Each husband would be a physician.
SCENE XIX.
SIR JASPER, GREGORY, DORCAS, JAMES.
JAMES. Oh sir! undone, undone! Your daughter is run away with her lover Leander who was here disguised like an apothecary — and this is the rogue of a physician who has contrived all the affair.
SIR JASPER. How! am I abused in this matter? Here who is there? Bid my clerk bring pen ink, and paper! I’ll send this fellow to jail immediately.
JAMES. Indeed, my good Doctor, you stand a very fair chance to be hanged for stealing an heiress.
GREGORY. Yes, indeed, I believe I shall take my degrees now.
DORCAS. And are they going to hang you, my dear husband?
GREGORY. You see my dear wife —
DORCAS. Had you finished the fagots, it had been some consolation.
GREGORY. Leave me or you’ll break my heart.
DORCAS. No, I’ll stay to encourage you at your death — nor will I budge an inch till I’ve seen you hanged
SCENE XX.
To them, LEANDER and CHARLOTTE.
LEANDER. Behold, sir that Leander, whom you had forbid your house, restores your daughter to your poorer, even when he had her in his. I will receive her, sir only at your hands. — I hare received letters, by which I have learnt the death of an uncle, whose estate far exceeds that of your intended son-in-law.
SIR JASPER. Sir your virtue is beyond ail estates, and I give you my daughter with all the pleasure in the world.
LEANDER. Now my fortune makes me happy indeed, my dearest Charlotte. — And, Doctor. I’ll make thy fortune too.
GREGORY. If you would be so kind to make me a physician in earnest. I should desire no other fortune.
LEANDEE. Faith, Doctor, I wish I could do that in return for your having made me an apothecary: but I’II do as well for thee, I warrant.
DORCAS. So, so, our physician. I find, has brought about fine matters. And is it not owing to me sirrah, that you have been a physician at all?
SIR JASPER. May I beg to know whether you are a phvsician or not — or what the devil are you?
GREGORY. I think, sir after the miraculous cure you have seen me perform, you have no reason to ask whether I am a physician or no. — And for you wife. I’ll henceforth have you behave with all deference to my greatness.
DORCAS. Why, thou puffed-up fool, I could have made as good a physician myself; the cure was owing to the apothecary, not the doctor.
AIR IX. We’ve cheated the Parson, &c.
When tender young virgins look pale and complain,
You may send for a dozen great doctors in vain;
All give their opinion, and pocket their fees;
Each writes her a cure, though all miss her disease;
Powders, drops,
Juleps, slops,
A cargo of poison from physical shops.
Though they physic to death the unhappy poor maid,
What’s that to the doetor — since he must be paid?
Would you know how you may manage her right?
Our doctor has brought you a nostrum to-night:
Never vary,
Nor misearry,
If the lover be but the apothecary.
EPILOGUE
WELL, ladies, pray how goes our doctor down?
Shall he not e’en be sent for up to town?
‘Tis such a pleasant and audacious rogue,
He’d have a humming chance to be in vogue.
What, though no Greek or Latin he command,
Since he can talk what none can understand?
Ah! there are many such physicians in the land.
And what, though he has taken no degrees?
No doctor here can better take — his fees.
Let none his real ignorance despise,
Since he can feel a pulse, and — look extremely wise.
Though, like some quack, he shine out in newspapers,”
He is a rare physician for the vapours.
Ah! ladies, in that case, he has more knowledge
Than all the ancient fellows of the college.
Besides, a double calling he pursues,
He writes you bills, and brings you — billet-doux.
Doctors, with some, are in small estimation,
But pimps, all own, are useful to the nation.
Physic now slackens, and now hastens death;
Pimping’s the surest way of giving breath.
How many maids, who pine away their hours.
And droop in beauteous spring, like blasted flowers,
Had still survived, had they our doctor known;
Widows, who grieve to death, for husbands gone;
And wives, who die, for husbands living on;
Would they our mighty doctor’s art assay,
I’d warrant he — would put ‘em in a way.
Doctors, beware, should once this quack take root,
I’gad he’d force you all to walk on foot!
THE MISE R
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
EPILOGUE
TO HIS GRACE CHARLES
DUKE OF RICHMOND AND LENNOX
MY LORD,
As there is scarce any vanity more general than that of desiring to be thought well received by the Great, pardon me if I take the first opportunity of boasting the countenance I have met with from one who is an honour to the high rank in which he is born. The Muses, my Lord, stand in need of such protectors; nor do I know under whose protection I can so properly introduce Molière as that of your Grace, to whom he is as familiar in his own language as in ours.
The pleasure which I may be supposed to receive from an extraordinary success in so difficult an undertaking, must be indeed complete by your approbation. The perfect knowledge which your Grace is known to have of the manners, habits, and taste of that nation whence this play was derived, makes you the properest judge, wherein I have judiciously kept up to, or departed from, the original. The theatre hath declared loudly in favour of the Miser; and you, my Lord, are to decide what share the translator merits in the applause.
I shall not grow tedious, by entering into the usual style of Dedications; for my pen cannot accompany my heart when I speak of your Grace; and I am now writing to the only person living to whom such a panegyric would be displeasing. Therefore I shall beg leave to conclude with the highest on myself, by affirming that it is my greatest ambition to be thought,
My Lord,
Your Grace’s most obliged
And most obedient humble servant,
HENRY FIELDING.
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN BY A FRIEND; SPOKEN BY MR. BRIDGEWATER.
Too long the slighted Comic Muse has mourned,
Her face quite altered, and her heart o’erturned;
That force of nature now no more she sees,
With which so well her Jonson knew to please.
No characters from nature now we trace;
All serve to empty books of common-place:
Our modern bards, who to assemblies stray,
Frequent the park, the visit, or the play,
Regard not what fools do, but what wits say.
Just they retail each quibble to the town,
That surely must admire what is its own.
Thus, without characters from nature got,
Without a moral, and without a plot,
A dull collection of insipid jokes,
Some stole from conversation, some from books,
Provided lords and ladies give ‘em vent,
‘We call high Comedy, and seem content.
But to regale with other sort of fare,
To-night our author treats you with Molière.
Molière, who nature’s inmost secrets knew;
Whose justest pen, like Kneller’s pencil, drew.
In who
se strong scenes all characters are shown,
Not by low jests, but actions of their own.
Happy our English bard, if your applause
Grant h’as not injured the French author’s cause.
From that alone arises all his fear;
He must be safe, if he has saved Molière.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
MEN
LOVEGOLD, the Miser — Mr. Griffin.
FREDERICK, his Son — Mr. Bridgewater.
CLERMONT — Mr. Mills, Jun.
RAMILIE, Servant to Frederick — Mr. Cibber, Jun.
MR. DECOY, a Broker... — Mr. Oates.
MR. FURNISH, an Upholsterer — Mr. Fielding.
MR. SPARKLE, a Jeweller — Mr. Berry.
MR. SATTIN, a Mercer — Mr. Grey.
MR. LIST, a Tailor — Mr. Oates.
CHARLES BUBBLEBOY — Mr. Mullart.
A LAWYER — Mr. Mullart.
WOMEN
HARRIET, Daughter to Lovegold — Mrs. Butler.
MRS. WISELY — Mrs. Grace.
MARIANA — Mrs. Horton.
LAPPET, Maid to Harriet — Mrs. Raftor.
WHEEDLE, Maid to Mariana — Mrs. Mullart.
Servants, etc.
SCENE. — LONDON.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
LOVEGOLD’S Rouse.
LAPPET, RAMILIE.
LAPPET. I’ll hear no more. Perfidious fellow! Have I for thee slighted so many good matches? Have I for thee turned off Sir Oliver’s steward, and my Lord Landy’s butler, and several others, thy betters, and all to be affronted in so public a manner?
RAMILIE. Do but hear me, madam.
LAPPET. If thou wouldst have neglected me, was there nobody else to dance a minuet with but Mrs. Susan Crossstitch, whom you know to be my utter aversion?
RAMILIE. Curse on all balls! henceforth I shall hate the sound of a violin.
LAPPET. I have more reason, I am sure, after having been the jest of the whole company; what must they think of me, when they see you, after I have countenanced your addresses in the eye of the world, take out another lady before me?
RAMILIE. I’m sure the world must think worse of me, did they imagine, madam, I could prefer any other to you.
LAPPET. None of your wheedling, sir; that won’t do. If you ever hope to speak to me more, let me see you affront the little minx in the next assembly you meet her.
RAMILIE. I’ll do it; and luckily, you know, we are to have a ball at my Lord Landy’s the first night he lies out of town, where I’ll give your revenge ample satisfaction.
LAPPET. On that condition I pardon you this time; but if ever you do the like again —
RAMILIE. May I be banished for ever from those dear eyes, and be turned out of the family while you live in it.
SCENE II.
LAPPET, WHEEDLE, RAMILIE.
WHEEDLE. Dear Mrs. Lappet!
LAPPET. My dear, this is extremely kind.
WHEEDLE. It is what all your acquaintance must do that expect to see you. It is in vain to hope for the favour of a visit.
LAPPET. Nay, dear creature, now you are barbarous; my young lady has stayed at home so much, I have not had one moment to myself; the first time I had gone out, I am sure, madam, would have been to wait on Mrs. Wheedle.
WHEEDLE. My lady has stayed at home, too, pretty much lately. Oh! Mr. Bamilie, are you confined too? your master does not stay at home, I am sure; he can find the way to our house though you can’t.
RAMILIE. That is the only happiness, madam, I envy him; but faith! I don’t know how it is in this parliament time, one’s whole days are so taken up in the Court of Bequest, and one’s evenings at Quadrille, the deuce take me if I have seen one opera since I came to town. Oh! now I mention operas, if you have a mind to see Cato, I believe I can steal my master’s silver ticket; for I know he is engaged to-morrow with some gentlemen, who never leave their bottle for music.
LAPPET. Ah, the savages.
WHEEDLE. No one can say that of you, Mr. Ramilie, you prefer music to every thing —
RAMILIE. — But the ladies. [Bell rings.] So, there’s my summons.
LAPPET. Well, but shall we never have a party of Quadrille more?
WHEEDLE. O, don’t name it. I have worked my eyes out since I saw you; for my lady has taken a whim of flourishing in all her old cambric pinners and handkerchiefs; in short, my dear, no journey woman sempstress is half so much a slave as I am.
LAPPET. Why do you stay with her?
WHEEDLE. La, child, where can one better one’s self? All the ladies of our acquaintance are just the same. Besides, there are some little things that make amends; my lady has a whole train of admirers.
RAMILIE. That, madam, is the only circumstance wherein she has the honour of resembling you. [Bell rings louder.] You hear, madam, I am obliged to leave you — [Bell rings.] So, so, so, would the bell were in your guts!
SCENE III.
LAPPET, WHEEDLE.
LAPPET. Oh! Wheedle! I am quite sick of this family; the old gentleman grows more covetous every day he lives. Every thing is under lock and key; I can scarce ask you to eat or drink.
WHEEDLE. Thank you, my dear; but I have drank half a dozen dishes of chocolate already this morning.
LAPPET. Well; but, my dear, I have a whole budget of news to tell you. I have made some notable discoveries.
WHEEDLE. Pray let us hear them. I have some secrets of our family too, which you shall know by and by. What a pleasure there is in having a friend to tell these things to.
LAPPET. You know, my dear, last summer my young lady had the misfortune to be overset in a boat between Richmond and Twickenham, and that a certain young gentleman, plunging immediately into the water, saved her life at the hazard of his own — Oh! I shall never forget the figure she made at her return home, so wet, so draggled — ha, ha, ha!
WHEEDLE. Yes, my dear, I know how all your fine ladies look, when they are never so little disordered — they have no need to be so vain of themselves.
LAPPET. You are no stranger to my master’s way of rewarding people; when the poor gentleman brought Miss home, my master meets them at the door, and without asking any question, very civilly shuts it against him. Well, for a whole fortnight afterwards I was continually entertained with the young spark’s bravery, and gallantry, and generosity, and beauty.
WHEEDLE. I can easily guess; I suppose she was rather warmed than cooled by the water. These mistresses of ours, for all their pride, are made of just the same flesh and blood as we are.
LAPPET. About a month ago my young lady goes to the play in an undress, and takes me with her. We sat in Burton’s box, where, as the devil would have it, whom should we meet with but this very gentleman: her blushes soon discovered to me who he was; in short, the gentleman entertained her the whole play, and I much mistake if ever she was so agreeably entertained in her life. Well, as we were going out, a rude fellow thrust his hand into my lady’s bosom; upon which her champion fell upon him, and did so maul him — My lady fainted away in my arms; but as soon as she came to herself — had you seen how she looked on him. Ah! sir, says she, in a mighty pretty tone, sure you were born for my deliverance: he handed her into a hackney-coach, and set us down at home. From this moment letters began to fly on both sides.
WHEEDLE. And you took care to see the post paid, I hope?
LAPPET. Never fear that. — And now what do you think we have contrived among us? We have got this very gentleman into the house in the quality of my master’s clerk.
WHEEDLE. So! here’s find billing and cooing, I warrant; miss is in a fine condition.
LAPPET. Her condition is pretty much as it was. How long it will continue so, I know not. I am making up my matters as fast as I can; for this house holds not me after the discovery.
WHEEDLE. I think you have no great reason to lament the loss of a place where the master keeps his own keys.
LAPPET. The devil take the first inventor of locks, say I: but come, my dear,
there is one key which I keep, and that, I believe, will furnish us with some sweetmeats; so if you will walk in with me, I’ll tell you a secret which concerns your family. It is in your power, perhaps, to be serviceable to me; I hope, my dear, you will keep these secrets safe: for one would not have it known that one publishes all the affairs of a family while one stays in it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV
A Garden.
CLERMONT, HARRIET.
CLERMONT. Why are you melancholy, my dear Harriet? do you repent that promise of yours, which has made me the happiest of mankind?
HARRIET. You little know my heart, if you can think it capable of repenting any thing I have done towards your happiness; if I am melancholy, it is that I have it not in my power to make you as happy as I would.
CLERMONT. Thou art too bounteous. Every tender word, from those dear lips, lays obligations on me I never can repay; but if to love, to dote on you more than life itself, to watch your eyes that I may obey your wishes before you speak them, can discharge me from any part of that vast debt I owe you, I will be punctual in the payment.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 299
