Complete Works of William Congreve

by William Congreve

  Well then, the promised hour is come at last;

  The present age of wit obscures the past.

  Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ,

  Conqu’ring with force of arms and dint of wit.

  Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;

  And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood.

  Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured,

  With rules of husbandry the rankness cured,

  Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude,

  And boist’rous English wit with art indued.

  Our age was cultivated thus at length;

  But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.

  Our builders were with want of genius curst;

  The second temple was not like the first:

  Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,

  Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.

  Firm Doric pillars found your solid base,

  The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;

  Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.

  In easy dialogue is Fletcher’s praise:

  He moved the mind, but had no power to raise.

  Great Johnson did by strength of judgment please

  Yet doubling Fletcher’s force, he wants ease.

  In diff’ring talents both adorned their age;

  One for the study, t’other for the stage.

  But both to Congreve justly shall submit,

  One matched in judgment, both o’er-matched in wit.

  In him all beauties of this age we see,

  Etherege his courtship, Southern’s purity,

  The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly.

  All this in blooming youth you have achieved,

  Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved;

  So much the sweetness of your manners move,

  We cannot envy you, because we love.

  Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw

  A beardless consul made against the law,

  And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome;

  Though he with Hannibal was overcome.

  Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael’s fame,

  And scholar to the youth he taught became.

  O that your brows my laurel had sustained,

  Well had I been deposed if you had reigned!

  The father had descended for the son,

  For only you are lineal to the throne.

  Thus when the state one Edward did depose,

  A greater Edward in his room arose.

  But now, not I, but poetry is cursed;

  For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the First.

  But let ’em not mistake my patron’s part,

  Nor call his charity their own desert.

  Yet this I prophesy: Thou shalt be seen

  (Though with some short parenthesis between)

  High on the throne of wit; and seated there,

  Not mine (that’s little) but thy laurel wear.

  Thy first attempt an early promise made;

  That early promise this has more than paid.

  So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,

  That your least praise is to be regular.

  Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,

  But genius must be born, and never can be taught.

  This is your portion, this your native store,

  Heav’n, that but once was prodigal before,

  To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.

  Maintain your post: that’s all the fame you need;

  For ’tis impossible you should proceed.

  Already I am worn with cares and age,

  And just abandoning th’ ungrateful stage:

  Unprofitably kept at heav’n’s expense,

  I live a rent-charge on his providence.

  But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,

  Whom I foresee to better fortune born,

  Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend,

  Against your judgment, your departed friend!

  Let not th’ insulting foe my fame pursue;

  But shade those laurels which descend to you:

  And take for tribute what these lines express:

  You merit more; nor could my love do less.

  JOHN DRYDEN.

  PROLOGUE

  Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.

  Moors have this way (as story tells) to know

  Whether their brats are truly got or no;

  Into the sea the new-born babe is thrown,

  There, as instinct directs, to swim or drown.

  A barbarous device, to try if spouse

  Has kept religiously her nuptial vows.

  Such are the trials poets make of plays,

  Only they trust to more inconstant seas;

  So does our author, this his child commit

  To the tempestuous mercy of the pit,

  To know if it be truly born of wit.

  Critics avaunt, for you are fish of prey,

  And feed, like sharks, upon an infant play.

  Be ev’ry monster of the deep away;

  Let’s have a fair trial and a clear sea.

  Let nature work, and do not damn too soon,

  For life will struggle long e’er it sink down:

  And will at least rise thrice before it drown.

  Let us consider, had it been our fate,

  Thus hardly to be proved legitimate:

  I will not say, we’d all in danger been,

  Were each to suffer for his mother’s sin:

  But by my troth I cannot avoid thinking,

  How nearly some good men might have ‘scaped sinking.

  But, heav’n be praised, this custom is confined

  Alone to th’ offspring of the muses kind:

  Our Christian cuckolds are more bent to pity;

  I know not one Moor-husband in the city.

  I’ th’ good man’s arms the chopping bastard thrives,

  For he thinks all his own that is his wives’.

  Whatever fate is for this play designed,

  The poet’s sure he shall some comfort find:

  For if his muse has played him false, the worst

  That can befall him, is, to be divorced:

  You husbands judge, if that be to be cursed.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  MEN.

  Maskwell, a villain; pretended friend to Mellefont, gallant to Lady Touchwood, and in love with Cynthia, — Mr. Betterton.

  Lord Touchwood, uncle to Mellefont, — Mr. Kynaston.

  Mellefont, promised to, and in love with Cynthia, — Mr. Williams.

  Careless, his friend, — Mr. Verbruggen.

  Lord Froth, a solemn coxcomb, — Mr. Bowman.

  Brisk, a pert coxcomb, — Mr. Powell.

  Sir Paul Plyant, an uxorious, foolish old knight; brother to Lady Touchwood, and father to Cynthia, — Mr. Dogget.

  WOMEN.

  Lady Touchwood, in love with Mellefont, — Mrs. Barry.

  Cynthia, daughter to Sir Paul by a former wife, promised to Mellefont, — Mrs. Bracegirdle.

  Lady Froth, a great coquette; pretender to poetry, wit, and learning, — Mrs. Mountfort.

  Lady Plyant, insolent to her husband, and easy to any pretender, — Mrs. Leigh.

  Chaplain, Boy, Footmen, and Attendants.

  The Scene: A gallery in the Lord Touchwood’s house, with chambers adjoining.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I.

  A gallery in the Lord Touchwood’s home, with chambers adjoining.

  Enter Careless, crossing the stage, with his hat, gloves, and sword in his hands; as just risen from table: Mellefont following him.

  MEL. Ned, Ned, whither so fast? What, turned flincher! Why, you wo’ not leave us?

  CARE. Where are the women? I’m weary of guzzling, and begin to think them the better company.

  MEL. Then thy reason staggers, and thou’rt almost d
runk.

  CARE. No, faith, but your fools grow noisy; and if a man must endure the noise of words without sense, I think the women have more musical voices, and become nonsense better.

  MEL. Why, they are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom, after dinner. But I made a pretence to follow you, because I had something to say to you in private, and I am not like to have many opportunities this evening.

  CARE. And here’s this coxcomb most critically come to interrupt you.

  SCENE II.

  [To them] Brisk.

  BRISK. Boys, boys, lads, where are you? What, do you give ground? Mortgage for a bottle, ha? Careless, this is your trick; you’re always spoiling company by leaving it.

  CARE. And thou art always spoiling company by coming in o’t.

  BRISK. Pooh, ha, ha, ha, I know you envy me. Spite, proud spite, by the gods! and burning envy. I’ll be judged by Mellefont here, who gives and takes raillery better than you or I. Pshaw, man, when I say you spoil company by leaving it, I mean you leave nobody for the company to laugh at. I think there I was with you. Ha, Mellefont?

  MEL. O’ my word, Brisk, that was a home thrust; you have silenced him.

  BRISK. Oh, my dear Mellefont, let me perish if thou art not the soul of conversation, the very essence of wit and spirit of wine. The deuce take me if there were three good things said, or one understood, since thy amputation from the body of our society. He, I think that’s pretty and metaphorical enough; i’gad I could not have said it out of thy company. Careless, ha?

  CARE. Hum, ay, what is’t?

  BRISK. O mon cœur! What is’t! Nay, gad, I’ll punish you for want of apprehension. The deuce take me if I tell you.

  MEL. No, no, hang him, he has no taste. But, dear Brisk, excuse me, I have a little business.

  CARE. Prithee get thee gone; thou seest we are serious.

  MEL. We’ll come immediately, if you’ll but go in and keep up good humour and sense in the company. Prithee do, they’ll fall asleep else.

  BRISK. I’gad, so they will. Well, I will, I will; gad, you shall command me from the Zenith to the Nadir. But the deuce take me if I say a good thing till you come. But prithee, dear rogue, make haste, prithee make haste, I shall burst else. And yonder your uncle, my Lord Touchwood, swears he’ll disinherit you, and Sir Paul Plyant threatens to disclaim you for a son-in-law, and my Lord Froth won’t dance at your wedding to-morrow; nor, the deuce take me, I won’t write your Epithalamium — and see what a condition you’re like to be brought to.

  MEL. Well, I’ll speak but three words, and follow you.

  BRISK. Enough, enough. Careless, bring your apprehension along with you.

  SCENE III.

  Mellefont, Careless.

  CARE. Pert coxcomb.

  MEL. Faith, ’tis a good-natured coxcomb, and has very entertaining follies. You must be more humane to him; at this juncture it will do me service. I’ll tell you, I would have mirth continued this day at any rate; though patience purchase folly, and attention be paid with noise, there are times when sense may be unseasonable as well as truth. Prithee do thou wear none to-day, but allow Brisk to have wit, that thou may’st seem a fool.

  CARE. Why, how now, why this extravagant proposition?

  MEL. Oh, I would have no room for serious design, for I am jealous of a plot. I would have noise and impertinence keep my Lady Touchwood’s head from working: for hell is not more busy than her brain, nor contains more devils than that imaginations.

  CARE. I thought your fear of her had been over. Is not to-morrow appointed for your marriage with Cynthia, and her father, Sir Paul Plyant, come to settle the writings this day on purpose?

  MEL. True; but you shall judge whether I have not reason to be alarmed. None besides you and Maskwell are acquainted with the secret of my Aunt Touchwood’s violent passion for me. Since my first refusal of her addresses she has endeavoured to do me all ill offices with my uncle, yet has managed ’em with that subtilty, that to him they have borne the face of kindness; while her malice, like a dark lanthorn, only shone upon me where it was directed. Still, it gave me less perplexity to prevent the success of her displeasure than to avoid the importunities of her love, and of two evils I thought myself favoured in her aversion. But whether urged by her despair and the short prospect of time she saw to accomplish her designs; whether the hopes of revenge, or of her love, terminated in the view of this my marriage with Cynthia, I know not, but this morning she surprised me in my bed.

  CARE. Was there ever such a fury! ’Tis well nature has not put it into her sex’s power to ravish. Well, bless us, proceed. What followed?

  MEL. What at first amazed me — for I looked to have seen her in all the transports of a slighted and revengeful woman — but when I expected thunder from her voice, and lightning in her eyes, I saw her melted into tears and hushed into a sigh. It was long before either of us spoke: passion had tied her tongue, and amazement mine. In short, the consequence was thus, she omitted nothing that the most violent love could urge, or tender words express; which when she saw had no effect, but still I pleaded honour and nearness of blood to my uncle, then came the storm I feared at first, for, starting from my bed-side like a fury, she flew to my sword, and with much ado I prevented her doing me or herself a mischief. Having disarmed her, in a gust of passion she left me, and in a resolution, confirmed by a thousand curses, not to close her eyes till they had seen my ruin.

  CARE. Exquisite woman! But what the devil, does she think thou hast no more sense than to get an heir upon her body to disinherit thyself? for as I take it this settlement upon you is, with a proviso, that your uncle have no children.

  MEL. It is so. Well, the service you are to do me will be a pleasure to yourself: I must get you to engage my Lady Plyant all this evening, that my pious aunt may not work her to her interest. And if you chance to secure her to yourself, you may incline her to mine. She’s handsome, and knows it; is very silly, and thinks she has sense, and has an old fond husband.

  CARE. I confess, a very fair foundation for a lover to build upon.

  MEL. For my Lord Froth, he and his wife will be sufficiently taken up with admiring one another and Brisk’s gallantry, as they call it. I’ll observe my uncle myself, and Jack Maskwell has promised me to watch my aunt narrowly, and give me notice upon any suspicion. As for Sir Paul, my wise father-in-law that is to be, my dear Cynthia has such a share in his fatherly fondness, he would scarce make her a moment uneasy to have her happy hereafter.

  CARE. So you have manned your works; but I wish you may not have the weakest guard where the enemy is strongest.

  MEL. Maskwell, you mean; prithee why should you suspect him?

  CARE. Faith I cannot help it; you know I never liked him: I am a little superstitious in physiognomy.

  MEL. He has obligations of gratitude to bind him to me: his dependence upon my uncle is through my means.

  CARE. Upon your aunt, you mean.

  MEL. My aunt!

  CARE. I’m mistaken if there be not a familiarity between them you do not suspect, notwithstanding her passion for you.

  MEL. Pooh, pooh! nothing in the world but his design to do me service; and he endeavours to be well in her esteem, that he may be able to effect it.

  CARE. Well, I shall be glad to be mistaken; but your aunt’s aversion in her revenge cannot be any way so effectually shown as in bringing forth a child to disinherit you. She is handsome and cunning and naturally wanton. Maskwell is flesh and blood at best, and opportunities between them are frequent. His affection to you, you have confessed, is grounded upon his interest, that you have transplanted; and should it take root in my lady, I don’t see what you can expect from the fruit.

  MEL. I confess the consequence is visible, were your suspicions just. But see, the company is broke up, let’s meet ’em.

  SCENE IV.

  [To them] Lord Touchwood, Lord Froth, Sir Paul Plyant, and Brisk.

  LORD TOUCH. Out upo
n’t, nephew. Leave your father-in-law and me to maintain our ground against young people!

  MEL. I beg your lordship’s pardon. We were just returning.

  SIR PAUL. Were you, son? Gadsbud, much better as it is. Good, strange! I swear I’m almost tipsy; t’other bottle would have been too powerful for me, — as sure as can be it would. We wanted your company, but Mr. Brisk — where is he? I swear and vow he’s a most facetious person, and the best company. And, my Lord Froth, your lordship is so merry a man, he, he, he.

  LORD FROTH. Oh, foy, Sir Paul, what do you mean? Merry! Oh, barbarous! I’d as lieve you called me fool.

  SIR PAUL. Nay, I protest and vow now, ’tis true; when Mr. Brisk jokes, your lordship’s laugh does so become you, he, he, he.

  LORD FROTH. Ridiculous! Sir Paul, you’re strangely mistaken, I find champagne is powerful. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody’s jest but my own, or a lady’s, I assure you, Sir Paul.

  BRISK. How? how, my lord? what, affront my wit! Let me perish, do I never say anything worthy to be laughed at?

  LORD FROTH. Oh, foy, don’t misapprehend me; I don’t say so, for I often smile at your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to laugh; ’tis such a vulgar expression of the passion; everybody can laugh. Then especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when anybody else of the same quality does not laugh with one — ridiculous! To be pleased with what pleases the crowd! Now when I laugh, I always laugh alone.