by Thomas Otway
Good. Hark you, dog, fool, coxcomb, hold that impertinent impudent tongue of yours, or I’ll cut it out; ‘sdeath, you buffoon, I wilt.
Mala. No, but hark you, dear heart, good words, good words, do you hear, or I shall publish; by my soul, joy, I shall.
Good. How am I continually plagued with rogues and owls! I’ll set my house o’ fire, rather than have it haunted and pestered by such vermin.
Mala. Faith, Frank, do: I have not seen a house o’ fire this great while; it would be a pretty’ frolic, pr’ythee let us about it presently.
Lady Squ. Dear Mr. Goodvile, you shall be persuaded; don’t run yourself into danger thus rashly.
Good. Do you hear then, Monsieur Pimponio; as you expect to live a quiet hour, run in and call for some lights, and return with them instantly.
Mala. Say no more, dear heart, I’ll do’t; if mischief comes not of this, the devil’s in’t — but, dear Frank, stay till I come again, I’ll be back in a trice; take t’other turn with her ladyship into the wilderness; or any thing. [Exit MALAGENE.
Lady Squ. Let me not live, this Mr. Malagene is a very obliging person, and methinks, Mr. Goodvile, you use him too severely.
Good. I wish, madam, he may deserve that character of you: he is one of those worldlings you were speaking of, that are apt to talk reproachfully; and, I believe, knows all that has passed between us to night, for he has a shrewd discerning judgment in these matters.
Lady Squ. Lord, Mr. Goodvile, what can he say of me I defy even envy itself to do me or my honour any prejudice: though I wish I had let this frolic alone to-night.
Good. Frolic, with a pox! if these be her frolics, what the devil is she when she is in earnest? O, he returns with the lights! Look who are these; by Heaven the same.
Enter TRUMAN and MRS. GOODVILE.
Tru. Gently, gently, madam, for fear of an ambuscade; I wonder I hear nothing from Ned Valentine since.
Mrs. Good. See, see, sir, here’s Mr. Goodvile; haste, haste down the other walk, or we are ruined.
Tru. Fear not, trust all to my conduct. [Exit.
[As MRS. GOODVILE is going away, GOOD- VILE catches hold of her gown — she claps on her masque.
Good. Stay, Madam Victoria; nay you may stay, ’tis in vain to fly, I have discovered all your falsehood, I have: was mine a passion to be thus abused? I who have given you all my heart! perfidious false woman! — is your lover too ashamed or afraid to show himself? where is he? why comes he not forth?
Enter TRUMAN.
Tru. Here I am, sir.
Good. Ha, Truman!
[MRS. GOODVILE gets loose and exit.
Tru. Yes, sir, the same; ready both to acknowledge and justify my being here with Victoria, which I thought, sir, might have been allowed without any offence to Mr. Goodvile. That she is innocent as to any thing on my part I am ready with my sword to make good; but sir, I wear, it too to do my own honour justice, and to demand of you on what grounds you appear so highly concerned for a woman you were pleased to commend to your friend for a wife?
Good. Concerned, sir! have I not reason to be concerned for the honour of my family? for a kinswoman under my charge to be abroad and alone with a gentleman at this unseasonable hour, might alarm a man less tender of his reputation than I am.
Tru. Sir, this excuse won’t serve my turn; nor am I so blind as not to be sensible, which I before suspected, that Victoria has been long your mistress. — A pox of the honour of your family? you had given her all your heart, you said; and your passion was not a thing to be thus abused: nor, sir, is my honour.
Good. No, but dear Jack Truman, thou art my friend.
Tru. You would have made me believe so indeed; but the daubing was too coarse, and the artificial face appeared too plain. — One would have thought, sir, that you who keep a general decoy here for fools and coxcombs, might have found one to have recompensed a cast mistress withal, and not have endeavoured the betraying the honour of a gentleman and your friend. But, sir, I am glad I have heard it from your own mouth: I hope it will not be esteemed much ill-nature in me, if worthy Mr. Malagene and I join forces to publish a little, as he calls it.
Mala. [who has re-entered] Faith, Jack Truman, with all my heart; now I have him on my side, I dare say any thing [aside. — Frank Goodvile — pugh.
Goodvile. Sir, I shall require a better account of this hereafter.
Lady Squ. Lord, Mr. Truman, what ails Mr. Goodvile? now happened this difference? — I’ll swear I’m strangely surprised.
Tru. Your ladyship I suppose, can best give an account how matters are with him: I am apt to believe he has been very free with you.
Lady Squ. Dear sir, what do you mean? I’ll swear you are a scandalous person.
Good. Sir, since you are so rough, be pleased not to concern yourself with the honour of this lady; you may have enough to do, if you dare justify your own to-morrow.
Tru. If I dare; — nay sir, since you question it, I’ll convince you presently; — Draw. [They fight.
Enter VALENTINE.
Val. Hold, hold, what’s the matter here? — Jack Truman, Frank Goodvile, for shame put up.
Enter MRS. GOODVILE.
Mrs. Good. Where is this perfidious false man? where is Mr. Goodvile? so, sir, I have found now the original of all my misfortunes: I have’ a rival it seems; Victoria, the happy Victoria possesses all my joys; what, have you been fighting too for the honour of your mistress? here, come kill me; would I had been laid in my grave, ere I had known thy odious polluted bed.
Good. ‘Sdeath, I thought she had been in her chamber this hour at least:— ’Tis true, my dear, I must own a kindness for Victoria, as my kinswoman; but Mrs. Good. How I dare you own it? and to my face too? matchless impudence? let me come at him, that I may tear out those hot, lascivious glowing eyes that wander after every beauty in their way; O that I could blast him with a look! — was my love so despicable, to be abandoned for Victoria! the thought of it makes me mad: I’ll endure it no longer, I will have revenge, Or I will die! oh!
Tru. Delicate dissimulation! how I love her!
[Aside.
Good. Dear madam, hear me speak — madam, I say that —
Mrs. Good. I know you cannot want an excuse; dissimulation and falsehood have been your practice: — but that you should wrong me with Victoria, a woman that for the sake of your relation I had made my friend, (for every thing that was allied to you was dear to me) is an injury so great, that it distracts my reason — I could pardon any thing but my wronged love. Let me be gone; send me to a nunnery; confine me to a charnel-house, vile ungrateful wretch! any thing but thy presence I can endure.
Good. Is there every way so damned a creature as a wife? — Lord, madam, do you know what you do?
Mrs. Good. I’ll warrant it, you would persuade me I am mad: would I had been born a fool! I might then have been happy; patiently have passed over the many tedious nights I have endured in your absence; contented myself with prayers for your safety.
Mala. O Lord; prayers!
Mrs. Good. When you, in the very instant, were languishing in the arms of a prostitute.
Good. Lord, madam, I thought you had been in your chamber now. Curse on her, what shall I do! [Aside.
Mrs. Good. ’Tis a sign you believed me safe enough; you would not certainly else have the impudence to have brought a new mistress under my nose; I see there how guilty she stands — have you a stomach so hot that it can digest carrion, that has been buzzed about and blown upon by all the Dies in the town? or was it the fantasticalness of your appetite, to try how so coarse a dish would relish, after being cloyed with better feeding? — Nay, sir, I have been informed of all.
Val. Has then your virtuous ladyship been taking a little love and air with Mr. Goodvile this evening?
[To LADY SQUEAMISH.
Good. Well, she has dealt with the devil, that’s certain; — a pox on’t, I see there’s no living for me on this side of the world Go, let the coach be made ready; I’ll into the coun
try.
Mrs. Good. Nay, sir, I know my presence has always been uneasy to you: day and night you are from me, or if ever you come home, ’tis with an aching head and heavy heart, which Victoria only has charms enough to cure. This in the first year of our marriage! nay, and to own it, proclaim your own falsehood, and my disgraceful injury, in the face of the world, when Malagene too, the trumpet of all the scandal in town, was by to be a witness; ’twas very discreetly done, and doubtless would be a secret long.
Good. Whirr, — nay, since it is so, what the devil should I strive to smother my good actions — well, if you will have it so, Madam Victoria has been my mistress, is my mistress, and shall be my mistress, and what a pox would you have more? and so good bye to you.
Enter SIR NOBLE CLUMSEY, CAPER, and SAUNTER.
Clum. How’s this! who’s that speaks dishonourably of my love, and lady that shall be, Victoria? Before George she’s a queen, and whoever says to the contrary, I’ll first make him eat my sword, and then beat out his teeth with the hilt of it.
Cap. Oh! dear madam, yonder’s all the town in masquerade; won’t you walk in? they’ll be gone if they see no company; Jack Truman, dear Jack, pr’ythee go and take one frisk: — as I hope to be saved, there are three or four of the finest ladies the delicatest shaped women; I am sure I know them all.
Tru. Sir, I wish you good fortune, but I dare not venture, you know my temper; I shall be very boisterous, and mistake them for whores, though if they be of your acquaintance, I know they must be of quality.
Cap. Igad, and so they are; but mum for that; — one of them is she that gave me this ring; and the other presented me with a gold enamelled watch could not cost less than thirty guineas; trifles Jack, which I have the fortune to meet withal sometimes.
Saun. Nay, sir, you must not come off so — Victoria your mistress!
Good. Yes, sir, and how are you concerned at it?
Saun. Nay sir, I can be as civil as any body — Victoria your mistress!
Good. ‘Sdeath, you coxcomb, mind your singing, do you hear? and play the fool by yourself, or — .
Saun. Sing sir, so I can, Fa, la, la, la, &c.
Victoria your mistress!
Good. Yes sir, I say my mistress.
Clum. Ounds, then draw.
Val. Hold, Sir Noble, you are too furious; what’s the matter?
Cap. Why how now, Saunter? how dost do dear heart? sir, this gentleman’s my friend, and —
Good. Was ever man so overwhelmed with fools and blockheads? why, you ill-ordered, addle-pated, waddling brace of puppies you fool, in the first place sing and be safe — and you slight grasshopper, dance and divert me: dance, sirrah, do you hear?
Cap. Dance sir, and so I think I can, sir, and fence, and play at tennis, and make love, and fold up a billet-doux, or any thing better than you, sir, dance quoth-a — there, sir.
Mrs. Good. Nay, Sir Noble, not only so, but owned and boasted of it to my face. Told me —
Clum. Soul of my honour, ’tis unpardonable; and I’ll eat his heart fort.
Good. Dear raw-head and bloody-bones, be patient a little. — See, see, you beagles, game for you, fresh game; that great towser has started it already? on, on, on, halloo, halloo, halloo.
[Thrusts them at his wife, and exit.
Lady Squ. But, dear Mr. Caper, masqueraders did you say! I’ll swear I’ll among them; shall I not have your company? Oh! dear masqueraders! I’ll vow I can stay no longer. [Exit hastily.
Val. Curse on her, she’s gone, and has prevented me — Caper, Saunter, did you not hear my lady, call you? She’s gone to the masqueraders; for shame, follow her: she’ll take it ill you did not wait on her.
Saun. Faith, Caper, and so she will. Well, I am resolved to marry Victoria for fear of the worst madam, your most devoted servant: I hope our difference with Mr. Goodvile to-night Mrs. Good. Dear sir, it needs no excuse.
Cap. My resentment, madam —
Tru. You are too ceremonious, gentlemen, and my lady will fear she has lost you.
Cap. Dear Jack, as I told thee before, I must bring thee acquainted with those ladies.
Saun. Pr’ythee put on a mask, and come among us, Jack, faith do.
Tru. Sirs, I’ll wait on you in a moment.
Both. Dear soul, adieu. [Embracing him.
[Exeunt singing and dancing.
Tru. These coxcombs, madam, came in a good time; they were never seasonable before.
Mrs. Good. Diseases and visitations are necessary sometimes to sweep away the noisome crowds that infest and incumber the world.
Mala. As I have often said, I must publish, I must spread; and so good bye to you. [Exit.
Enter LETTICE.
Let. Oh! madam, yonder’s my master raving for his coach: says he’ll into the country presently: has given order to disperse the company; what will you do?
Mrs. Good. Let him go, ‘twere pity to hinder him: — ha, ha, ha, into the country? I’d as soon believe he would turn capuchin.
Tru. But, madam, it was inhumanly done to come yourself upon him: one would have thought that I had used him bad enough for the wise mistake he made of Victoria.
Mrs. Good. I would not have missed it for the world. Now would he come on his knees for composition; and if I do not bring him to it within these four hours.
Tru. Why, madam, what will you do?
Mrs. Good. Put on all the notorious affectations and ridiculous impertinences that ever the most eminent of our sex have studied, or the coxcombs of your sex admired; then of a sudden seem to grow fond of both those clincant fools, which I am sure he of all things loathes; yet do it too forcedly, that he himself shall find it only intended to give him vexation.
Tru. Have you then maliciously designed, in spite of nature, to keep me constant?
Mrs. Good. Which you will be sure to be.
Tru. A dozen new fresh young unseen beauties, and the devil himself in the rear of them, cannot make me otherwise; I never really loved or lived till now. There is nothing I’d not wish to be, except the very husband himself, rather than lose you.
Enter VALENTINE and CAMILLA.
Val. Jack Truman!
Tru. Well, Ned, what’s the matter?
Val. Treason, Truman; your being here with Mrs. Goodvile I fear is discovered; I heard some such thing whispered among the masqueraders, and Goodvile himself seems suddenly altered; I would advise you to come and show yourself, and make the best on’t.
Mrs. Good. Let me alone; I’ll secure all, I’ll warrant you. I’m sure he can have no positive proofs: I’ll instantly go and put all things in a confusion, contradict all the orders he has given for going into the country; shut up myself in my chamber, and not hear a word of him till he comes upon submission; Lettice, follow me to my chamber presently. [Exit.
Tru. Right exquisite woman and wife, good luck attend thee. [Exit.
Let. Well, my lady certainly, of a young lady, knows her business, and understands the managing of a husband the best of any woman in the world: I’ll swear she is an ingenious person: forty ladies now, at such an accident, would have been hurried and afraid, and the poor waiting-woman must have been sent forward and backward, and backward and forward, to hearken and inquire; but she shows all her changes in a motion.
Enter GOODVILE.
Good. How now, Lettice? where’s your lady?
Let. Within sir, in her chamber.
Good. Are you sure of it?
Let. She commanded me to follow her thither but now.
Good. Is she alone there?
Let. Aye, sir, I’ll assure you she seldom desires company. But I must hasten and follow her.
Good. Stay a little, are you sure she was in the house, before this disturbance happened in the garden?
Let. Sure, sir! why I myself was at the chamber window with her, when first she heard you exclaim against Madam Victoria! Poor creature, I was afraid she would have fallen down dead on the floor: I catched her in my arms, begged her on my knees not to run out; but she
would hear nothing, but in spite of force broke from me, and came hither with all that impatience and rage, the too sensible resentment of your unkindness had raised in her.
Good. Get you in presently, do you hear; and take no notice of what I have said to you, as you tender your well-being.
Let. Yes, sir; — but if I conceal a word of it, may I. never serve a London lady again, but be condemned to be A country chambermaid, and kill fleas as long as I live. [Aside.] [Exit.
Good. If I should have been in the wrong all this while, and mistaken my own dear wife for Victoria? Ah! curse on this hot head of mine! pox on’t, if is impossible! Yet that mischievous rogue Malagene was all the while in the garden, and he has been at his doubts and ambiguities, and may-be’s with me; — by this light — I am a cuckold, an arrant rank stinking cuckold.
Enter VICTORIA.
Vic. What will become of me! whither shall I fly to hide my misfortune? Oh! that I might never see the light again, but be for ever concealed in these shades.
Good. Dear Victoria, is’t you? be free with me, were you really in the garden before to-night, or no?
Vic. I have not been out of the house since it was dark till this minute, nor had I come hither now, but that I am destitute where to conceal myself from the malicious eyes and tongues of those to whom your baseness has given an opportunity of triumphing over my misfortune and ruined honour.
Good. Be not so outrageous; I’ll reconcile all yet.
Vic. Which way is’t possible? By to-morrow morning your very footmen will have it in their mouths; and Malagene, that keeps an office of intelligence for all the scandal in town, will be spreading it among his coffee-house companions, and at the play whisper it to the orange-women, who shall make a fulsome jest of it to the next coxcomb that comes in half drunk, to loll and play, and be nauseously lewd with them in public.
Good. I tell thee it shall not be; Malagene’s my creature, or at least henceforth I’ll make him so; I have reasons for it, and to believe also that my wife, my own delicate damned wife, was the same I mistook for you in the garden to-night.
Vic. ’Tis true, I went at the same time to see for her in her chamber, and she was not there; but cannot believe her in the least guilty of what you seem to accuse her of.
