Complete Works of William Congreve

by William Congreve

  SCAN. Mum, Tattle.

  VAL. ‘Sdeath, are not you ashamed?

  ANG. O barbarous! I never heard so insolent a piece of vanity. Fie, Mr. Tattle; I’ll swear I could not have believed it. Is this your secrecy?

  TATT. Gadso, the heat of my story carried me beyond my discretion, as the heat of the lady’s passion hurried her beyond her reputation. But I hope you don’t know whom I mean; for there was a great many ladies raffled. Pox on’t, now could I bite off my tongue.

  SCAN. No, don’t; for then you’ll tell us no more. Come, I’ll recommend a song to you upon the hint of my two proverbs, and I see one in the next room that will sing it. [Goes to the door.]

  TATT. For heaven’s sake, if you do guess, say nothing; Gad, I’m very unfortunate.

  SCAN. Pray sing the first song in the last new play.

  SONG.

  Set by Mr. John Eccles.

  I.

  A nymph and a swain to Apollo once prayed,

  The swain had been jilted, the nymph been betrayed:

  Their intent was to try if his oracle knew

  E’er a nymph that was chaste, or a swain that was true.

  II.

  Apollo was mute, and had like t’have been posed,

  But sagely at length he this secret disclosed:

  He alone won’t betray in whom none will confide,

  And the nymph may be chaste that has never been tried.

  SCENE IV.

  [To them] Sir Sampson, Mrs. Frail, Miss Prue, and Servant.

  SIR SAMP. Is Ben come? Odso, my son Ben come? Odd, I’m glad on’t. Where is he? I long to see him. Now, Mrs. Frail, you shall see my son Ben. Body o’ me, he’s the hopes of my family. I han’t seen him these three years — I warrant he’s grown. Call him in, bid him make haste. I’m ready to cry for joy.

  MRS. FRAIL. Now Miss, you shall see your husband.

  MISS. Pish, he shall be none of my husband. [Aside to Frail.]

  MRS. FRAIL. Hush. Well he shan’t; leave that to me. I’ll beckon Mr. Tattle to us.

  ANG. Won’t you stay and see your brother?

  VAL. We are the twin stars, and cannot shine in one sphere; when he rises I must set. Besides, if I should stay, I don’t know but my father in good nature may press me to the immediate signing the deed of conveyance of my estate; and I’ll defer it as long as I can. Well, you’ll come to a resolution.

  ANG. I can’t. Resolution must come to me, or I shall never have one.

  SCAN. Come, Valentine, I’ll go with you; I’ve something in my head to communicate to you.

  SCENE V.

  Angelica, Sir Sampson, Tattle, Mrs. Frail, Miss Prue.

  SIR SAMP. What, is my son Valentine gone? What, is he sneaked off, and would not see his brother? There’s an unnatural whelp! There’s an ill-natured dog! What, were you here too, madam, and could not keep him? Could neither love, nor duty, nor natural affection oblige him? Odsbud, madam, have no more to say to him, he is not worth your consideration. The rogue has not a drachm of generous love about him — all interest, all interest; he’s an undone scoundrel, and courts your estate: body o’ me, he does not care a doit for your person.

  ANG. I’m pretty even with him, Sir Sampson; for if ever I could have liked anything in him, it should have been his estate too; but since that’s gone, the bait’s off, and the naked hook appears.

  SIR SAMP. Odsbud, well spoken, and you are a wiser woman than I thought you were, for most young women now-a-days are to be tempted with a naked hook.

  ANG. If I marry, Sir Sampson, I’m for a good estate with any man, and for any man with a good estate; therefore, if I were obliged to make a choice, I declare I’d rather have you than your son.

  SIR SAMP. Faith and troth, you’re a wise woman, and I’m glad to hear you say so; I was afraid you were in love with the reprobate. Odd, I was sorry for you with all my heart. Hang him, mongrel, cast him off; you shall see the rogue show himself, and make love to some desponding Cadua of fourscore for sustenance. Odd, I love to see a young spendthrift forced to cling to an old woman for support, like ivy round a dead oak; faith I do, I love to see ’em hug and cotton together, like down upon a thistle.

  SCENE VI.

  [To them] Ben Legend and Servant.

  BEN. Where’s father?

  SERV. There, sir, his back’s toward you.

  SIR SAMP. My son Ben! Bless thee, my dear body. Body o’ me, thou art heartily welcome.

  BEN. Thank you, father, and I’m glad to see you.

  SIR SAMP. Odsbud, and I’m glad to see thee; kiss me, boy, kiss me again and again, dear Ben. [Kisses him.]

  BEN. So, so, enough, father, Mess, I’d rather kiss these gentlewomen.

  SIR SAMP. And so thou shalt. Mrs. Angelica, my son Ben.

  BEN. Forsooth, if you please. [Salutes her.] Nay, mistress, I’m not for dropping anchor here; about ship, i’faith. [Kisses Frail.] Nay, and you too, my little cock-boat — so [Kisses Miss].

  TATT. Sir, you’re welcome ashore.

  BEN. Thank you, thank you, friend.

  SIR SAMP. Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, since I saw thee.

  BEN. Ay, ay, been! Been far enough, an’ that be all. Well, father, and how do all at home? How does brother Dick, and brother Val?

  SIR SAMP. Dick — body o’ me — Dick has been dead these two years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn.

  BEN. Mess, that’s true; marry! I had forgot. Dick’s dead, as you say. Well, and how? I have a many questions to ask you. Well, you ben’t married again, father, be you?

  SIR SAMP. No; I intend you shall marry, Ben; I would not marry for thy sake.

  BEN. Nay, what does that signify? An’ you marry again — why then, I’ll go to sea again, so there’s one for t’other, an’ that be all. Pray don’t let me be your hindrance — e’en marry a God’s name, an the wind sit that way. As for my part, mayhap I have no mind to marry.

  FRAIL. That would be pity — such a handsome young gentleman.

  BEN. Handsome! he, he, he! nay, forsooth, an you be for joking, I’ll joke with you, for I love my jest, an’ the ship were sinking, as we sayn at sea. But I’ll tell you why I don’t much stand towards matrimony. I love to roam about from port to port, and from land to land; I could never abide to be port-bound, as we call it. Now, a man that is married has, as it were, d’ye see, his feet in the bilboes, and mayhap mayn’t get them out again when he would.

  SIR SAMP. Ben’s a wag.

  BEN. A man that is married, d’ye see, is no more like another man than a galley-slave is like one of us free sailors; he is chained to an oar all his life, and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the bargain.

  SIR SAMP. A very wag — Ben’s a very wag; only a little rough, he wants a little polishing.

  MRS. FRAIL. Not at all; I like his humour mightily: it’s plain and honest — I should like such a humour in a husband extremely.

  BEN. Say’n you so, forsooth? Marry, and I should like such a handsome gentlewoman for a bed-fellow hugely. How say you, mistress, would you like going to sea? Mess, you’re a tight vessel, an well rigged, an you were but as well manned.

  MRS. FRAIL. I should not doubt that if you were master of me.

  BEN. But I’ll tell you one thing, an you come to sea in a high wind, or that lady — you may’nt carry so much sail o’ your head — top and top gallant, by the mess.

  MRS. FRAIL. No, why so?

  BEN. Why, an you do, you may run the risk to be overset, and then you’ll carry your keels above water, he, he, he!

  ANG. I swear, Mr. Benjamin is the veriest wag in nature — an absolute sea-wit.

  SIR SAMP. Nay, Ben has parts, but as I told you before, they want a little polishing. You must not take anything ill, madam.

  BEN. No, I hope the gentlewoman is not angry; I mean all in good part, for if I give a jest, I’ll take a jest, and so forsooth you may be as free with me.

  ANG. I thank you, sir, I am not at all offended. But methinks, Sir Sampson, you should
leave him alone with his mistress. Mr. Tattle, we must not hinder lovers.

  TATT. Well, Miss, I have your promise. [Aside to Miss.]

  SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, madam, you say true. Look you, Ben, this is your mistress. Come, Miss, you must not be shame-faced; we’ll leave you together.

  MISS. I can’t abide to be left alone; mayn’t my cousin stay with me?

  SIR SAMP. No, no. Come, let’s away.

  BEN. Look you, father, mayhap the young woman mayn’t take a liking to me.

  SIR SAMP. I warrant thee, boy: come, come, we’ll be gone; I’ll venture that.

  SCENE VII.

  Ben, and Miss Prue.

  BEN. Come mistress, will you please to sit down? for an you stand a stern a that’n, we shall never grapple together. Come, I’ll haul a chair; there, an you please to sit, I’ll sit by you.

  MISS. You need not sit so near one, if you have anything to say, I can hear you farther off, I an’t deaf.

  BEN. Why that’s true, as you say, nor I an’t dumb, I can be heard as far as another, — I’ll heave off, to please you. [Sits farther off.] An we were a league asunder, I’d undertake to hold discourse with you, an ‘twere not a main high wind indeed, and full in my teeth. Look you, forsooth, I am, as it were, bound for the land of matrimony; ’tis a voyage, d’ye see, that was none of my seeking. I was commanded by father, and if you like of it, mayhap I may steer into your harbour. How say you, mistress? The short of the thing is, that if you like me, and I like you, we may chance to swing in a hammock together.

  MISS. I don’t know what to say to you, nor I don’t care to speak with you at all.

  BEN. No? I’m sorry for that. But pray why are you so scornful?

  MISS. As long as one must not speak one’s mind, one had better not speak at all, I think, and truly I won’t tell a lie for the matter.

  BEN. Nay, you say true in that, it’s but a folly to lie: for to speak one thing, and to think just the contrary way is, as it were, to look one way, and to row another. Now, for my part, d’ye see, I’m for carrying things above board, I’m not for keeping anything under hatches, — so that if you ben’t as willing as I, say so a God’s name: there’s no harm done; mayhap you may be shame-faced; some maidens thof they love a man well enough, yet they don’t care to tell’n so to’s face. If that’s the case, why, silence gives consent.

  MISS. But I’m sure it is not so, for I’ll speak sooner than you should believe that; and I’ll speak truth, though one should always tell a lie to a man; and I don’t care, let my father do what he will; I’m too big to be whipt, so I’ll tell you plainly, I don’t like you, nor love you at all, nor never will, that’s more: so there’s your answer for you; and don’t trouble me no more, you ugly thing.

  BEN. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give good words, however. I spoke you fair, d’ye see, and civil. As for your love or your liking, I don’t value it of a rope’s end; and mayhap I like you as little as you do me: what I said was in obedience to father. Gad, I fear a whipping no more than you do. But I tell you one thing, if you should give such language at sea, you’d have a cat o’ nine tails laid cross your shoulders. Flesh! who are you? You heard t’other handsome young woman speak civilly to me of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, gad, I don’t think you are any more to compare to her than a can of small-beer to a bowl of punch.

  MISS. Well, and there’s a handsome gentleman, and a fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that was here that loves me, and I love him; and if he sees you speak to me any more, he’ll thrash your jacket for you, he will, you great sea-calf.

  BEN. What, do you mean that fair-weather spark that was here just now? Will he thrash my jacket? Let’n, — let’n. But an he comes near me, mayhap I may giv’n a salt eel for’s supper, for all that. What does father mean to leave me alone as soon as I come home with such a dirty dowdy? Sea-calf? I an’t calf enough to lick your chalked face, you cheese-curd you: — marry thee? Oons, I’ll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling contrary winds and wrecked vessels.

  MISS. I won’t be called names, nor I won’t be abused thus, so I won’t. If I were a man [cries] — you durst not talk at his rate. No, you durst not, you stinking tar-barrel.

  SCENE VIII.

  [To them] Mrs. Foresight and Mrs. Frail.

  MRS. FORE. They have quarrelled, just as we could wish.

  BEN. Tar-barrel? Let your sweetheart there call me so, if he’ll take your part, your Tom Essence, and I’ll say something to him; gad, I’ll lace his musk-doublet for him, I’ll make him stink: he shall smell more like a weasel than a civet-cat, afore I ha’ done with ‘en.

  MRS. FORE. Bless me, what’s the matter, Miss? What, does she cry? Mr. Benjamin, what have you done to her?

  BEN. Let her cry: the more she cries the less she’ll — she has been gathering foul weather in her mouth, and now it rains out at her eyes.

  MRS. FORE. Come, Miss, come along with me, and tell me, poor child.

  MRS. FRAIL. Lord, what shall we do? There’s my brother Foresight and Sir Sampson coming. Sister, do you take Miss down into the parlour, and I’ll carry Mr. Benjamin into my chamber, for they must not know that they are fallen out. Come, sir, will you venture yourself with me? [Looking kindly on him.]

  BEN. Venture, mess, and that I will, though ‘twere to sea in a storm.

  SCENE IX.

  Sir Sampson and Foresight.

  SIR SAMP. I left ’em together here; what, are they gone? Ben’s a brisk boy: he has got her into a corner; father’s own son, faith, he’ll touzle her, and mouzle her. The rogue’s sharp set, coming from sea; if he should not stay for saving grace, old Foresight, but fall to without the help of a parson, ha? Odd, if he should I could not be angry with him; ’twould be but like me, a chip of the old block. Ha! thou’rt melancholic, old Prognostication; as melancholic as if thou hadst spilt the salt, or pared thy nails on a Sunday. Come, cheer up, look about thee: look up, old stargazer. Now is he poring upon the ground for a crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, with the head towards him.

  FORE. Sir Sampson, we’ll have the wedding to-morrow morning.

  SIR SAMP. With all my heart.

  FORE. At ten a’clock, punctually at ten.

  SIR SAMP. To a minute, to a second; thou shalt set thy watch, and the bridegroom shall observe its motions; they shall be married to a minute, go to bed to a minute; and when the alarm strikes, they shall keep time like the figures of St. Dunstan’s clock, and consummatum est shall ring all over the parish.

  SCENE X.

  [To them] Scandal.

  SCAN. Sir Sampson, sad news.

  FORE. Bless us!

  SIR SAMP. Why, what’s the matter?

  SCAN. Can’t you guess at what ought to afflict you and him, and all of us, more than anything else?

  SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I don’t know any universal grievance, but a new tax, or the loss of the Canary fleet. Unless popery should be landed in the West, or the French fleet were at anchor at Blackwall.

  SCAN. No. Undoubtedly, Mr. Foresight knew all this, and might have prevented it.

  FORE. ’Tis no earthquake!

  SCAN. No, not yet; nor whirlwind. But we don’t know what it may come to. But it has had a consequence already that touches us all.

  SIR SAMP. Why, body o’ me, out with’t.

  SCAN. Something has appeared to your son Valentine. He’s gone to bed upon’t, and very ill. He speaks little, yet he says he has a world to say. Asks for his father and the wise Foresight; talks of Raymond Lully, and the ghost of Lilly. He has secrets to impart, I suppose, to you two. I can get nothing out of him but sighs. He desires he may see you in the morning, but would not be disturbed to-night, because he has some business to do in a dream.

  SIR SAMP. Hoity toity, what have I to do with his dreams or his divination? Body o’ me, this is a trick to defer signing the conveyance. I warrant the devil will tell him in a dream that he must not part with his estate. But I’ll bring him a parson to tell him that
the devil’s a liar: — or if that won’t do, I’ll bring a lawyer that shall out-lie the devil. And so I’ll try whether my blackguard or his shall get the better of the day.

  SCENE XI.