John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Sir John. If you will not, adieu, dear sir; in any thing command me.

  [Exit.

  Sir Mart. Now we are alone: han’t I carried matters bravely, sirrah?

  Warn. O yes, yes, you deserve sugar-plums; first for your quarrelling with Sir John; then for discovering your landlord; and, lastly, for refusing to dine with your mistress. All this is since the last reckoning was wiped out.

  Sir Mart. Then why did my landlord disguise himself, to make a fool of us?

  Warn. You have so little brains, that a penny-worth of butter, melted under ‘em, would set ‘em afloat: He put on that disguise, to rid you of your rival.

  Sir Mart. Why was not I worthy to keep your counsel then?

  Warn. It had been much at one: You would but have drunk the secret down, and pissed it out to the next company.

  Sir Mart. Well, I find I am a miserable man: I have lost my mistress, and may thank myself for it.

  Warn. You’ll not confess you are a fool, I warrant.

  Sir Mart. Well, I am a fool, if that will satisfy you: But what am I the nearer, for being one?

  Warn. O yes, much the nearer; for now fortune’s bound to provide for you; as hospitals are built for lame people, because they cannot help themselves. Well; I have a project in my pate.

  Sir Mart. Dear rogue, what is’t?

  Warn. Excuse me for that: But while ’tis set a working, you would do well to screw yourself into her father’s good opinion.

  Sir Mart. If you will not tell me, my mind gives me, I shall discover it again.

  Warn. I’ll lay it as far out of your reach as I can possibly. —— For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools. [Exeunt.

  ACT III.

  SCENE I.

  Enter Rose and Warner meeting.

  Rose. Your worship’s most happily encountered.

  Warn. Your ladyship’s most fortunately met.

  Rose. I was going to your lodging.

  Warn. My business was to yours.

  Rose. I have something to say to you that ——

  Warn. I have that to tell you ——

  Rose. Understand then ——

  Warn. If you’ll hear me ——

  Rose. I believe that ——

  Warn. I am of opinion, that ——

  Rose. Pry’thee hold thy peace a little, till I have done.

  Warn. Cry you mercy, Mrs Rose; I’ll not dispute your ancient privilege of talking.

  Rose. My mistress, knowing Sir John was to be abroad upon business this afternoon, has asked leave to see a play: And Sir John has so great a confidence of your master, that he will trust no body with her, but him.

  Warn. If my master gets her out, I warrant her, he shall shew her a better play than any is at either of the houses — here they are: I’ll run and prepare him to wait upon her.

  [Exit.

  Enter old Moody, Mrs Millisent, and Lady Dupe.

  Mill. My hoods and scarfs there, quickly.

  L. Dupe. Send to call a coach there.

  Mood. But what kind of man is this Sir Martin, with whom you are to go?

  L. Dupe. A plain down-right country-gentleman, I assure you.

  Mood. I like him much the better for it. For I hate one of those you call a man of the town, one of those empty fellows of mere out-side: They have nothing of the true old English manliness.

  Rose. I confess, sir, a woman’s in a bad condition, that has nothing to trust to, but a peruke above, and a well-trimmed shoe below.

  To them Sir Martin.

  Mill. This, sir, is Sir John’s friend; he is for your humour, sir; he is no man of the town, but bred up in the old Elizabeth way of plainness.

  Sir Mart. Ay, madam, your ladyship may say your pleasure of me.

  To them Warner.

  Warn. How the devil got he here before me! ’Tis very unlucky I could not see him first.

  Sir Mart. But, as for painting, music, poetry, and the like, I’ll say this of myself ——

  Warn. I’ll say that for him, my master understands none of them, I assure you, sir.

  Sir Mart. You impudent rascal, hold your tongue: I must rid my hands of this fellow; the rogue is ever discrediting me before company.

  Mood. Never trouble yourself about it, sir, for I like a man that —

  Sir Mart. I know you do, sir, and therefore I hope you’ll think never the worse of me for his prating: For, though I do not boast of my own good parts ——

  Warn. He has none to boast of, upon my faith, sir.

  Sir Mart. Give him not the hearing, sir; for, if I may believe my friends, they have flattered me with an opinion of more ——

  Warn. Of more than their flattery can make good, sir; ’tis true he tells you, they have flattered him; but, in my conscience, he is the most down-right simple-natured creature in the world.

  Sir Mart. I shall consider you hereafter, sirrah; but I am sure in all companies I pass for a virtuoso.

  Mood. Virtuoso! What’s that too? is not virtue enough without O so?

  Sir Mart. You have reason, sir.

  Mood. There he is again too; the town phrase; a great compliment I wis! you have reason, sir; that is, you are no beast, sir.

  Warn. A word in private, sir; you mistake this old man; he loves neither painting, music, nor poetry; yet recover yourself, if you have any brains.

  [Aside to him.

  Sir Mart. Say you so? I’ll bring all about again, I warrant you. — I beg your pardon a thousand times, sir; I vow to gad I am not master of any of those perfections; for, in fine, sir, I am wholly ignorant of painting, music, and poetry; only some rude escapes; but, in fine, they are such, that, in fine, sir ——

  Warn. This is worse than all the rest.

  [Aside.

  Mood. By coxbones, one word more of all this gibberish, and old Madge shall fly about your ears: What is this, in fine, he keeps such a coil with too?

  Mill. ’Tis a phrase a-la-mode, sir; and is used in conversation now, as a whiff of tobacco was formerly in the midst of a discourse for a thinking while.

  L. Dupe. In plain English, in fine is, in the end, sir.

  Mood. But, by coxbones, there is no end on’t, methinks: If thou wilt have a foolish word to lard thy lean discourse with, take an English one when thou speakest English! as, so sir, and then sir, and so forth; ’tis a more manly kind of nonsense: And a pox of, in fine, for I’ll hear no more on’t.

  Warn. He’s gravelled, and I must help him out. [Aside.] Madam, there’s a coach at the door, to carry you to the play.

  Sir Mart. Which house do you mean to go to?

  Mill. The Duke’s, I think.

  Sir Mart. It is a damn’d play, and has nothing in’t.

  Mill. Then let us to the king’s.

  Sir Mart. That’s e’en as bad.

  Warn. This is past enduring. [Aside.] There was an ill play set up, sir, on the posts; but I can assure you the bills are altered since you saw them, and now there are two admirable comedies at both houses.

  Mood. But my daughter loves serious plays.

  Warn. They are tragi-comedies, sir, for both.

  Sir Mart. I have heard her say, she loves none but tragedies.

  Mood. Where have you heard her say so, sir?

  Warn. Sir, you forget yourself; you never saw her in your life before.

  Sir Mart. What, not at Canterbury, in the Cathedral church there? This is the impudentest rascal ——

  Warn. Mum, sir.

  Sir Mart. Ah Lord, what have I done! As I hope to be saved, sir, it was before I was aware; for if ever I set eyes on her before this day, I wish —

  Mood. This fellow is not so much fool, as he makes one believe he is.

  Mill. I thought he would be discovered for a wit: This ’tis to over-act one’s part!

  [Aside.

  Mood. Come away, daughter, I will not trust you in his hands; there’s more in it than I imagined.

  [Exeunt Moody, Mill. Lady Dupe, and Rose.

  Sir
Mart. Why do you frown upon me so, when you know your looks go to the heart of me? What have I done besides a little lapsus linguæ?

  Warn. Why, who says you have done any thing? You, a mere innocent!

  Sir Mart. As the child that’s to be born, in my intentions; if I know how I have offended myself any more than —— in one word ——

  Warn. But don’t follow me, however: I have nothing to say to you.

  Sir Mart. I’ll follow you to the world’s end, till you forgive me.

  Warn. I am resolved to lead you a dance then.

  [Exit running.

  Sir Mart. The rogue has no mercy in him; but I must mollify him with money.

  [Exit.

  SCENE II.

  Enter Lady Dupe.

  L. Dupe. Truly, my little cousin’s the aptest scholar, and takes out love’s lessons so exactly, that I joy to see it; She has got already the bond of two thousand pounds sealed for her portion, which I keep for her; a pretty good beginning: ’Tis true, I believe he has enjoyed her, and so let him; Mark Antony wooed not at so dear a price.

  Enter, to her, Christian.

  Chr. O madam, I fear I am breeding!

  L. Dupe. A taking wench! but ’tis no matter; have you told any body?

  Chr. I have been venturing upon your foundations, a little to dissemble.

  L. Dupe. That’s a good child; I hope it will thrive with thee, as it has with me: Heaven has a blessing in store upon our endeavours.

  Chr. I feigned myself sick, and kept my bed; my lord, he came to visit me, and, in the end, I disclosed it to him, in the saddest passion!

  L. Dupe. This frightened him, I hope, into a study how to cloak your disgrace, lest it should have vent to his lady.

  Chr. ’Tis true; but all the while I subtly drove it, that he should name you to me as the fittest instrument of the concealment; but how to break it to you, strangely does perplex him. He has been seeking you all over the house; therefore, I’ll leave your ladyship, for fear we should be seen together.

  [Exit.

  L. Dupe. Now I must play my part; Nature, in women, teaches more than art.

  Enter Lord.

  Lord. Madam, I have a secret to impart; a sad one too, and have no friend to trust, but only you.

  L. Dupe. Your lady, or your children, sick?

  Lord. Not that I know.

  L. Dupe. You seem to be in health.

  Lord. In body, not in mind.

  L. Dupe. Some scruple of conscience, I warrant; my chaplain shall resolve you.

  Lord. Madam, my soul’s tormented.

  L. Dupe. O take heed of despair, my lord!

  Lord. Madam, there is no medicine for this sickness, but only you; your friendship’s my safe haven, else I am lost, and shipwrecked.

  L. Dupe. Pray tell me what it is.

  Lord. Could I express it by sad sighs and groans, or drown it with myself in seas of tears, I should be happy, — would, and would not tell.

  L. Dupe. Command whatever I can serve you in; I will be faithful still to all your ends, provided they be just and virtuous.

  Lord. That word has stopt me.

  L. Dupe. Speak out, my lord, and boldly tell what ’tis.

  Lord. Then, in obedience to your commands; your cousin is with child.

  L. Dupe. Which cousin?

  Lord. Your cousin Christian, here in the house.

  L. Dupe. Alas! then she has stolen a marriage, and undone herself: Some young fellow, on my conscience, that’s a beggar; youth will not be advised: well, I’ll never meddle more with girls; one is no more assured of them, than grooms of mules; they’ll strike when least one thinks on’t: But pray, your lordship, what is her choice then for a husband?

  Lord. She —— is not married, that I know of, madam.

  L. Dupe. Not married! ’tis impossible; the girl does sure abuse you. I know her education has been such, the flesh could not prevail; therefore, she does abuse you, it must be so.

  Lord. Madam, not to abuse you longer, she is with child, and I the unfortunate man, who did this most unlucky act.

  L. Dupe. You! I’ll never believe it.

  Lord. Madam, ’tis too true; believe it, and be serious how to hide her shame; I beg it here upon my knees.

  L. Dupe. Oh, oh, oh!

  [She faints away.

  Lord. Who’s there? Who’s there? Help, help, help!

  Enter two women, Rose, and Mrs Millisent.

  Wom. O merciful God, my lady’s gone!

  Wom. Whither?

  Wom. To heaven; God knows, to heaven!

  Rose. Rub her, rub her; fetch warm clothes!

  Wom. I say, run to the cabinet of quintessence; Gilbert’s water! Gilbert’s water!

  Wom. Now all the good folks of heaven look down upon her!

  Mill. Set her in the chair.

  Rose. Open her mouth with a dagger or a key; pour, pour! Where’s the spoon?

  Wom. She stirs! she revives! merciful to us all! what a thing was this? speak, lady, speak!

  L. Dupe. So, so, so!

  Mill. Alas! my lord, how came this fit?

  Lord. With sorrow, madam.

  L. Dupe. Now I am better: Bess, you have not seen me thus?

  Wom. Heaven forefend that I should live to see you so again.

  L. Dupe. Go, go, I’m pretty well; withdraw into the next room; but be near, I pray, for fear of the worst. [They go out.] My lord, sit down near me, I pray; I’ll strive to speak a few words to you, and then to bed; nearer, my voice is faint. My lord, heaven knows how I have ever loved you; and is this my reward? Had you none to abuse but me in that unfortunate fond girl, that you know was dearer to me than my life? This was not love to her, but an inveterate malice to poor me. Oh, oh!

  [Faints again.

  Lord. Help, help, help!

  All the women again.

  Wom. This fit will carry her: Alas, it is a lechery!

  Wom. The balsam, the balsam!

  Wom. No, no, the chemistry oil of rosemary: Hold her up, and give her air.

  Mill. Feel whether she breathes, with your hand before her mouth.

  Rose. No, madam, ’tis key-cold.

  Wom. Look up, dear madam, if you have any hope of salvation!

  Wom. Hold up your finger, madam, if you have any hope of fraternity. O the blessed saints, that hear me not, take her mortality to them!

  L. Dupe. Enough, so, ’tis well — withdraw, and let me rest a while; only my dear lord remain.

  Wom. Pray your lordship keep her from swebbing.

  [Exeunt women.

  Lord. Here humbly, once again, I beg your pardon and your help.

  L. Dupe. Heaven forgive you, and I do: Stand up, my lord, and sit close by me: O this naughty girl! But did your lordship win her soon?

  Lord. No, madam, but with much difficulty.

  L. Dupe. I’m glad on’t; it shewed the girl had some religion in her; all my precepts were not in vain: But you men are strange tempters; good my lord, where was this wicked act, then, first committed?

  Lord. In an out-room, upon a trunk.

  L. Dupe. Poor heart, what shifts love makes! Oh, she does love you dearly, though to her ruin! And then, what place, my lord?

  Lord. An old waste room, with a decayed bed in’t.

  L. Dupe. Out upon that dark room for deeds of darkness! and that rotten bed! I wonder it did hold your lordship’s vigour: But you dealt gently with the girl. Well, you shall see I love you: For I will manage this business to both your advantages, by the assistance of heaven I will; good my lord, help, lead me out.

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE III.

  Enter Warner and Rose.

  Rose. A mischief upon all fools! do you think your master has not done wisely? First to mistake our old man’s humour; then to dispraise the plays; and, lastly, to discover his acquaintance with my mistress: My old master has taken such a jealousy of him, that he will never admit him into his sight again.

  Warn. Thou makest thyself a greater fool than he, by being angry at
what he cannot help. I have been angry with him too; but these friends have taken up the quarrel. [Shews gold.] Look you, he has sent these mediators to mitigate your wrath: Here are twenty of them have made a long voyage from Guinea to kiss your hands: And when the match is made, there are an hundred more in readiness to be your humble servants.

  Rose. Rather than fall out with you, I’ll take them; but I confess, it troubles me to see so loyal a lover have the heart of an emperor, and yet scarce the brains of a cobler.

  Warn. Well, what device can we two beget betwixt us, to separate Sir John Swallow and thy mistress?

  Rose. I cannot on the sudden tell; but I hate him worse than foul weather without a coach.

  Warn. Then I’ll see if my project be luckier than thine. Where are the papers concerning the jointure I have heard you speak of?

  Rose. They lie within, in three great bags; some twenty reams of paper in each bundle, with six lines in a sheet: But there is a little paper where all the business lies.

  Warn. Where is it? Canst thou help me to it?

  Rose. By good chance he gave it to my custody, before he set out for London. You came in good time; here it is, I was carrying it to him; just now he sent for it.

  Warn. So, this I will secure in my pocket; when thou art asked for it, make two or three bad faces, and say it was left behind: By this means, he must of necessity leave the town, to see for it in Kent.

  Enter Sir John, Sir Martin, and Mrs Millisent.

  Sir John. ’Tis no matter, though the old man be suspicious; I knew the story all beforehand; and since then you have fully satisfied me of your true friendship to me. — Where are the writings?

  [To Rose.

  Rose. Sir, I beg your pardon; I thought I had put them up amongst my lady’s things, and it seems, in my haste, I quite forgot them, and left them at Canterbury.

  Sir John. This is horribly unlucky! where do you think you left them?

  Rose. Upon the great box in my lady’s chamber; they are safe enough, I’m sure.

  Sir John. It must be so — I must take post immediately: Madam, for some few days I must be absent; and to confirm you, friend, how much I trust you, I leave the dearest pledge I have on earth, my mistress, to your care.

  Mill. If you loved me, you would not take all occasions to leave me thus.

  Warn. [Aside.] Do, go to Kent, and when you come again, here they are ready for you.