Complete Works of William Congreve

by William Congreve

  MILLA. I’ll take my death, Marwood, you are more censorious than a decayed beauty, or a discarded toast: — Mincing, tell the men they may come up. My aunt is not dressing here; their folly is less provoking than your malice.

  SCENE XI.

  Mrs. Millamant, Mrs. Marwood.

  MILLA. The town has found it? What has it found? That Mirabell loves me is no more a secret than it is a secret that you discovered it to my aunt, or than the reason why you discovered it is a secret.

  MRS. MAR. You are nettled.

  MILLA. You’re mistaken. Ridiculous!

  MRS. MAR. Indeed, my dear, you’ll tear another fan, if you don’t mitigate those violent airs.

  MILLA. O silly! Ha, ha, ha! I could laugh immoderately. Poor Mirabell! His constancy to me has quite destroyed his complaisance for all the world beside. I swear I never enjoined it him to be so coy. If I had the vanity to think he would obey me, I would command him to show more gallantry: ’tis hardly well-bred to be so particular on one hand and so insensible on the other. But I despair to prevail, and so let him follow his own way. Ha, ha, ha! Pardon me, dear creature, I must laugh; ha, ha, ha! Though I grant you ’tis a little barbarous; ha, ha, ha!

  MRS. MAR. What pity ’tis so much fine raillery, and delivered with so significant gesture, should be so unhappily directed to miscarry.

  MILLA. Heh? Dear creature, I ask your pardon. I swear I did not mind you.

  MRS. MAR. Mr. Mirabell and you both may think it a thing impossible, when I shall tell him by telling you —

  MILLA. Oh dear, what? For it is the same thing, if I hear it. Ha, ha, ha!

  MRS. MAR. That I detest him, hate him, madam.

  MILLA. O madam, why, so do I. And yet the creature loves me, ha, ha, ha! How can one forbear laughing to think of it? I am a sibyl if I am not amazed to think what he can see in me. I’ll take my death, I think you are handsomer, and within a year or two as young. If you could but stay for me, I should overtake you — but that cannot be. Well, that thought makes me melancholic. — Now I’ll be sad.

  MRS. MAR. Your merry note may be changed sooner than you think.

  MILLA. D’ye say so? Then I’m resolved I’ll have a song to keep up my spirits.

  SCENE XII.

  [To them] Mincing.

  MINC. The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, and will wait on you.

  MILLA. Desire Mrs. — that is in the next room, to sing the song I would have learnt yesterday. You shall hear it, madam. Not that there’s any great matter in it — but ’tis agreeable to my humour.

  SONG.

  Set by Mr. John Eccles.

  I

  Love’s but the frailty of the mind

  When ’tis not with ambition joined;

  A sickly flame, which if not fed expires,

  And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.

  II

  ’Tis not to wound a wanton boy

  Or am’rous youth, that gives the joy;

  But ’tis the glory to have pierced a swain

  For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain.

  III

  Then I alone the conquest prize,

  When I insult a rival’s eyes;

  If there’s delight in love, ’tis when I see

  That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.

  SCENE XIII.

  [To them] Petulant, Witwoud.

  MILLA. Is your animosity composed, gentlemen?

  WIT. Raillery, raillery, madam; we have no animosity. We hit off a little wit now and then, but no animosity. The falling out of wits is like the falling out of lovers: — we agree in the main, like treble and bass. Ha, Petulant?

  PET. Ay, in the main. But when I have a humour to contradict —

  WIT. Ay, when he has a humour to contradict, then I contradict too. What, I know my cue. Then we contradict one another like two battledores; for contradictions beget one another like Jews.

  PET. If he says black’s black — if I have a humour to say ’tis blue — let that pass — all’s one for that. If I have a humour to prove it, it must be granted.

  WIT. Not positively must. But it may; it may.

  PET. Yes, it positively must, upon proof positive.

  WIT. Ay, upon proof positive it must; but upon proof presumptive it only may. That’s a logical distinction now, madam.

  MRS. MAR. I perceive your debates are of importance, and very learnedly handled.

  PET. Importance is one thing and learning’s another; but a debate’s a debate, that I assert.

  WIT. Petulant’s an enemy to learning; he relies altogether on his parts.

  PET. No, I’m no enemy to learning; it hurts not me.

  MRS. MAR. That’s a sign, indeed, it’s no enemy to you.

  PET. No, no, it’s no enemy to anybody but them that have it.

  MILLA. Well, an illiterate man’s my aversion; I wonder at the impudence of any illiterate man to offer to make love.

  WIT. That I confess I wonder at, too.

  MILLA. Ah, to marry an ignorant that can hardly read or write!

  PET. Why should a man be any further from being married, though he can’t read, than he is from being hanged? The ordinary’s paid for setting the psalm, and the parish priest for reading the ceremony. And for the rest which is to follow in both cases, a man may do it without book. So all’s one for that.

  MILLA. D’ye hear the creature? Lord, here’s company; I’ll begone.

  SCENE XIV.

  Sir Wilfull Witwoud in a riding dress, Mrs. Marwood, Petulant, Witwoud, Footman.

  WIT. In the name of Bartlemew and his Fair, what have we here?

  MRS. MAR. ’Tis your brother, I fancy. Don’t you know him?

  WIT. Not I: — yes, I think it is he. I’ve almost forgot him; I have not seen him since the revolution.

  FOOT. Sir, my lady’s dressing. Here’s company, if you please to walk in, in the meantime.

  SIR WIL. Dressing! What, it’s but morning here, I warrant, with you in London; we should count it towards afternoon in our parts down in Shropshire: — why, then, belike my aunt han’t dined yet. Ha, friend?

  FOOT. Your aunt, sir?

  SIR WIL. My aunt, sir? Yes my aunt, sir, and your lady, sir; your lady is my aunt, sir. Why, what dost thou not know me, friend? Why, then, send somebody hither that does. How long hast thou lived with thy lady, fellow, ha?

  FOOT. A week, sir; longer than anybody in the house, except my lady’s woman.

  SIR WIL. Why, then, belike thou dost not know thy lady, if thou seest her. Ha, friend?

  FOOT. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to her face in a morning, before she is dressed. ’Tis like I may give a shrewd guess at her by this time.

  SIR WIL. Well, prithee try what thou canst do; if thou canst not guess, enquire her out, dost hear, fellow? And tell her her nephew, Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the house.

  FOOT. I shall, sir.

  SIR WIL. Hold ye, hear me, friend, a word with you in your ear: prithee who are these gallants?

  FOOT. Really, sir, I can’t tell; here come so many here, ’tis hard to know ’em all.

  SCENE XV.

  Sir Wilfull Witwoud, Petulant, Witwoud, Mrs. Marwood.

  SIR WIL. Oons, this fellow knows less than a starling: I don’t think a knows his own name.

  MRS. MAR. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behindhand in forgetfulness. I fancy he has forgot you too.

  WIT. I hope so. The devil take him that remembers first, I say.

  SIR WIL. Save you, gentlemen and lady.

  MRS. MAR. For shame, Mr. Witwoud; why won’t you speak to him? — And you, sir.

  WIT. Petulant, speak.

  PET. And you, sir.

  SIR WIL. No offence, I hope? [Salutes Marwood.]

  MRS. MAR. No, sure, sir.

  WIT. This is a vile dog, I see that already. No offence? Ha, ha, ha. To him, to him, Petulant, smoke him.

  PET. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir; hem, hem. [Surveying him round.]

 
SIR WIL. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so.

  PET. No offence, I hope, sir?

  WIT. Smoke the boots, the boots, Petulant, the boots; ha, ha, ha!

  SIR WILL. Maybe not, sir; thereafter as ’tis meant, sir.

  PET. Sir, I presume upon the information of your boots.

  SIR WIL. Why, ’tis like you may, sir: if you are not satisfied with the information of my boots, sir, if you will step to the stable, you may enquire further of my horse, sir.

  PET. Your horse, sir! Your horse is an ass, sir!

  SIR WIL. Do you speak by way of offence, sir?

  MRS. MAR. The gentleman’s merry, that’s all, sir. ‘Slife, we shall have a quarrel betwixt an horse and an ass, before they find one another out. — You must not take anything amiss from your friends, sir. You are among your friends here, though it — may be you don’t know it. If I am not mistaken, you are Sir Wilfull Witwoud?

  SIR WIL. Right, lady; I am Sir Wilfull Witwoud, so I write myself; no offence to anybody, I hope? and nephew to the Lady Wishfort of this mansion.

  MRS. MAR. Don’t you know this gentleman, sir?

  SIR WIL. Hum! What, sure ’tis not — yea by’r lady but ’tis— ‘sheart, I know not whether ’tis or no. Yea, but ’tis, by the Wrekin. Brother Antony! What, Tony, i’faith! What, dost thou not know me? By’r lady, nor I thee, thou art so becravated and so beperiwigged. ‘Sheart, why dost not speak? Art thou o’erjoyed?

  WIT. Odso, brother, is it you? Your servant, brother.

  SIR WIL. Your servant? Why, yours, sir. Your servant again— ‘sheart, and your friend and servant to that — and a — [puff] and a flap-dragon for your service, sir, and a hare’s foot and a hare’s scut for your service, sir, an you be so cold and so courtly!

  WIT. No offence, I hope, brother?

  SIR WIL. ‘Sheart, sir, but there is, and much offence. A pox, is this your inns o’ court breeding, not to know your friends and your relations, your elders, and your betters?

  WIT. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as short as a Shrewsbury cake, if you please. But I tell you ’tis not modish to know relations in town. You think you’re in the country, where great lubberly brothers slabber and kiss one another when they meet, like a call of sergeants. ’Tis not the fashion here; ’tis not, indeed, dear brother.

  SIR WIL. The fashion’s a fool and you’re a fop, dear brother. ‘Sheart, I’ve suspected this — by’r lady I conjectured you were a fop, since you began to change the style of your letters, and write in a scrap of paper gilt round the edges, no bigger than a subpoena. I might expect this when you left off ‘Honoured brother,’ and ‘Hoping you are in good health,’ and so forth, to begin with a ‘Rat me, knight, I’m so sick of a last night’s debauch.’ Ods heart, and then tell a familiar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore and a bottle, and so conclude. You could write news before you were out of your time, when you lived with honest Pumple-Nose, the attorney of Furnival’s Inn. You could intreat to be remembered then to your friends round the Wrekin. We could have Gazettes then, and Dawks’s Letter, and the Weekly Bill, till of late days.

  PET. ‘Slife, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney’s clerk? Of the family of the Furnivals? Ha, ha, ha!

  WIT. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while. Not long, not long; pshaw, I was not in my own power then. An orphan, and this fellow was my guardian; ay, ay, I was glad to consent to that man to come to London. He had the disposal of me then. If I had not agreed to that, I might have been bound prentice to a feltmaker in Shrewsbury: this fellow would have bound me to a maker of felts.

  SIR WIL. ‘Sheart, and better than to be bound to a maker of fops, where, I suppose, you have served your time, and now you may set up for yourself.

  MRS. MAR. You intend to travel, sir, as I’m informed?

  SIR WIL. Belike I may, madam. I may chance to sail upon the salt seas, if my mind hold.

  PET. And the wind serve.

  SIR WIL. Serve or not serve, I shan’t ask license of you, sir, nor the weathercock your companion. I direct my discourse to the lady, sir. ’Tis like my aunt may have told you, madam? Yes, I have settled my concerns, I may say now, and am minded to see foreign parts. If an how that the peace holds, whereby, that is, taxes abate.

  MRS. MAR. I thought you had designed for France at all adventures.

  SIR WIL. I can’t tell that; ’tis like I may, and ’tis like I may not. I am somewhat dainty in making a resolution, because when I make it I keep it. I don’t stand shill I, shall I, then; if I say’t, I’ll do’t. But I have thoughts to tarry a small matter in town, to learn somewhat of your lingo first, before I cross the seas. I’d gladly have a spice of your French as they say, whereby to hold discourse in foreign countries.

  MRS. MAR. Here’s an academy in town for that use.

  SIR WIL. There is? ’Tis like there may.

  MRS. MAR. No doubt you will return very much improved.

  WIT. Yes, refined like a Dutch skipper from a whale-fishing.

  SCENE XVI.

  [To them] Lady Wishfort and Fainall.

  LADY. Nephew, you are welcome.

  SIR WIL. Aunt, your servant.

  FAIN. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful servant.

  SIR WIL. Cousin Fainall, give me your hand.

  LADY. Cousin Witwoud, your servant; Mr. Petulant, your servant. Nephew, you are welcome again. Will you drink anything after your journey, nephew, before you eat? Dinner’s almost ready.

  SIR WIL. I’m very well, I thank you, aunt. However, I thank you for your courteous offer. ‘Sheart, I was afraid you would have been in the fashion too, and have remembered to have forgot your relations. Here’s your cousin Tony, belike, I mayn’t call him brother for fear of offence.

  LADY. Oh, he’s a rallier, nephew. My cousin’s a wit: and your great wits always rally their best friends to choose. When you have been abroad, nephew, you’ll understand raillery better. [Fainall and Mrs. Marwood talk apart.]

  SIR WIL. Why, then, let him hold his tongue in the meantime, and rail when that day comes.

  SCENE XVII.

  [To them] Mincing.

  MINC. Mem, I come to acquaint your laship that dinner is impatient.

  SIR WIL. Impatient? Why, then, belike it won’t stay till I pull off my boots. Sweetheart, can you help me to a pair of slippers? My man’s with his horses, I warrant.

  LADY. Fie, fie, nephew, you would not pull off your boots here? Go down into the hall: — dinner shall stay for you. My nephew’s a little unbred: you’ll pardon him, madam. Gentlemen, will you walk? Marwood?

  MRS. MAR. I’ll follow you, madam, — before Sir Wilfull is ready.

  SCENE XVIII.

  Mrs. Marwood, Fainall.

  FAIN. Why, then, Foible’s a bawd, an errant, rank match-making bawd. And I, it seems, am a husband, a rank husband, and my wife a very errant, rank wife, — all in the way of the world. ‘Sdeath, to be a cuckold by anticipation, a cuckold in embryo! Sure I was born with budding antlers like a young satyr, or a citizen’s child, ‘sdeath, to be out-witted, to be out-jilted, out-matrimonied. If I had kept my speed like a stag, ‘twere somewhat, but to crawl after, with my horns like a snail, and be outstripped by my wife— ’tis scurvy wedlock.

  MRS. MAR. Then shake it off: you have often wished for an opportunity to part, and now you have it. But first prevent their plot: — the half of Millamant’s fortune is too considerable to be parted with to a foe, to Mirabell.

  FAIN. Damn him, that had been mine — had you not made that fond discovery. That had been forfeited, had they been married. My wife had added lustre to my horns by that increase of fortune: I could have worn ’em tipt with gold, though my forehead had been furnished like a deputy-lieutenant’s hall.

  MRS. MAR. They may prove a cap of maintenance to you still, if you can away with your wife. And she’s no worse than when you had her: — I dare swear she had given up her game before she was married.

  FAIN. Hum! That may be —

  MRS. MAR. You married her to keep you; an
d if you can contrive to have her keep you better than you expected, why should you not keep her longer than you intended?