that as our Rank in Life is equal, and our Qualifications pretty much the ſame, I own I want Eyes to ſee the wide Difference you wou'd put between us.
The Fellow ſays true. A good genteel [34] Perſon. But then he's a Footman. Foh, how rank that ſmells! A Girl that has once taſted of Genti⯑lity, can never ſink down to the mottly Tribe; at leaſt it ought to be the laſt Stake ſhe plays.—Well, Sir, will you be pleas'd to tell your Maſter I have ſomething to communicate to him.
Communicate to him! How eloquent an Intrigue with a Gentleman makes a Chamber⯑maid.
You grow ſaucy, Friend.
Come, come, Mrs. Betty, for once hear Truth, however diſagreeable it may ſound. What can you propoſe by being acquainted with a Gen⯑tleman? If you mean no Harm, 'tis playing with edg'd Tools. You may hurt yourſelf, tho' but in Play. And if you ſhou'd, as inſenſibly you may go too far, the utmoſt you can pretend to riſe to, is to be his—And for how long Time? A Month, two, three, a Year, ſuppoſe. At the End of which he leaves you, perhaps, with Child. Return to Service! No. You're above it. You change Maſters till you've ſerv'd all the Town, and your Wages are Infamy and Diſeaſes.—Nay, Mrs. Betty, 'tis wholeſome Phyſick, and, if you take it, may make you well again.
I cou'd cry for Madneſs. But I don't care; I'll never mend, when I'm told of my Faults in ſo groſs a Manner.
Whereas, if you give Way to a Paſſion with one of equal Rank with you, his Deſigns, at leaſt, are honourable. He will not preſume above what he may reaſonably expect. He'll court you for a Wife; and if he has deſerved well of his Maſter, and you of your Miſtreſs, they'll make you a Preſent that may enable you—
To ſet up a Chandler's Shop, and live up⯑on ſelling of Half Pennyworth's of Small-Beer, [35] and Quarters of Ounces of Tea. Foh, What a Life! But before we arrive to this charming State, this envied Period of Servitude; what Dangers do we not run thro'? If our Maſters or Miſtreſſes diſcover we are married, Warning is immediately given, and we muſt provide for ourſelves. If they know nothing of it, we find ſo many Excuſes to get out to ſee each other, and ſtay ſo long when we are ſent on Errands, that we are ſure to be turn'd away. And then farewel all Hopes of this noble Settlement. We live in a Garret, breed like tame Rabbits, wear out the Cloaths we got in Service, and having no Money to buy more, ſtink in coarſe Rags, and mutually curſe each other, to the melo⯑dious Concert of half a Dozen ſqualing Brats about our Ears.
Well, Mrs. Betty, you may be as witty as you pleaſe, but give me leave to tell you—
I have not done yet. I heard you out, now hear me. I'll grant you, a Chambermaid loſes her Character the other Way; but if ſhe has any Beauty, and Wit to make the moſt of it, it will go hard if ſhe do not make it worth her while. And Money, Mr. Thomas, you know, hides a great many Faults. Then the Elegancies of Life wipe away a Spot in one's Character; or at leaſt make one bear with it. Good Cloaths, Meat, Drink, Diverſions! To riſe from a low State to an Affluence of Fortune and Pleaſure, at leaſt to her. Oh! the Joy's not to be deſcrib'd, one muſt feel it. After all, one can at laſt match with one's Equal. He'll be glad to have us, if we bring our Welcome with us. He won't be ſo nice as to refuſe a handſome Suit of Cloaths, becauſe it has been a little ſoil'd; and we may, perhaps, be enabled to carry on a genteeler Profeſſion than a Chandler's Shop.
Well, Mrs. Betty.—
Oh, my Maſter rings. If you'll ſtep in here, I'll tell him you're below.
I follow you. I can but take up with this Fellow at laſt. I'll try firſt what I can do with the Maſter. For to own a Truth, I have Ambi⯑tion in me, and that is as difficult to be laid.—O lud, what am I going to ſay.
Adieu, my deareſt Angel. Our Ab⯑ſence ſhall not be long.—So that Affair's over, and now, with the Poet, I may ſay;
S'death, what a Beauty 'tis!
Well, Sir.
Sir, Mrs. Betty, Lady Angelina's Woman, is below, and deſires to ſee your Honour.
And you told her, I ſuppoſe, my Ho⯑nour was here.
I thought you expected her.
Why ſo I did, Raſcal, but ſomething has interven'd. I will not ſee her.
I'll tell her ſo.
Tell her what you will, and leave me.
Sir, I met her coming up, and ſhe wou'd not take my Anſwer.
And ſo, Sir, you are not at Home for me. I ſuppoſe that Flirt that went from hence in a Chair, is the Cauſe of your uſing me ſo. But I'll be even with her. If I ever meet her again, I'll tear her Eyes out, proud Minx.
Don't be in a Paſſion, Child, 'twill ſpoil your pretty Face.
Stand off, I hate you.
You lie, Huſſey, you don't.
I do. I'll never ſee you more.
One Kiſs at parting.
Pſha, let me alone, be quiet.
Another.—S'death how ſhe fires me! Will nothing tame me?
I proteſt I'll cry out.
You'd be ſorry any Body ſhould hear.
Lard, there's ſuch a Wind comes in at that Door.
I'll ſhut it.
No.—
Oh, I underſtand her.
We ſhall be warmer in the inner Room, Child.
Is there a Fire there?
Aſk no Queſtions. Go ſee.
What unneceſſary Buſineſs I bring upon myſelf! Oh, for ſome lucky Interruption!—I would not loſe her neither. She'll ſerve for idle Hours.
O Sir, undone, ruin'd!
What's the Matter?
Lady Traffick, Sir!
And what of her, Blockhead?
Is juſt getting out of her Chair, and is now coming up Stairs. I hear her, Sir.
Hell and the Devil! What can be the meaning of her coming? Some Fit of Jealouſy. I'll carry it with a high Hand. This is an Inter⯑ruption with a Vengeance.
Madam, you expoſe yourſelf too much.
I know it, Sir.
Why then do you do it?
Becauſe I care not what I do.
You know it is of Conſequence that our Affair ſhould be conceal'd. There was a Time when you had ſome Regard for me.
There was a Time when you de⯑ſerv'd it.
What means this Change of Humour? I left you in good Temper.
You did ſo; but left ſomething that ſoon deſtroy'd it.
I underſtand you not. I'm tir'd of theſe croſs Purpoſes. Wou'd you be plain, I ſhou'd know what to anſwer.
Sir Harry, Sir Harry!
So, damn'd Schriech Owl!
Pray, Sir, go in.—Cruel Con⯑viction!
My Siſter's Maid, Mrs. Darnwell's her Milliner. She ſent her for ſomething ſhe wanted, I ſuppoſe. An impertinent Jade to name me.
Why, what an enormous Villain you are! I hope I ſhall deſpiſe you e'er I go from hence.
Why, Sir Harry, will you come?
Well, Child, have you got what you wanted?
What I wanted?
Ay, ay, what you came for.
No, I have not got what I came for, nor am I like, there are ſo many Pretenders.
Hence, trifling Wretch! Tho' I deſpiſe you, you are ſcarce ſafe.
Who are you, pray?
Be gone, Child. Some other Time I'll ſatisfy you. You ſee the Occaſion is not fa⯑vourable.
Well, I'll go. But if e'er I come again, you ſha'n't ſerve me ſo.
Do, tell her ſome kind Thing, to ſooth her in her Diſappointment. How many miſerable Hours have you made me paſs, and not one kind Word or Look to make Amends. What a Monſter of Ingratitude are you? Am I diſtin⯑guiſh'd but by harder Uſage? Cruel Compariſon! 'Tis more than I can bear.
What mean you? 'Tis more than you can bear! Suppoſing all that you ſuſpect were true, can ſuch a trifling Creature make you jea⯑lous?
No. But ſhe that wrote this can.
Ha, curs'd Negligence! Nay, then our Rupture's ſure.—No matter.
What have you now to ſay? Boaſt, boaſt your mighty Conqueſt! Tell me, how you have ſeduc'd a Virgin Heart, already undermin'd by natural Softneſs. Say, I am come too late to prevent her Ruin; ſay, ſhe has yielded up all. I know ſhe has; I ſee it in your Eyes. They tri⯑umph in your cruel Victory. Baſe, baſe Man! I can forgive your wronging me. By Heaven, I do forgive it. Time and Uſe have made unhappy [40] me diſagreeable, and plead Excuſe for wronging me. But her!—Your Breaſt ſtill warm, your Eyes ſtill languid, juſt riſing from her Arms, that preſs'd you (I know it by myſelf) with killing Fondneſs! In ſuch Circumſtances as theſe, and the next Moment too, falſe to her! And with whom? A little leud Chamber-maid.
How her Words ſting me! How hateful I muſt needs appear. But I muſt not let her ſee it. She will inſult too much.
—Well, Madam, you ſee there are Women in the World, young and handſome too, that like me with all my Faults.
'Tis falſe; they know you not. You appear an Angel to them, while in Fact you are a Devil. You ſhew not your true ſelf at firſt. You would not then be able to deceive ſo many.
Some, indeed, even then you might deceive. But you are more cunning than to truſt to that. You make your Conqueſt ſure, then ſhew yourſelf. The humble, fearful, modeſt Suppliant, at laſt becomes a haughty and imperious Tyrant. Not the leaſt Humour of this mighty Monarch muſt be thwarted then. His very Caprices muſt be reſpect⯑ed. Ill Uſage muſt be return'd with Cheerfulneſs; nay, we muſt not ſigh nor weep, tho' our Hearts break. Should we or ſigh or weep, he flies, he will not ſee us; or, if he condeſcends to ſee us, 'tis not to look with Pity on our Weakneſs or our Suffer⯑ings, 'tis to behold 'em with a ſtony Heart, and barbarouſly urge us with unrelenting Obſtinacy, that our Paſſions growing too violent for our weak Frames, we ſink beneath the killing Weight.
Why then do you love this cruel Ty⯑rant?
Why, indeed! Oh give me Pati⯑ence! The Queſtion well becomes you: but 'tis the Weakneſs of our Nature. I'll tell you, Sir; [41] we can't confine our Thoughts to what we ſuffer with you; that indeed might cure us. But we let 'em looſe, and they bring back to our charm'd Senſes former Scenes of Joy. There, there we fall. Our Paſſions catch the Alarm; we wake from preſent Miſery, by reflecting on paſt Happineſs. Our Paſſions prompt us to believe, that Happi⯑neſs may ſtill return. We credit what we wiſh; the fond Deluſion charms us, and we ſtill love on.
But when you know it is in vain.
I underſtand you, Sir. I know it is in vain. Inſulting Man! You might have ſpar'd me that Knowledge.—Where's that Pride that ſo becomes a Woman!
Hold, Madam, hear me in my Turn; I lov'd you, by Heaven 'tis true. I lov'd you with Sincerity. Your Perſon and your Mind engag'd me wholly. I thought I cou'd for ever love you, and none but you. I deceiv'd myſelf as well as you.
You may ſpare the reſt. It is enough you ſlight me. I aſk not why. I can diſpenſe with the ungracious Tale. You'll tell me I have been too fond; I know I have; but hate to hear it, ſince 'tis ſo ill repaid. Wou'd I had never ſhewn it.
Hold, Madam, ere it be too late. If you read it, I'll never ſee you more.
I care not.
Yet be advis'd.
Never.
Then hear me, Madam. Such Uſage as this, had I ruin'd you a thouſand times, as you are pleas'd to call it, I would not bear. All friend⯑ly Offices you may expect from me, but no more [42] Love. Your Fame and Perſon I'll protect from Scandal and from Violence. Farther, Madam, tho' you ſhould repent this Indiſcretion, 'tis in vain henceforth to hope from me.
Ha, gone! I know he wants but an Opportunity to break with me. Why let him take it. I can ne'er regain his Love, and to ſhare him with another, or ſee him kind to me out of Compaſſion!—Death, how contemptible that Thought makes me. Revenge is yet within my Power, and I will puſh it as far as Woman's Ma⯑lice or Diſappointment can carry me.
SOme Moments ſince I thought myſelf the happieſt of my Sex: But how uncertain is our Fate! I'm now the moſt wretched. I've juſt receiv'd a Letter from my Father, by which I find I am to be diſpos'd of to another. Aſſiſt me with your Counſel, and if you love me, free me from this hated Match; for I can never be any thing but yours,
Poor Innocence! Read here your Fate. In me be⯑hold what you will be. But this is no Time for ſuch Reflections. Here I'll begin my Courſe of Revenge. I'll undeceive her firſt. Let him change as often as he pleaſes, I'll croſs him in all his A⯑mours, and purſue him like his evil Genius. He ſhall not enjoy one eaſy Moment. If he e'er thinks of Marriage, I'll renew my Claim there too, and have at leaſt the Satisfaction to render his Love as unſucceſsful as my own.
This Creature here!—Hold, ſhe may be of Ser⯑vice.
I muſt diſſemble, tho' I hate the Sight of her.
—Mem, I beg you'd forgive the Boldneſs of my Intruſion; but I hope the News I have to tell you, will plead for my Excuſe.
Speak.
Your Pardon, Madam, if before I go on, I take the Liberty to ſuppoſe Sir Harry is ſome⯑thing to you.
Proceed, Child, and don't be afraid.
Baſe Man, to wrong ſo good a Lady! You muſt know then, Madam, that I am Woman to Lady Angelina.—You have heard of her.
Yes. But what does all this ſignify to me?
Have Patience, Mem, and you ſhall know. The Intimacy Sir Harry's Siſter has with my Lady, brought him firſt to our Houſe. As he is a very agreeable Gentleman, it was not long before I perceiv'd my Lady grew uneaſy and reſtleſs, averſe to Company, which ſhe us'd to like, and, in ſhort, never pleas'd but when ſhe was talking of him, or elſe in his Company. Not to detain you longer, he makes honourable Love to her, and I believe 'twill be a Match. Now, Mem, if Sir Harry is engag'd to you, 'tis baſe in him to pretend Love to my Lady, and deceive you. As I hate falſe Men, and could not bear to be deceiv'd myſelf, I came to acquaint you how wicked a Man he is, and give you a Caution againſt his flattering Tongue.
Ha, 'twill be a Match, ſay you?
Yes, Mem.—It works ſweetly. I'll teach him to ſerve me ſo.
—Mem, have you any farther Commands for me?
Hold, let me think.
It will be rare Sport!
Cou'd you ſtep home with me to my [44] Lodgings, and carry a Letter to your Lady for me? you wou'd do a Piece of Service to us both.
And to myſelf too, or I'd ſee you and your Letter far enough.
—Mem, I'll wait on you. You'll pardon my Freedom; but the Zeal I have to ſerve you—
I'm oblig'd to you.
You would not ſay ſo, if you knew my In⯑tention.
ACT IV.
[45]IF I forgive him, I wiſh I may be deceiv'd by every Man I truſt to; and that's the greateſt Curſe that could happen to me. So far 'tis well. I'm ſecure of Lady Traffick; if I can but work upon my own Lady as well, I may make 'em all quarrel, and then I may, perhaps, get him to my⯑ſelf. I'm ſure he likes my Perſon, and that is the beſt Hold. People may talk of Senſe and Virtue, and all that. They may be good in a formal Wife, but in a Miſtreſs, let her but have an agreeable Temper, and a pretty Perſon.—Heyho! I'm melancholy all of a ſudden. Wou'd Sir Harry was here. Yet I ought not to wiſh that neither, for one kind Word from him, wou'd make this Letter drop out of my Hands, and at once deſtroy my Plot. Bleſs me, he is here! I'll hide the Letter tho', and ſtand aſide.
Per⯑haps I may diſcover ſomething.
Was ever Man ſo juſtly puniſh'd! How barbarous am I to that unfortunate Creature, who owes her Ruin twice to me. Yet what can I do? I can never marry her, tho' ſhe has my Pro⯑miſe. I ought then at leaſt never to think of any elſe. Yet if I remain unfix'd, ſo ſtrong are my Paſ⯑ſions, I ſhall never conquer 'em, and I may make [46] more Victims ſtill. Angelina, I think, has Charms enough to keep me to herſelf, and till I am fix'd, I fear I ſhall ſtill be unjuſt.—It ſhall be ſo. I'll ſtop my Ears againſt Reflection, till I have extri⯑cated myſelf.
Say you ſo? I may, perhaps, involve you more.
Is your Lady at home, Child?
My Lady, forſooth! Will nothing but my Lady go down? I'm reſolv'd not to give him the Letter for this.
—No, Sir, but I be⯑lieve ſhe will preſently. They went, my Lady and your Siſter, with Mr. Heartly and Sir Lively, to Mrs. Darnwell's.
Mrs. Darnwell's! Death and the De⯑vil! For what?—Speak.
I can't tell.
To ſee ſome Lace was the Pretence; but—
But, what?
The real Cauſe was—
Will you ſpeak, Huſſy?
Ha, what Letter's that?
'Tis, 'tis, 'tis—
What is it? Give it me this Inſtant.
I won't.—'Tis from my Sweetheart.
Nay, then I will have it.
O Lud, Sir, for Heaven's ſake have done. 'Tis my Miſtreſs. I'll give it you by and by. Up⯑on my Honour I will.
Give it me this Inſtant. I'll not truſt you.
There, take it. But for Heaven's ſake ſtep out the Back-way, and come in again. If my Lady ſhould ſee you—
Well, I'll go. But hark'ee, Mrs. Minx, no more Sweethearts.
No, indeed.—O lud, what ſhall I do? He has got the Letter, and my Lady will never believe me. Beſides, what Work ſhall I have with him! The Devil take me for being ſuch a Fool to put it in my Boſom, if I intended to keep it from him. Well, I'll go back to my Lady Traffick, and tell her all. O lud, here's my Lady, and Madam Laetitia with her. I'll retire before they ſee me.
We've loſt Sir Lively and Mr. Heartly.
They are but ſtept into my Brother's to bring him here. They'll be ſoon enough, never fear. They'll not give us too much breathing Time.
You'll want it, I'm ſure; you've run ſo faſt, one wou'd think you were going to meet a Lover.
Rather, as if I were flying from one. Sure nothing's ſo deteſtable as a Man of Senſe, that pretends to be a Lover. Love is a quite different Thing in him, than in other Men.
Only ſo much the more agreeable.
Agreeable! O gad, how can you think ſo? Well, I ſhall hardly be able to bear any Lover this Month, I'm ſure. I have been ſo peſter'd by my ſenſible one.—
I rather think you'll be able to bear none but him. 'Tis a ſure Sign when a Woman is un⯑eaſy with what her Lover ſays; ſhe wiſhes, at leaſt, he wou'd talk in another Manner; and that, my dear, is one Step towards wiſhing for ſomething elſe.
Something elſe! What, pray?
Why to like what he does ſay.
Lud bleſs me, you're ſtrangely poſitive. You wou'd fain make me believe—
What, if I am any Judge, you will very ſoon own.
Own what?
That you love him.
Him! Whom?
Heartly, Heartly. Come, come, Child, all this affected railing—
Nay, then we muſt change the Diſcourſe. How d'you think the tedious Creature entertain'd me at the Auction this Morning?
So, this is changing the Diſcourſe.—Nay, the Lord knows. I'm ſure, in the Humour you are, 'twas fifty to one any thing he ſaid cou'd pleaſe you.
Why by expreſſing his Pleaſure at the beautiful Appearance the Company made, by re⯑marking the Variety of Taſtes, that reign'd in the Choice of Cloaths, and by drawing Concluſions from the Singularity of ſome Dreſſes, of the Senſe and Underſtanding of their Wearers. The Wretch did not ſay a Word of me all the while, and ſcarce look'd at me. But I was even with him.
Oh, I don't queſtion that. But how pray?
Why, in the Midſt of theſe wiſe Remarks, which he thought I took as much Pleaſure to hear, as he did to make, Sir Lively Brainleſs came run⯑ning from the other Side of the Room, and deſir'd me to look at a young Lady that ſtood cloſe by me. Madam, ſaid he, wou'd you believe it? This young Lady I met at the other End of the Room, and thought her one of the moſt beautiful Creatures I ever ſaw; but when ſhe came and ſtood by you, ſhe appear'd to me ſo eclips'd and dim'd, that I came to ſee if it was the ſame Perſon. I did not know her again, I vow to gad. Lord, Sir Lively, ſaid I, you've ſo pretty a Way of laughing at one, that one can't be angry. This drew a [49] Repartee from him, and that another from me; ſo that Heartly, I ſuppoſe, finding our Dialogue too long, very civilly took his Leave, and I very civilly let him go. Ha, ha—
Barbarous Creature! How cou'd you uſe him ſo?
Wou'd I cou'd uſe him ten times worſe. But come, my Dear, ſhall we go to—
Go! Whither wou'd you go, Child? Why they'll be here this Inſtant.
Nay, if you've a mind to ſtay, I am very willing to keep you Company.
No, my dear, I'd as lieve go.
So had I too; but I don't know, it wou'd look odd to go, wou'd it not?
I don't know if it would look odd; but I perceive you think it wou'd. Hark, I think I hear 'em in the next Room. Come, my dear, you are very unwilling now, are you not?
Pſha.
And ſo he forc'd the Letter from you?
Yes, Mem.
Is your Lady at Home now?
I left her there, Madam.
Cou'd you procure me Means of ſpeaking to her?
Yes, Mem.—This is rare.
Come then, I'll prepare myſelf: Let's ſtep into the next Room. Jenny.
Madam.
If Sir Harry comes, I am gone out. Be ſure you deny me, if he ſhou'd come before I am gone.
Yes, Madam.
What can the Meaning of this be? The Doors us'd to fly open at his Approach. Well, 'tis not my Buſineſs.
This was lucky. That curs'd Jade Betty to enter into a Plot againſt me! As to my Lady Traffick, her Wrongs, indeed, might ſtir her to Revenge. I muſt go to her, and try if I can calm her. My Promiſe of Marriage to her, and her Knowledge of my Affair with Louiſa, both fairly ſtated in this damn'd Letter, wou'd have done my Buſineſs with Angelina.—Is my Lady Traffick above?
No, Sir, ſhe's juſt gone out.
Gone out! Whither?
I really can't tell; but ſhe went out with Mrs. Betty, Lady Angelina's Woman.
So! Damnation! Gone to Angelina's, I ſuppoſe. Hold, I may, perhaps, get thither be⯑fore 'em.
—How long is it ſince they went?
The Moment before you enter'd. Sir Har. 'Tis well. I yet may overtake them.
We were too late, Sir Lively, you have loſt.
I do confeſs it, Madam. The Bird was flown, but we'll cage him yet. However, Madam, I hope what Mrs. Darnwell ſaid was ſuf⯑ficient to ſatisfy you in the main.
Angelina, is it fair to engroſs Sir Lively thus!
I proteſt and vow, Madam, I aſk Par⯑don. But I thought, Ned there cou'd entertain a Lady for a Quarter of an Hour, without tiring her. I had ſomething of Conſequence to tell this Lady.—I hope, Madam, what I have already diſcover'd merits ſome Conſideration.
But I muſt have ſtronger Proofs, Sir Lively.
You ſhall, Madam, or may I be blaſted by your Frowns, like a too forward Tree by the Wind.
This Fool will make me diſcover how much I deſpiſe him, before I've made the Uſe I intend of him, if I don't render the Diſcourſe more ge⯑neral.—Mr. Heartly, Laetitia, methinks for two Perſons that are always quarrelling, in Company, you agree very well by yourſelves.
I proteſt, my dear, you are as full of Ma⯑lice, as an old Maid; and beſtow it as often on your Friends.—Oh, here's my Brother!
I ſee no Marks of Lady Traffick's having been here yet, in Angelina's Looks.
—Madam, your Servant.
Your Servant, Sir Harry.
I believe, my Dear, we are beholden to you for his Company. I never ſee him, but here.
You wou'd give me an ill Opinion of your Brother, Laetitia.
He that gets her good Word, Madam, muſt have more Complaiſance for her Humours than falls to the Share of a Brother. If you, Ma⯑dam, but think favourably of me, I ſhall not con⯑cern myſelf much how I ſtand in her whimſical Judgment.
You ſee, Madam, what an Opinion your Brother has of you.
I wou'd adviſe you, Sir, to take the Mo⯑del from him.
If I judge right, Sir, a Siſter can beſt tell.
But you do not judge right, Sir, and never will. That's more.
Ah, le Brutal! He's jealous; I'll plague him a little.—Sir Harry, Madam, is ſo taken up with his own Thoughts, that he has no Taſte for the Converſation of the Beau Monde. Your Men of Senſe are always the dulleſt Animals in Com⯑pany. Take 'em from their Books, and their high⯑ſpun Notions, which they do not underſtand them⯑ſelves, and you may fall aſleep for want of Con⯑verſation.
And let me tell you, Sir, 'tis an Ad⯑vantage to ſleep in ſome Companies. Your Body's refreſh'd, and your Mind not tir'd.
Politely ſaid. The Ladies are oblig'd to you.
Believe me, Sir Lively, there are Charms in a Man of Senſe, a Woman thinks can never be too dearly purchas'd. Your Siſter and I, Sir Harry, tho' very good Friends, differ a little in our Opi⯑nions: [53] At leaſt ſhe would be thought to differ with me.
What was the Subject of your Diſpute then, Ladies?
A mere Trifle, Sir, a Man.
'Twas a happy Trifle, however.
I did not expect leſs from ſo polite a Man as Mr. Heartly. But we were diſputing, at leaſt coming to it, which would make the moſt agree⯑able Companion for Life, a Man of Senſe, or a pretty Fellow.
Ah, Madam!—How ſhe ey'd me! She's taken. Nay, I never doubted theſe Parts.
Well, Madam, and how did you de⯑termine the Point?
Hark'ee, Sir Harry, don't preſs this Matter farther, for your own ſake. You may hear ſomething you may not like.
Pert Coxcomb!
Why, truly, Sir Harry, you came in be⯑fore we determin'd any thing about it.
Then, Madam, we are not too late to hear it.
Ay, ay, Madam, let's hear it. Pro⯑nounce,—decide.
Why really, Sir Lively, my Opinion is, a Man of Senſe can never make a bad Huſband, unleſs he has a bad or fooliſh Wife. He may rob his Wife of many tender Moments, and beſtow them on underſerving Creatures. If ſhe has but Pru⯑dence, ſhe will conquer.
Gad, I don't like that, tho'.
A Woman, Madam, that thinks as you do, brings too much Happineſs along with her, not to prevent any Man's ſeeking it elſe⯑where.
That's more than I know, Sir.
Oh, I thought ſhe wou'd come about again.
A Man of Senſe, Madam, will expect ſo many Things in a Wife, that it will be impoſſible for her to ſatisfy him. Now, a pretty Fellow, Madam, is eaſier, and has always ſome⯑thing light and gay to entertain her with.
Very true, Sir Lively. Yet if I lov'd him, I think I could not have too much of his Com⯑pany; if not, too little.
How delicate her Sentiments are, and yet how tender!
I don't know what to make of this, tho'.—Nay, Madam, if you won't take what I ſay for granted, I have done. I never prove any thing; I only aſſert. If it hits right, well: If not, it gives me an Opportunity to pay a Compliment to a Lady's Underſtanding, by retracting what I aſſert, and owning myſelf convinc'd by her ſu⯑perior Senſe.
I'm afraid, Sir Lively, the Ladies are more oblig'd to their Sex, than Senſe, when they bring you over. But let's change this Diſcourſe. We grow too ſerious.
A Servant at my Houſe, ſay you, from my Uncle?
Yes, Sir, and he ſays he muſt ſee you im⯑mediately.
I come.
We ſhan't loſe you, Sir Lively!
Kind Soul! She can't be a Mo⯑ment without me.—No, Madam, I'll but juſt receive the old Gentleman's Commands, and re⯑turn, ſwift as my own Wiſhes—or yours.
This Opportunity is lucky. Draw off my Siſter.
Madam, you promis'd to ſhew me the fine Screen you bought for Lady Angelina this Morning.
That's true; 'tis but in the next Room. Come, Mr. Heartly, follow me, and I'll ſhew it you. 'Tis exceeding pretty.
I don't doubt it, Madam, if it be your Taſte.
Where are you gadding now?
But into the next Room.—My Bro⯑ther will be glad of this Opportunity.
If you ſtay there, I'll follow you.—What do they mean by leaving me alone!
I don't know how to begin. I never was at a Loſs before.
What ſhall I ſay to him? This Silence is worſe than any thing I can ſay. I don't know what to talk of.
—Methinks, they ſtay—very long,—Sir Harry.
I can never think the Time long, Madam, that furniſhes me with an Oppor⯑tunity of being alone with a Woman whoſe Con⯑verſation has equal Charms with her Perſon, and whoſe Perſon—
S--ir.
I'm dumb. I never put the honoura⯑ble Queſtion before, and am as aukward at it,
—I ſay, Madam, there is ſome⯑thing ſo ſoft in the Society of a Woman of Senſe and Beauty, that a Man, bleſs'd by Fortune in other Reſpects, wants nothing but to paſs his Life with ſuch a Companion, to be compleatly happy.
You differ very much, Sir Harry, from the fine Gentlemen of the Age, who ſeem not to [56] think Senſe in a Woman ſo eſſential to the mar⯑ried State.
Experience, Madam, is the Mother of true Judgment. Thoſe fine Gentlemen you mention, are either too young to judge right, or too much hurried by their Paſſions, which For⯑tune enables 'em to indulge to Exceſs, to follow what is right.
It muſt, however, give a thinking Wo⯑man ſome Pain, to find even Men of Senſe can't value them as they ought, till they are ſated with Pleaſures, and have loſt their Reliſh for them.
The Education of our Sex, ſo diffe⯑rent from that of yours, gives us ſuch early and unbounded Liberties, that a thinking Woman muſt look with Indulgence on our early Failings; eſpecially, ſince we are the principal Sufferers, in neglecting real Happineſs to follow the Phan⯑tom.
Come, come, Sir Harry, this Apology ought not to paſs for the ſenſible Part of your Sex, who ſtray in full Daylight.
Then, Madam, let me throw myſelf at your Feet, and acknowledge my Faults. Give me leave to thank you for putting me in the right Way, and allow me to conduct my future Steps, by your better Judgment.
What does he mean?—You rally me, Sir Harry.
Well may you think it ſo, Madam. The Looſeneſs of my former Life, which I've wanted even Diſcretion to hide, may make you call in queſtion my preſent more ſerious Reſolu⯑tions.
I muſt not hear you, Sir Harry.
Forgive me, Madam, if I detain you [57] againſt your Will. Let me be ſtill more plain; talk to your Senſe, and not your Sex. There never was any Perſon, how wild ſoever he may have been, but in his more ſerious Moments has form'd ſome Scheme of Happineſs for Life. How often, tho' perhaps you'll not believe it, have I pleas'd myſelf that the Time would come when I ſhould arrive at that happy Calm that fits one for ſuch a Life. Hitherto my Joys, however great, have been imperfect. Reflection will be heard, and lead, ſoon or late, to a right Way of Acting. What I have been, I would have every body forget; as much as I myſelf ſhall avoid henceforth to be. What I ſhall be, depends not on myſelf. The Scheme of Happineſs I now propoſe—
I muſt interrupt him, or he'll go too far.
—If that Scheme be a virtuous one, Sir Harry, I wiſh you Succeſs in it with all my Heart.
Bare Wiſhes, however kind, cannot compleat my Happineſs.
When Wiſhes are all we have—
There, Madam, I muſt contradict you.
What is he going to ſay!
The Scheme of Happineſs which I propoſe, is founded on that tender Friendſhip which the married State alone can entertain.
How I tremble!
But a Youth ſo inconſiderately ſpent as mine, ſcarce gives me Room to hope I ſhall be credited, when I aſſure you, I have long conceal'd a Paſſion, I ſcarce dare even now diſcover. Be not ſurpriz'd at this Confeſſion, Madam; how⯑ever ſtrange my Conduct may appear, it may, perhaps, hereafter be explain'd, could I but flat⯑ter myſelf that I ſhould find in you a Judge in⯑clin'd to hear me with a favourable Ear.
Preſs me no further, Sir Harry. One can never think too much on that, which muſt make one's future Happineſs or Miſery. Let it ſuffice, for this Time, I can ſee your good Qualities, thro' the Cloud of Paſſions that o'ercaſt them.
Then, Madam, be you the Sun, whoſe genial Warmth ſhall ripen them into Virtues. This is the Criſis of my Fate.
I little thought I ſpoke ſo true. Damn'd Jade! This muſt be ſome Meſſage from my Lady Traf⯑fick.
A Lady, ſay you, deſires to ſpeak with me, on ſomething that concerns me nearly!
Ay, 'tis ſo. The Devil!
What can this be? Something, I dare ſay, that relates to his Youth, too inconſiderately ſpent, indeed. Pray Heaven no body claims a Right to him.
—Conduct her to my Cloſet, I'll come inſtantly.
I ſhall be reveng'd now.
No matter for that.
Sir Harry, I muſt beg your Pardon for a little while, a particular Reaſon obliges me to leave you for a Moment. In next Room you'll find Mr. Heartly and your Siſter. I ſhall not ſtay.
Let me beg you wou'd not leave me, quite uncertain of my Fate. One Word might make me the happieſt of my Sex. Give me but Leave to hope.
Why ſhould I hide my Sentiments any longer? I do love him, and wiſh him mine.
—Well, Sir, I give you Permiſſion to believe as you wiſh.
On my Knees let me thank you. My Heart is eaſy now; I feel a Flow of Joy!—Oh Angelina, may I then hope to call you mine!
I'm ſure my Heart is eaſier than it was.
—Well, will you let me go now?
Yes, if you'll return quickly.
Well, well.
I think I've nothing to fear now.
ACT V.
[60]MR. Heartly, you've been taking a great deal of Pains to convince me of a Thing I never can believe.
What's that, pray, Madam?
Why, Sir, that you are capable of being in Love.
That's very hard, Madam. To be de⯑nied the Privilege of feeling what the meaneſt of my Sex feels, is ſomething tyrannical.
The meaneſt of your Sex! Profane Crea⯑ture! Can Love harbour in mean Breaſts?
Love, Madam, knows neither Birth nor Fortune. Where it finds a Soul capable of re⯑ceiving it, it lodges, and is as pleas'd to warm the meaneſt as the nobleſt Breaſt.
I don't know what Love you talk of.
The Love I talk of, Madam, is that Paſſion that fills us with generous Sentiments in Behalf of the Perſon we like; and if the meaneſt Artiſan, in Proportion to his Senſe and Under⯑ſtanding, feels ſuch Sentiments, he feels Love in its greateſt Delicacy.
You talk like an Oracle, Sir, I ſhall im⯑prove.
May I flatter myſelf, Madam, the Im⯑provement will be to my Advantage? It is but juſt, ſince you are pleas'd to own it will come from me.
Sir, you ſeem too intereſted in your Wiſh, to be capable of thoſe generous Sentiments you re⯑quire in a Lover.
If to wiſh to poſſeſs a Woman, who, to an agreeable Perſon, joins a ſuperior Underſtanding and Temper, fram'd to pleaſe and to be pleas'd, be to be intereſted, I own I am ſo, and glory in it. And if to theſe happy natural Circumſtances, I add the Conſideration that ſhe is Siſter to my Friend, nothing is wanting to compleat the Ful⯑neſs of my Joy; but—
But—but—what, Sir?
I wou'd read it in your Eyes,
but you withdraw 'em from me. 'Tis kindly done, if arm'd with Anger, not to let me ſee 'em; but unkind, if—
If—if—Lord, what are you going to ſay? Well, ſay what you will. I am not in a Humour to contradict you. There, now read.
Well—nay, if you're ſo tedious.
Tedious! O, I cou'd read for ever here. My Joy's too great for Words to give it Vent.
I have betray'd myſelf; he ſees too much.
—Come, Mr. Heartly, let's go to my Bro⯑ther and Angelina. What will they think of us?
I believe, Madam, they've thought as little of us, as we of them.
O Siſter, O Friend! If you refuſe me your Aſſiſtance now, my Peace of Mind is gone for ever.
What d'you mean, Brother? I never ſaw [62] you thus before. You ſeem too concern'd not to command our utmoſt. Speak!
Heartly, you remember the Story I told you this Morning. You'll explain it to my Siſter. I have no Time to loſe now. That Lady is now with Angelina; Revenge has puſh'd her to deſtroy my Hopes in her, whom I had juſt before brought to confeſs a Regard for me. I found a growing Paſſion in every Word and Look—but fear ſhall never ſee it more. She, by this, knows all my former fooliſh Engagement; and I know her Virtue is too delicate ever to conſent, were there but the Shadow of a Promiſe extant againſt me.
This is unfortunate, indeed. But I wou'd adviſe you to join them immediately. I'll but prepare your Siſter, and we'll follow you, Time enough, perhaps, to ſave you.
O Friend, I cannot ſtir. My Con⯑ſcience weighs me down; I can never face that in⯑jur'd, guiltleſs Woman, not dare behold the awe⯑ful Severity of Angelina's Looks. My Heart is torn betwixt conflicting Reſolutions. Virtue and Paſſion move me with ſuch equal Force, I can yield to neither; and to live divided thus—
Come, come, you muſt go. The Preſence of what we love, oft weakens the ſtrongeſt Argu⯑ment againſt us.
There is ſome Truth in that. Come, Brother, Mr. Heartly adviſes well.
Nay, I will be Maſter now.
You've heard my Story, Madam.
I've heard, indeed, too much.
What can you expect from one ſo void of Honour and of Truth?
What, indeed?
'Tis true, I cannot force him to marry me; but till I have diſengag'd him from his Vow, he cannot be another's.
Oh, no! If what you ſay is true; and there is but too much Reaſon to believe it, tho' I lov'd him better than ever Woman yet lov'd, I never wou'd be his: Nor will I build my Happi⯑neſs on your Misfortune.
I thank you, Madam, I expected no leſs from you.
Ha, he's here. Be firm, my Heart, and let me ſpeak my Wrongs, tho' I ſhou'd loſe him quite, and be for ever miſerable.
'Tis ſhe! Confuſion! I read my Fate in Angelina's Looks.
Here, Madam, he is, be you my Judge. If he denies a Word of what I ſay, let me be ſtill more wretched, if poſſible, than I am.—Sir—I cannot look at him, and ſpeak,—yet I muſt.—Sir, 'tis to you I ſpeak; anſwer me. Did you not rob me of my Innocence, under the ſolemn Promiſe of Marriage? Were not our Vows exchang'd, and mutually plighted to each other? Did you not break theſe Vows, al⯑moſt [64] aſſoon as made, and force me (tho' my Tears and faithful Love to you ſpoke my Reluctance) to give myſelf to another? Did you not even tempt me to violate the very Vows which you compell'd me to make? I was not quite ſo loſt to Virtue: Can you deny all this?—No. Your Silence juſtifies the Charge.
I ſee too plain it does, I want no other Proof.—Madam, believe I feel your Wrongs, as if they were my own. Compaſſion is the Glory of our Sex, and well becomes its Softneſs.—'Tis now too late, Sir Harry, to deny I had har⯑bour'd ſome favourable Sentiments of you. But tho' I have a Soul that can love, know it can com⯑bat any Sentiment which wrongs another or itſelf. You ſee, Sir, the Reaſon of my Conduct, and cannot cenſure my Juſtice.
I can't indeed. Your Sentence, Ma⯑dam, is juſt. The Wrongs I've done this Lady, whoſe only Fault was loving me too tenderly, merit the ſevereſt Puniſhment. You have it in your Power, and do inflict it. I've made one miſerable, (wou'd there were but one) 'tis juſt I ſhou'd be ſo myſelf. Lucia, you ſeem to be ſurpriz'd to ſee me with ſo calm a Look. Know, that I'm aſham'd of my inhuman Uſage of you, and will make any Amends within my Power. You ſought Revenge, you have it, and I blame you not. Cou'd Love once fled return, even that I'd give; for I have been a Savage to you, and wanted even Humanity to pity you.
Theſe Words, Sir Harry, at another Time, had made me the happieſt of my Sex; but now they ſerve to make me the moſt miſerable. I ſee, by ſad Experience, I render both myſelf and you unhappy. But I will tear this Tyrant Love, from my fond Boſom, ſince it can meet with no Return from yours.
Let me but tell you what Return you may expect.
What wou'd you tell me! I know you cannot love me. Were it in your Power, I do believe you wou'd. I know you are human, tender and good-natur'd: But wild Deſires, and unruly Paſſions tear up all that's generous in you, and leave you to a conſidering Mind, an Object of Compaſſion, even more than me.
Who could wrong ſuch Goodneſs!
Hear me, Sir Harry; 'tis, perhaps, for the laſt Time. I can never hate you. Hate you, did I ſay?—Ah no! I muſt for ever love you, ſpite of myſelf. 'Tis equitable too I ſhould. Thus, wiſe Providence will make my Crime my Puniſhment.
Call it not ſo. 'Twas I deceiv'd you. You believ'd me lawfully yours, and indulg'd a Fondneſs that well became your Youth and Paſſion. Add not to your unhappy Fate, a Crime you were not guilty of.
No more of that. For my own Peace I will avoid ſeeing you more. I give up all thoſe flattering Thoughts of Happineſs, with which I fed my poor deluded Heart! A Happineſs that was ſo great, it ſtifled all the Cries of Conſcience and of Honour. My future Care ſhall be to make my Peace with Heaven, and lead a Life, if poſſi⯑ble, without Miſery.
How contemptible do I appear to her ſuperior Merit!
I came hither with a Deſign to re⯑venge myſelf on you; but I have ſince reflected, I could not puniſh you, without involving more than the Guilty. Nay, I find I cannot have the Heart to puniſh you.
Generous Creature!
Hear me. Whilſt you continue free, [66] and diſengag'd, I ſhall ſtill think I have ſome Right to you; and, perhaps, indulge ſome fond Wiſhes that will only make me miſerable. Were you engag'd, the Knowledge that you cannot be mine, would ſtrengthen my Reaſon, and free my future Life from Conflicts, dangerous to my Peace of Mind.
Ha, what's that?
Madam, 'tis to you I now ſpeak. I told you of a Promiſe of Marriage from Sir Harry to me, made in early Youth. As we were both too young to judge of Happineſs when that Vow was made, I here acquit him of his Promiſe, and withdraw my own. He is now free.
This is too much; I'll never be outdone in Generoſity.
Lucia, you have indeed reveng'd yourſelf. This generous Action will never be for⯑got, nor ever be remember'd, but with Pain.
Hold, Sir. True Happineſs muſt be with⯑out Alloy. I ſhall never think of this Lady, but I ſhall look upon myſelf as a Bar to her Peace of Mind. And tho' thro' Exceſs of Goodneſs, which very Goodneſs ſhou'd confound you, ſhe can give up her Happineſs to procure that of the Man by whom ſhe's ruin'd, I never can conſent, and never will. Your Reaſon, Sir Harry, points the Path you have to follow, mine, which I am to avoid.
The Sentiment, Madam, is kind and generous. But my Miſery or Happineſs muſt henceforward depend upon myſelf alone; and I, Madam, will never be his. He is free.—Here, Sir Harry, is your Letter. I could almoſt wiſh I had never ſeen it; but ſince I have, let me beg you never to ſee that Perſon more. Her Paſſion is but young; ſhe yet may conquer it, if you avoid ſeeing her.
I never will.
Take Comfort, Madam. There are but few that know this fatal Secret. Believe me, Ma⯑dam, as delicate a Senſe of Virtue as I have, I do acquit you. Have Patience, you may yet be happy.
I will be govern'd by you. Your Leave, Madam, at preſent to retire. I am unfit to ſtay.
Yet more unfit to go. Make my Houſe your Home, till you are more recover'd. Betty, conduct the Lady out, I'll follow ſoon.
Poor Lady! ſhe well deſerves a better Fate.—We've overheard all. And now, my Dear,
I hope there remains nothing that may affect my Brother's Intereſt in your Heart.
Pity me, my Deareſt. Ladies, pity me, or wiſh me Joy, or both: For by this Light, I don't know whether I ſhould be glad or ſorry.
Why, what's the Matter, Sir Lively?
Nay, no great Matter.—You muſt not think of having me, Madam.
How, Sir Lively, why you are not mar⯑ried!
Not poſitively. But it looks very like it. Sir Harry, do you know my Uncle's rich Ward?
His Ward!
Ay, his Ward. What doſt ſtart at?
Do you mark your Brother's Surprize? I'll be hang'd if this Spouſe of Sir Lively is not the other mention'd juſt now.
So—And you have been there already?
Ay, that I have. Egad, I flew thither, Hark'ee, ſhe's a fine Woman, faith.
Well, and you ſaw her?
How he queſtions him!
Ay. But ſuch a Sight! I found her all in Tears, juſt recover'd from a fainting Fit. I ſup⯑poſe her Father's Letter, with the News of her ſudden Happineſs, diſorder'd her.
I fancy I cou'd give a better Reaſon for it.
But, egad, I never minded that. I made my Speech; and 'twas a pretty one, upon my Honour.
I believe you, Sir.
So cold! Perhaps, Sir, you are ſome ſecret Rival?
No, faith, Sir: And to prove that I have no Pretenſion to her, if this Lady, ſince you have told her ſhe muſt not think of you, were in⯑clin'd to believe ſhe has Charms enough to re⯑claim me—
I don't know whether I ought to venture. 'Tis a great Riſque, when Happineſs lies at Stake. But come, Sir Harry, 'tis too late now to go back. Here's my Hand. If I have Reaſon to repent, I can blame none but myſelf.
I dare venture to aſſure you, you will have none.
Muſt we be idle, Madam?
Is there ſo much haſte?
Madam, I'll wait your Leiſure.
D'you hear the Creature! Well, I'l puniſh you, I'm reſolv'd, and conſent at once Here, Sir, my Hand. Nay, take it, while I an in the Humour.
And not your Heart!
A Hand is eaſily recall'd, but a Heart once gone, is gone for ever.—But come, Sir, you ſeem to look as if you thought they both go together.
If they don't, Ned, 'tis no great Mat⯑ter. If one comes firſt, t'other will ſoon follow. Poor Rogues, they can't keep their Hearts long from us, when they've once made us Maſters of the Key to them. Ha, ha.
I'm impatient till I know what's done. I'll venture in.—Madam, did your Ladiſhip call?
No.
Has your Ladiſhip any more Commands?
No, Child, but I have. With your Leave, Madam.
You muſt command now.
I have a Man that has ſerv'd me long and faithfully. The Way of Life I am now going into, renders his Service uſeleſs to me. I long in⯑tended him a Farm of forty Pounds a Year. But as he will want a neat and clean Houſekeeper, to ſhare the Management of it, I have fix'd my Eyes on Mrs. Betty, your Woman, who ſeems to be cut out for an excellent Houſewife.
Are all my Hopes come to this!
Here, Tom.
Sirrah, what ſay you to a Farm of 40l. a Year, and a pretty Wife?
And a Child already got, I ſuppoſe.—Sir, for the Farm I return you my moſt grateful Acknowledgements, for that cannot but turn out a real Good and Advantage to me. How this other Freehold may prove, I can't tell.—But 'tis no [70] Matter.—I'll venture to take a Leaſe for Life. But hark'ee, my Dear, no Huſbandman but my⯑ſelf, d'you hear, no Labourer to help me to do my Work. I'll warrant thee, Girl, I'll keep thee in good Order myſelf.
Well, Tom, if thou art but as good as thy Word, I promiſe thee thou ſhalt reap the Fruits of No-body's Labour but thy own. But take heed. If like a lazy Lubbard you grow idle, and lee good Land run into Common, for want of enrich⯑ing the Soil as it ought, it will fall to the Lord of the Manor again, and then, you know, he has a Right to turn his own Cattle a grazing there.
Come, Madam, we are now engag'd in a Voyage for Life. 'Tis for both our Intereſts to make it agreeable and happy. I ſhall do my Endeavour to give you no Uneaſineſs. Let's for⯑get the paſt, and look forward.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 4011 The lady s revenge or the rover reclaim d A comedy As it is acted at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D474-9