by John Dryden
[Exit Sir Mart.
L. Dupe. Go thy ways for a most conceited fool — but to our business, cousin: You are young, but I am old, and have had all the love-experience that a discreet lady ought to have; and, therefore, let me instruct you about the love this rich lord makes to you.
Chr. You know, madam, he’s married, so that we cannot work upon that ground of matrimony.
L. Dupe. But there are advantages enough for you, if you will be wise, and follow my advice.
Chr. Madam, my friends left me to your care, therefore I will wholly follow your counsel, with secrecy and obedience.
L. Dupe. Sweetheart, it shall be the better for you another day: Well then, this lord that pretends to you is crafty and false, as most men are, especially in love; therefore, we must be subtle to meet with all his plots, and have countermines against his works, to blow him up.
Chr. As how, madam?
L. Dupe. Why, girl, he’ll make fierce love to you, but you must not suffer him to ruffle you, or steal a kiss: But you must weep and sigh, and say you’ll tell me on’t, and that you will not be used so, and play the innocent, just like a child, and seem ignorant of all.
Chr. I warrant you I’ll be very ignorant, madam.
L. Dupe. And be sure, when he has towsed you, not to appear at supper that night, that you may fright him.
Chr. No, madam.
L. Dupe. That he may think you have told me.
Chr. Ay, madam.
L. Dupe. And keep your chamber, and say your head aches.
Chr. O most extremely, madam.
L. Dupe. And lock the door, and admit of no night visits: At supper I’ll ask where’s my cousin, and, being told you are not well, I’ll start from the table to visit you, desiring his lordship not to incommode himself; for I will presently wait on him again.
Chr. But how, when you are returned, madam?
L. Dupe. Then somewhat discomposed, I’ll say, I doubt the meazles or small-pox will seize on you, and then the girl is spoiled; saying, poor thing, her portion is her beauty, and her virtue; and often send to see how you do, by whispers in my servant’s ears, and have those whispers of your health returned to mine: If his lordship, thereupon, asks how you do, I will pretend it was some other thing.
Chr. Right, madam, for that will bring him further in suspence.
L. Dupe. A hopeful girl! then will I eat nothing that night, feigning my grief for you; but keep his lordship company at meal, and seem to strive to put my passion off, yet shew it still by small mistakes.
Chr. And broken sentences.
L. Dupe. A dainty girl! and after supper visit you again, with promise to return strait to his lordship; but after I am gone, send an excuse, that I have given you a cordial, and mean to watch that night in person with you.
Chr. His lordship then will find the prologue of his trouble, doubting I have told you of his ruffling.
L. Dupe. And more than that, fearing his father should know of it, and his wife, who is a termagant lady: But when he finds the coast is clear, and his late ruffling known to none but you, he will be drunk with joy.
Chr. Finding my simple innocence, which will inflame him more.
L. Dupe. Then what the lion’s skin has failed him in, the fox’s subtlety must next supply, and that is just, sweetheart, as I would have it; for crafty folks treaties are their advantage: especially when his passion must be satisfied at any rate, and you keep shop to set the price of love: so now you see the market is your own.
Chr. Truly, madam, this is very rational; and by the blessing of heaven upon my poor endeavours, I do not doubt to play my part.
L. Dupe. My blessing and my prayers go along with thee.
Enter Sir John Swallow, Mrs Millisent, and Rose, her maid.
Chr. I believe, madam, here is the young heiress you expect, and with her he who is to marry her.
L. Dupe. However I am Sir Martin’s friend, I must not seem his enemy.
Sir John. Madam, this fair young lady begs the honour to be known to you.
Mill. My father made me hope it, madam.
L. Dupe. Sweet lady, I believe you have brought all the freshness of the country up to town with you.
[They salute.
Mill. I came up, madam, as we country-gentlewomen use, at an Easter-term, to the destruction of tarts and cheese-cakes, to see a new play, buy a new gown, take a turn in the park, and so down again to sleep with my fore-fathers.
Sir John. Rather, madam, you are come up to the breaking of many a poor heart, that, like mine, will languish for you.
Chr. I doubt, madam, you are indisposed with your voyage; will you please to see the lodgings your father has provided for you?
Mill. To wait upon you, madam.
L. Dupe. This is the door; there is a gentleman will wait you immediately in your lodging, if he might presume on your commands.
[In a whisper.
Mill. You mean Sir Martin Mar-all: I am glad he has entrusted his passion with so discreet a person. [In a whisper.] Sir John, let me entreat you to stay here, that my father may have intelligence where to find us.
Sir John. I shall obey you, madam.
[Exeunt women.
Enter Sir Martin Mar-all.
Sir John. Sir Martin Mar-all! most happily encountered! how long have you been come to town?
Sir Mart. Some three days since, or thereabouts: But, I thank God, I am very weary on’t already.
Sir John. Why, what’s the matter, man?
Sir Mart. My villainous old luck still follows me in gaming; I never throw the dice out of my hand, but my gold goes after them: If I go to piquet, though it be but with a novice in’t, he will picque and repicque, and capot me twenty times together: and, which most mads me, I lose all my sets when I want but one of up.
Sir John. The pleasure of play is lost, when one loses at that unreasonable rate.
Sir Mart. But I have sworn not to touch either cards or dice this half year.
Sir John. The oaths of losing gamesters are most minded; they forswear play as an angry servant does his mistress, because he loves her but too well.
Sir Mart. But I am now taken up with thoughts of another nature; I am in love, sir.
Sir John. That’s the worst game you could have played at; scarce one woman in an hundred will play with you upon the square. You venture at more uncertainty than at a lottery: For you set your heart to a whole sex of blanks. But is your mistress widow, wife, or maid?
Sir Mart. I can assure you, sir, mine is a maid; the heiress of a wealthy family, fair to a miracle.
Sir John. Does she accept your service?
Sir Mart. I am the only person in her favour.
Enter Warner.
Sir John. Is she of town or country?
Warn. How’s this? [Aside.
Sir Mart. She is of Kent, near Canterbury.
Warn. What does he mean? This is his rival. [Aside.
Sir John. Near Canterbury, say you? I have a small estate lies thereabouts, and more concernments than one besides.
Sir Mart. I’ll tell you then. Being at Canterbury, it was my fortune once, in the Cathedral church —
Warn. What do you mean, sir, to intrust this man with your affairs thus?
Sir Mart. Trust him? why, he’s a friend of mine.
Warn. No matter for that; hark you, a word, sir.
Sir Mart. Pr’ythee leave fooling; and as I was saying —— I was in the church, when I first saw this fair one.
Sir John. Her name, sir, I beseech you.
Warn. For heaven’s sake, sir, have a care.
Sir Mart. Thou art such a coxcomb — Her name’s Millisent.
Warn. Now, the pox take you, sir, what do you mean?
Sir John. Millisent, say you? That’s the name of my mistress.
Sir Mart. Lord! what luck is that now! well, sir, it happened one of her gloves fell down; I stooped to take it up; and, in the stooping, made her a compliment.
Warn. The devil cannot hold him; now will thi
s thick-skulled master of mine tell the whole story to his rival!
Sir Mart. You’ll say, ’twas strange, sir; but at the first glance we cast on one another, both our hearts leaped within us, our souls met at our eyes, and with a tickling kind of pain slid to each other’s breast, and in one moment settled as close and warm, as if they long had been acquainted with their lodging. I followed her somewhat at a distance, because her father was with her.
Warn. Yet hold, sir.
Sir Mart. Saucy rascal, avoid my sight; must you tutor me? — So, sir, not to trouble you, I enquired out her father’s house, without whose knowledge I did court the daughter, and both then, and often since coming to Canterbury, I received many proofs of her kindness to me.
Warn. You had best tell him too, that I am acquainted with her maid, and manage your love under-hand with her.
Sir Mart. Well remembered, i’faith; I thank thee for that, I had forgot it, I protest! My valet de chambre, whom you see here with me, grows me acquainted with her woman.
Warn. O the devil!
Sir Mart. In fine, sir, this maid, being much in her mistress’s favour, so well solicited my cause, that, in fine, I gained from fair mistress Millisent an assurance of her kindness, and an engagement to marry none but me.
Warn. ’Tis very well! you have made a fair discovery!
Sir John. A most pleasant relation, I assure you: You are a happy man, sir! but what occasion brought you now to London?
Sir Mart. That was in expectation to meet my mistress here; she writ me word from Canterbury, she and her father shortly would be here.
Sir John. She and her father, said you, sir?
Warn. Tell him, sir, for heaven’s sake tell him all.
Sir Mart. So I will, sir, without your bidding: Her father and she are come up already, that’s the truth on’t, and are to lodge by my contrivance in yon house; the master of which is a cunning rascal as any in town —— him I have made my own, for I lodge there.
Warn. You do ill, sir, to speak so scandalously of my landlord.
Sir Mart. Peace, or I’ll break your fool’s head; so, that by his means I shall have free egress and regress when I please, sir, without her father’s knowledge.
Warn. I am out of patience to hear this.
Sir John. Methinks you might do well, sir, to speak openly to her father.
Sir Mart. Thank you for that, i’faith; in speaking to old Moody, I may soon spoil all.
Warn. So, now he has told her father’s name, ’tis past recovery.
Sir John. Is her father’s name Moody, say you?
Sir Mart. Is he of your acquaintance?
Sir John. Yes, sir; I know him for a man who is too wise for you to over-reach; I am certain he will never marry his daughter to you.
Sir Mart. Why, there’s the jest of it: He shall never know it: ’Tis but your keeping of my counsel; I’ll do as much for you, mun.
Sir John. No, sir, I’ll give you better; trouble not yourself about this lady; her affections are otherwise engaged to my knowledge —— hark in your ear —— her father hates a gamester like a devil: I’ll keep your counsel for that too.
Sir Mart. Nay, but this is not all, dear Sir John?
Sir John. This is all, I assure you: Only I will make bold to seek your mistress out another lodging.
[Exit Sir John.
Warn. Your affairs are now put into an excellent posture, thank your incomparable discretion; this was a stratagem my shallow wit could never have reached, to make a confident of my rival.
Sir Mart. I hope thou art not in earnest, man! Is he my rival?
Warn. ‘Slife, he has not found it out all this while! well, sir, for a quick apprehension let you alone.
Sir Mart. How the devil camest thou to know on’t? and why the devil didst thou not tell me on’t?
Warn. To the first of your devils I answer, her maid, Rose, told me on’t: To the second, I wish a thousand devils take him that would not hear me.
Sir Mart. O unparallelled misfortune!
Warn. O unparallelled ignorance! why he left her father at the water-side, while he led the daughter to her lodging, whither I directed him; so that if you had not laboured to the contrary, fortune had placed you in the same house with your mistress, without the least suspicion of your rival, or of her father. But ’tis well you have satisfied your talkative humour: I hope you have some new project of your own to set all right again: For my part, I confess all my designs for you are wholly ruined; the very foundations of them are blown up.
Sir Mart. Pr’ythee insult not over the destiny of a poor undone lover; I am punished enough for my indiscretion in my despair, and have nothing to hope for now but death.
Warn. Death is a bug-word; things are not brought to that extremity; I’ll cast about to save all yet.
Enter Lady Dupe.
L. Dupe. O, Sir Martin! yonder has been such a stir within; Sir John, I fear, smokes your design, and by all means would have the old man remove his lodging; pray God, your man has not played false.
Warn. Like enough I have: I am coxcomb sufficient to do it; my master knows, that none but such a great calf as I could have done it, such an overgrown ass, a self-conceited idiot as I.
Sir Mart. Nay, Warner.
Warn. Pray, sir, let me alone: What is it to you if I rail upon myself? Now could I break my own logger-head.
Sir Mart. Nay, sweet Warner.
Warn. What a good master have I, and I to ruin him: O beast!
L. Dupe. Not to discourage you wholly, Sir Martin, this storm is partly over.
Sir Mart. As how, dear cousin?
L. Dupe. When I heard Sir John complain of the landlord, I took the first hint of it, and joined with him, saying, if he were such an one, I would have nothing to do with him: In short, I rattled him so well, that Sir John was the first who did desire they might be lodged with me, not knowing that I was your kinswoman.
Sir Mart. Pox on’t, now I think on’t, I could have found out this myself.
Warn. Are you there again, sir? Now, as I have a soul ——
Sir Mart. Mum, good Warner, I did but forget myself a little; I leave myself wholly to you, and my cousin: get but my mistress for me, and claim whatever reward you can desire.
Warn. Hope of reward will diligence beget, Find you the money, and I’ll find the wit.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Enter Lady Dupe, and Mrs Christian.
Chr. It happened, madam, just as you said it would; but was he so concerned for my feigned sickness?
L. Dupe. So much, that Moody and his daughter, our new guests, take notice of the trouble; but the cause was kept too close for strangers to divine.
Chr. Heaven grant he be but deep enough in love, and then ——
L. Dupe. And then thou shalt distil him into gold, my girl. Yonder he comes, I’ll not be seen: you know your lesson, child.
[Exit.
Chr. I warrant you.
Enter Lord Dartmouth.
Lord. Pretty mistress Christian, how glad am I to meet you thus alone!
Chr. O the father! what will become of me now?
Lord. No harm, I warrant you; but why are you so afraid?
Chr. A poor weak innocent creature as I am, heaven of his mercy, how I quake and tremble! I have not yet clawed off your last ill usage, and now I feel my old fit come again; my ears tingle already, and my back shuts and opens; ay, just so it began before.
Lord. Nay, my sweet mistress, be not so unjust to suspect any new attempt: I am too penitent for my last fault, so soon to sin again. I hope you did not tell it to your aunt.
Chr. The more fool I, I did not.
Lord. You never shall repent your goodness to me; but may not I presume there was some little kindness in it, which moved you to conceal my crime?
Chr. Methought I would not have mine aunt angry with you, for all this earthly good; but yet I’ll never be alone with you again.
Lord. Pretty innocence! let
me sit nearer to you: You do not understand what love I bear you. I vow it is so pure, my soul’s not sullied with one spot of sin: Were you a sister, or a daughter to me, with a more holy flame I could not burn.
Chr. Nay, now you speak high words; I cannot understand you.
Lord. The business of my life shall be but how to make your fortune, and my care and study to advance and see you settled in the world.
Chr. I humbly thank your lordship.
Lord. Thus I would sacrifice my life and fortunes, and in return you cruelly destroy me.
Chr. I never meant you any harm, not I.
Lord. Then what does this white enemy so near me? [Touching her hand gloved.] Sure ’tis your champion, and you arm it thus to bid defiance to me.
Chr. Nay, fie, my lord! In faith, you are to blame.
[Pulling her hand away.
Lord. But I am for fair wars; an enemy must first be searched for privy armour, ere we do engage.
[Pulls at her glove.
Chr. What does your lordship mean?
Lord. I fear you bear some spells and charms about you, and, madam, that’s against the law of arms.
Chr. My aunt charged me not to pull off my glove, for fear of sun-burning my hand.
Lord. She did well to keep it from your eyes, but I will thus preserve it.
[Hugging her bare hand.
Chr. Why do you crush it so? nay, now you hurt me, nay — if you squeeze it ne’er so hard — there’s nothing to come out on’t — fie — is this loving one — what makes you take your breath so short?
Lord. The devil take me if I can answer her a word; all my senses are quite employed another way.
Chr. Ne’er stir, my lord, I must cry out.
Lord. Then I must stop your mouth — this ruby for a kiss — that is but one ruby for another.
Chr. This is worse and worse.
Lady within. Why, niece, where are you, niece?
Lord. Pox of her old mouldy chops.
Chr. Do you hear, my aunt calls? I shall be hanged for staying with you — let me go, my lord.
[Gets from him.
Enter Lady Dupe.
L. Dupe. My lord! heaven bless me, what makes your lordship here?
Lord. I was just wishing for you, madam; your niece and I have been so laughing at the blunt humour of your country-gentleman. I must go pass an hour with him.
