John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  — castum esse decet pium poetam

  Ipsum. Versiculos nihil necesse est:

  Qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem

  Si sint molliculi et parum pudici.

  But I dare not make that apology for myself; and therefore have taken a becoming care, that those things which offended on the stage, might be either altered, or omitted in the press; for their authority is, and shall be, ever sacred to me, as much absent as present, and in all alterations of their fortune, who for those reasons have stopped its farther appearance on the theatre. And whatsoever hindrance it has been to me in point of profit, many of my 011 friends can bear me witness, that I have not once murmured against that decree. The same fortune once happened to Moliere, on the occasion of his “Tartuffe;” which, notwithstanding, afterwards has seen the light, in a country more bigot than ours, and is accounted amongst the best pieces of that poet. I will be bold enough to say, that this comedy is of the first rank of those which I have written, and that posterity will be of my opinion. It has nothing of particular satire in it; for whatsoever may have been pretended by some critics in the town, I may safely and solemnly affirm, that no one character has been drawn from any single man; and that I have known so many of the same humour, in every folly which is here exposed, as may serve to warrant it from a particular reflection. It was printed in my absence from the town, this summer, much against my expectation; otherwise I had over-looked the press, and been yet more careful, that neither my friends should have had the least occasion of unkindness against me, nor my enemies of upbraiding me; but if it live to a second impression, I will faithfully perform what has been wanting in this. In the mean time, my lord, I recommend it to your protection, and beg I may keep still that place in your favour which I have hitherto enjoyed; and which I shall reckon as one of the greatest blessings which can befall,

  My Lord,

  Your Lordship’s most obedient,

  Faithful servant,

  John Dryden.

  PROLOGUE.

  True wit has seen its best days long ago;

  It ne’er looked up, since we were dipt in show;

  When sense in doggrel rhimes and clouds was lost,

  And dulness flourished at the actor’s cost.

  Nor stopt it here; when tragedy was done,

  Satire and humour the same fate have run,

  And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.

  Now our machining lumber will not sell,

  And you no longer care for heaven or hell;

  What stuff will please you next, the Lord can tell.

  Let them, who the rebellion first began

  To wit, restore the monarch, if they can;

  Our author dares not be the first bold man.

  He, like the prudent citizen, takes care,

  To keep for better marts his staple ware;

  His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.

  Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,

  ’Tis time enough at Easter, to invent;

  No man will make up a new suit for Lent.

  If now and then he takes a small pretence,

  To forage for a little wit and sense,

  Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.

  Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,

  That all the critics shall be shipped away,

  And not enow be left to damn a play.

  To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind;

  But drive away that swarm with such a wind,

  That not one locust may be left behind!

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  Aldo, an honest, good-natured, free-hearted old gentleman of the town.

  Woodall, his son, under a false name; bred abroad, and now returned from travel.

  Limberham, a tame, foolish keeper, persuaded by what is last said to him, and changing next word.

  Brainsick, a husband, who, being well conceited of himself, despises his wife: vehement and eloquent, as he thinks; but indeed a talker of nonsense.

  Gervase, Woodall’s man: formal, and apt to give good counsel.

  Giles, Woodall’s cast servant.

  Mrs Saintly, an hypocritical fanatic, landlady of the boarding-house.

  Mrs Tricksy, a termagant kept mistress.

  Mrs Pleasance, supposed daughter to Mrs Saintly: Spiteful and satirical; but secretly in love with Woodall.

  Mrs Brainsick.

  Judith, a maid of the house.

  SCENE — A Boarding-house in Town.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. — An open Garden-House; a table in it, and chairs.

  Enter Woodall and Gervase.

  Wood. Bid the footman receive the trunks and portmantua; and see them placed in the lodgings you have taken for me, while I walk a turn here in the garden.

  Gerv. It is already ordered, sir. But they are like to stay in the outer-room, till the mistress of the house return from morning exercise.

  Wood. What, she’s gone to the parish church, it seems, to her devotions!

  Gerv. No, sir; the servants have informed me, that she rises every morning, and goes to a private meeting-house; where they pray for the government, and practise against the authority of it.

  Wood. And hast thou trepanned me into a tabernacle of the godly? Is this pious boarding-house a place for me, thou wicked varlet?

  Gerv. According to human appearance, I must confess, it is neither fit for you, nor you for it; but 016 have patience, sir; matters are not so bad as they may seem. There are pious bawdy-houses in the world, or conventicles would not be so much frequented. Neither is it impossible, but a devout fanatic landlady of a boarding-house may be a bawd.

  Wood. Ay, to those of her own church, I grant you, Gervase; but I am none of those.

  Gerv. If I were worthy to read you a lecture in the mystery of wickedness, I would instruct you first in the art of seeming holiness: But, heaven be thanked, you have a toward and pregnant genius to vice, and need not any man’s instruction; and I am too good, I thank my stars, for the vile employment of a pimp.

  Wood. Then thou art even too good for me; a worse man will serve my turn.

  Gerv. I call your conscience to witness, how often I have given you wholesome counsel; how often I have said to you, with tears in my eyes, master, or master Aldo —

  Wood. Mr Woodall, you rogue! that is my nomme de guerre. You know I have laid by Aldo, for fear that name should bring me to the notice of my father.

  Gerv. Cry you mercy, good Mr Woodall. How often have I said, — Into what courses do you run! Your father sent you into France at twelve years old; bred you up at Paris, first in a college, and then at an academy: At the first, instead of running through a course of philosophy, you ran through all the bawdy-houses in town: At the latter, instead of managing the great horse, you exercised on your master’s wife. What you did in Germany, I know not; but that you beat them all at their own weapon, drinking, and have brought home a goblet of plate from Munster, for the prize of swallowing a gallon of Rhenish more than the bishop.

  Wood. Gervase, thou shalt be my chronicler; thou losest none of my heroic actions.

  Gerv. What a comfort are you like to prove to your good old father! You have run a campaigning among the French these last three years, without his leave; and now he sends for you back, to settle you in the world, and marry you to the heiress of a rich gentleman, of whom he had the guardianship, yet you do not make your application to him.

  Wood. Pr’ythee, no more.

  Gerv. You are come over, have been in town above a week incognito, haunting play-houses, and other places, which for modesty I name not; and have changed your name from Aldo to Woodall, for fear of being discovered to him: You have not so much as inquired where he is lodged, though you know he is most commonly in London: And lastly, you have discharged my honest fellow-servant Giles, because —

  Wood. Because he was too saucy, and was ever offering to give me counsel: Mark that, and tremble at his destiny.

  Gerv. I know the rea
son why I am kept; because you cannot be discovered by my means; for you took me up in France, and your father knows me not.

  Wood. I must have a ramble in the town: When I have spent my money, I will grow dutiful, see my father, and ask for more. In the mean time, I have beheld a handsome woman at a play, I am fallen in love with her, and have found her easy: Thou, I thank thee, hast traced her to her lodging in this boarding-house, and hither I am come, to accomplish my design.

  Gerv. Well, heaven mend all. I hear our landlady’s voice without; [Noise.] and therefore shall defer my counsel to a fitter season.

  Wood. Not a syllable of counsel: The next grave sentence, thou marchest after Giles. Woodall’s my name; remember that.

  Enter Mrs Saintly.

  Is this the lady of the house?

  Gerv. Yes, Mr Woodall, for want of a better, as she will tell you.

  Wood. She has a notable smack with her! I believe zeal first taught the art of kissing close.

  [Saluting her.

  Saint. You are welcome, gentleman. Woodall is your name?

  Wood. I call myself so.

  Saint. You look like a sober discreet gentleman; there is grace in your countenance.

  Wood. Some sprinklings of it, madam: We must not boast.

  Saint. Verily, boasting is of an evil principle.

  Wood. Faith, madam —

  Saint. No swearing, I beseech you. Of what church are you?

  Wood. Why, of Covent-Garden church, I think.

  Gerv. How lewdly and ignorantly he answers! [Aside] She means, of what religion are you?

  Wood. O, does she so? — Why, I am of your religion, be it what it will; I warrant it a right one: I’ll not stand with you for a trifle; presbyterian, independent, anabaptist, they are all of them too good for us, unless we had the grace to follow them.

  Saint. I see you are ignorant; but verily, you are a new vessel, and I may season you. I hope you do not use the parish-church.

  Wood. Faith, madam — cry you mercy; (I forgot again) I have been in England but five days.

  Saint. I find a certain motion within me to this young man, and must secure him to myself, ere he 019 see my lodgers. [Aside.] — O, seriously, I had forgotten; your trunk and portmantua are standing in the hall; your lodgings are ready, and your man may place them, if he please, while you and I confer together.

  Wood. Go, Gervase, and do as you are directed. [Exit Ger.

  Saint. In the first place, you must know, we are a company of ourselves, and expect you should live conformably and lovingly amongst us.

  Wood. There you have hit me. I am the most loving soul, and shall be conformable to all of you.

  Saint. And to me especially. Then, I hope, you are no keeper of late hours.

  Wood. No, no, my hours are very early; betwixt three and four in the morning, commonly.

  Saint. That must be amended; but, to remedy the inconvenience, I will myself sit up for you. I hope, you would not offer violence to me?

  Wood. I think I should not, if I were sober.

  Saint. Then, if you were overtaken, and should offer violence, and I consent not, you may do your filthy part, and I am blameless.

  Wood. [Aside.] I think the devil’s in her; she has given me the hint again. — Well, it shall go hard, but I will offer violence sometimes; will that content you?

  Saint. I have a cup of cordial water in my closet, which will help to strengthen nature, and to carry off a debauch: I do not invite you thither; but the house will be safe a-bed, and scandal will be avoided.

  Wood. Hang scandal; I am above it at those times.

  Saint. But scandal is the greatest part of the offence; you must be secret. And I must warn you of another thing; there are, besides myself, two more young women in my house.

  Wood. [Aside.] That, besides herself, is a cooling card. — Pray, how young are they?

  Saint. About my age: some eighteen, or twenty, or thereabouts.

  Wood. Oh, very good! Two more young women besides yourself, and both handsome?

  Saint. No, verily, they are painted outsides; you must not cast your eyes upon them, nor listen to their conversation: You are already chosen for a better work.

  Wood. I warrant you, let me alone: I am chosen, I.

  Saint. They are a couple of alluring wanton minxes.

  Wood. Are they very alluring, say you? very wanton?

  Saint. You appear exalted, when I mention those pit-falls of iniquity.

  Wood. Who, I exalted? Good faith, I am as sober, a melancholy poor soul! —

  Saint. I see this abominable sin of swearing is rooted in you. Tear it out; oh, tear it out! it will destroy your precious soul.

  Wood. I find we two shall scarce agree: I must not come to your closet when I have got a bottle; for, at such a time, I am horribly given to it.

  Saint. Verily, a little swearing may be then allowable: You may swear you love me, it is a lawful oath; but then, you must not look on harlots.

  Wood. I must wheedle her, and whet my courage first on her; as a good musician always preludes before a tune. Come, here is my first oath.

  [Embracing her.

  Enter Aldo.

  Aldo. How now, Mrs Saintly! what work have we here towards?

  Wood. [Aside.] Aldo, my own natural father, as I live! I remember the lines of that hide-bound face: 021 Does he lodge here? If he should know me, I am ruined.

  Saint. Curse on his coming! he has disturbed us. [Aside.] Well, young gentleman, I shall take a time to instruct you better.

  Wood. You shall find me an apt scholar.

  Saint. I must go abroad upon some business; but remember your promise, to carry yourself soberly, and without scandal in my family; and so I leave you to this gentleman, who is a member of it.

  [Exit Saint.

  Aldo. [Aside.] Before George, a proper fellow, and a swinger he should be, by his make! the rogue would humble a whore, I warrant him. — You are welcome, sir, amongst us; most heartily welcome, as I may say.

  Wood. All’s well: he knows me not. — Sir, your civility is obliging to a stranger, and may befriend me, in the acquaintance of our fellow-lodgers.

  Aldo. Hold you there, sir: I must first understand you a little better; and yet, methinks, you should be true to love.

  Wood. Drinking and wenching are but slips of youth: I had those two good qualities from my father.

  Aldo. Thou, boy! Aha, boy! a true Trojan, I warrant thee! [Hugging him.] Well, I say no more; but you are lighted into such a family, such food for concupiscence, such bona roba’s!

  Wood. One I know, indeed; a wife: But bona roba’s, say you?

  Aldo. I say, bona roba’s, in the plural number.

  Wood. Why, what a Turk Mahomet shall I be! No, I will not make myself drunk with the conceit of so much joy: The fortune’s too great for mortal man; and I a poor unworthy sinner.

  Aldo. Would I lie to my friend? Am I a man? Am I a christian? There is that wife you mentioned, 022 a delicate little wheedling devil, with such an appearance of simplicity; and with that, she does so undermine, so fool her conceited husband, that he despises her!

  Wood. Just ripe for horns: His destiny, like a Turk’s, is written in his forehead.

  Aldo. Peace, peace! thou art yet ordained for greater things. There is another, too, a kept mistress, a brave strapping jade, a two-handed whore!

  Wood. A kept mistress, too! my bowels yearn to her already: she is certain prize.

  Aldo. But this lady is so termagant an empress! and he is so submissive, so tame, so led a keeper, and as proud of his slavery as a Frenchman. I am confident he dares not find her false, for fear of a quarrel with her; because he is sure to be at the charges of the war. She knows he cannot live without her, and therefore seeks occasions of falling out, to make him purchase peace. I believe she is now aiming at a settlement.

  Wood. Might not I ask you one civil question? How pass you your time in this noble family? For I find you are a lover of the game, and I should be loth to hunt in yo
ur purlieus.

  Aldo. I must first tell you something of my condition. I am here a friend to all of them; I am their factotum, do all their business; for, not to boast, sir, I am a man of general acquaintance: There is no news in town, either foreign or domestic, but I have it first; no mortgage of lands, no sale of houses, but I have a finger in them.

  Wood. Then, I suppose, you are a gainer by your pains.

  Aldo. No, I do all gratis, and am most commonly a loser; only a buck sometimes from this good lord, or that good lady in the country: and I eat it not alone, I must have company.

  Wood. Pray, what company do you invite?

  Aldo. Peace, peace, I am coming to you: Why, you must know I am tender-natured; and if any unhappy difference have arisen betwixt a mistress and her gallant, then I strike in, to do good offices betwixt them; and, at my own proper charges, conclude the quarrel with a reconciling supper.

  Wood. I find the ladies of pleasure are beholden to you.

  Aldo. Before George, I love the poor little devils. I am indeed a father to them, and so they call me: I give them my counsel, and assist them with my purse. I cannot see a pretty sinner hurried to prison by the land-pirates, but nature works, and I must bail her; or want a supper, but I have a couple of crammed chickens, a cream tart, and a bottle of wine to offer her.

  Wood. Sure you expect some kindness in return.

  Aldo. Faith, not much: Nature in me is at low water-mark; my body’s a jade, and tires under me; yet I love to smuggle still in a corner; pat them down, and pur over them; but, after that, I can do them little harm.

  Wood. Then I’m acquainted with your business: You would be a kind of deputy-fumbler under me.

  Aldo. You have me right. Be you the lion, to devour the prey; I am your jackall, to provide it for you: There will be a bone for me to pick.

  Wood. Your humility becomes your age. For my part, I am vigorous, and throw at all.

  Aldo. As right as if I had begot thee! Wilt thou give me leave to call thee son?

  Wood. With all my heart.

  Aldo. Ha, mad son!

  Wood. Mad daddy!