by Thomas Otway
Good. Confound her! — she’s an exquisite jilt, thorough-paced, and practised in all the cunning arts and slights of falsehood: ‘sdeath, how. I could mince her! But here comes Malagene, he knows, all, and I’ll make him confess all, or I’ll murder him.
Enter MALAGENE.
Well, sir, what say you to this matter?
Mala. Faith, bully, I. think my dear kinswoman has maul’d you, to some purpose; I’ll say this for her, she has the true blood of the Malagenes in her: tol lol dara lal,&c.
Good. What, is’t you mean, fool? Be plain, and unfold yourself.
Mala. Why you must know; Frank, having a particular esteem for my family, (the nearest relation of which I would go fifty miles to see hanged) I do think her a very a — But no more, — mum, dear heart, mum, I say.
Good. What’s that you say, sir? what do you think my wife.
Mala. Aye, what, Frank? what now?
Good. Nay, sir, that you must resolve me.
Mala. Why then I’ll tell thee, Frank; dost thou really think I love thee?
Good. I know you’ll say so, sir, because you fear me.
Mala. Then pr’ythee do so much as lend me ten guineas for a day or two.
Good. Oh, sir, to the purpose, to the purpose, be brief.
Mala. Nay then, mum, I say again.
Good. Will you never leave vexing me with your impertinence? Must I be always forced to use you ill, to bring you to good manners?
Mala. Faith, child, I am loth to make mischief; I have been a very wicked, ill-natured, impudent fellow, that’s the truth on’t: but I find I lose myself by it; the very poets themselves, that were wont to stand in awe of me, care not a louse for me now; and there’s not a common whore in town, but calls me rogue and rascal to my face, as impudently as if I were her pimp.
Good. Therefore, sir, resolve to turn honest, and be just to your friend.
Mala. The devil take me, Frank, if thou art not a very impertinent fellow:— ‘know! why who should know better than yourself? ha!
Good. Here are five guineas for you, upon condition you make a full and true relation of all you have discovered this night.
Mala. I’ll do’t; down with your dust.
Good. What will not this rakehell do to borrow money? I knew him make love to a chambermaid till he had borrowed five pounds of her at half-a-crown a time. [Aside.
Mala. Well, Frank Goodvile, you may think as you please of me; but hang me like a dog if I am not a very honest fellow in my heart — You would have me deal freely with you, you say, in this business?
Good. I would so, sir, or I shall deal very roughly with you.
Mala. And you lent me these five guineas to that purpose?
Good. You are much in the right, sir.
Mala. Then to make short of the matter; thou art as arrant a poor silly cuckold as one would wish to drink withal, and confound me if I shall not be ashamed of thy company.
Good. Confounded whore! — Oh for a legion of devils to hurry her to hell, and that I had but the driving of them!
Mala. Nay, nay, man, since ’tis so, never be angry for the matter. What a pox, you thought to put the mistress upon Truman? Truman has put the cuckold upon you; Valentine has been pimp in the business; and the devil take me if I don’t think myself the honestest fellow amongst you.
Vic. Now, sir, consider what a wretched thing you have made me.
Good. No more, I’m thine; and here I seal my heart to thee for ever.
Mala. Well, Frank, can I serve thee any farther in this business?
Good. That, sir, is as time shall try; and to convince you how fit I think you for my purpose; I know you are a rascal not to be trusted: therefore observe it, if you offer to stir beyond the limits I set you, at that very instant I’ll murder you.
Mala. Pr’ythee talk not to me of limits and murdering; I hope you take me, sir, under the rose, for no fool: and what a pox do you think to make of me?
Good. A spaniel to hunt and set the game I mean to take: oh! Malagene, there will be mischief, Malagene, and new ripe fresh scandal to treat of: I know it is an office thou lovest, and therefore do it to oblige thee.
Mala. I’faith, and so I do with all my heart: but, Frank, I don’t know how this business will be brought about well: I have promised to meet two or three hearty old souls to-morrow at dinner, to swear and drink, and talk bawdy and treason together for an hour or two; they are all Atheists, and very honest fellows.
Good. O sir, you may be hanged in good time: but for this present occasion I must use you: Victoria, do you with all your utmost art dissemble but the least knowledge of what has happened to-night: and sir, do you keep still that lying, sneering, ugly, merry face which you always wear when you design mischief: I’ll pretend this morning to pursue my design of going into the country; then when they are in the height of their pleasures and assurance of their safety, return and surprise them.
Vic. But do you believe, sir, that you can utterly abandon all sense of your past love and tenderness for a woman who has been so dear to you? you will be apt to relapse again.
Good. I will sooner return to my vomit: I am rather glad of the occasion to be rid of so troublesome, uneasy a burden: a wife after a year, like a garment that has been worn too long, hangs loose and awkwardly on a man, and grows a scandal to him that wears it.
Vic. But can you then resolve to quit and disown her forever?
Good. For ever, my Victoria! — no more, but straight go to thy chamber, and wait for the happy issue; you, sir, keep close to me. Quit her! as cheerfully as I would a shoe that wrings me.
Then how loosely shall I move,
Free and unbounded taste the sweets of life!
Love where I please, and know no more the strife
That’s bred by that domestic plague call’d wife.
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I. VICTORIA’S Chamber.
Enter VICTORIA.
Vic. Now I am satisfied I must be wretched! Oh love! unhappy women’s curse, and men’s slight game to pass their idle time at: I find too in myself the common companion of infamy, malice. Has Goodvile’s wife ever wronged me? Never. Why then should I conspire to betray her? No, let my revenge light wholly on that false perjured man; as he has deceived and ruined me, I’ll play false with him, make myself privy to his whole design of surprising Truman and his wife together: then, like a true mistress, betray his counsels to her, that she, like a true wife, may, spite of his teeth, deceive him quite, and so I have the pleasure of seeing him a sealed, stigmatized, fond, believing cuckold; ‘twill at least be some ease to me. Here he comes equipped and prepared for the pretended journey.
Enter GOODVILE and Boy.
Good. Go bid the coachman hasten, and get all things ready; I am uneasy till I am gone. ’Tis time we were set out.
The wolves have prey’d, and look the gentle
Before the wheels of Phœbus, all about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.
Wife! adieu, dear wife. Ah, my Victoria, up already? so diligent to wish me a happy journey? Certainly my good angel is like thee, and whensoever I err, must meet me in thy shape, and with such softness smile and direct me.
Vic. As those whom
Will with the wisp bewitches
Through bogs, through hedges, and through ditches.
Good. No, thou hast led me out of the crooked froward road of matrimony, into the pleasant easy path of love, where I can never lose my way, and must be always happy. But where’s Malagene?
Vic. Below with Sir Noble. Whilst the butler was asleep, they stole the key from him: and there they are with the fat red-faced fiddler that plays upon the base, sitting cross-legged upon the floor, tripped to their shirts, and drinking bawdy healths.
Good. That fulsome rogue will ruin all our business. See here what I have discovered just now in the private corner of a window, (a place I suppose appointed for the purpose) I found this billet to my sweet wife. [Reads.
If GOODVILE goes out of town this morning, let me know it, that I may wait on you, and tell you the rest of my heart, for you do not know how much I love you yet. TRUMAN.
Now if I am not a cuckold, let any honest wittol judge, ha, ha, ha. How it pleases me! blood! fire! and daggers!
Vic. But, sir, what do you resolve on?
Good. As I told thee, instantly to pretend a journey out of town, and return and surprise them; for I am sure they’ll not be long asunder when I am out of the way: oh! this billet is a very honest billet, and I know won’t lie. But why should I spend my time in talking of what but vexes me when pleasures are so near me? come, my Victoria, take me to thy arms, a moment’s joy with thee would sweeten years of cares. The devil —
Enter MRS. GOODVILE and LETTICE.
Mrs. Good. Good morning to you, sir.
Good. Good night to you, madam.
Mrs. Good. How so, sir?
Good. Why, good-night or good-morrow, ’tis all one; ceremony is the least thing I take care of: you see I am busy.
Mrs. Good. I must confess, considering the humble duty of a wife, ’tis something rude in me to interrupt you; but I hope, when you know my intentions, you’ll pardon me. They were only to take a civil leave of you: I find you are preparing for the country, sir.
Good. Aye! a little air will be very seasonable at present, madam; I shall grow rank else, and all the company I keep will smell me out.
Mrs. Good. Oh! what joy will fill each neighbouring village, to hear our landlord’s honour’s coming down. The bells shall jingle out of tune all day; and at night the curate of the hamlet comes in the name of the whole parish to bid his patron welcome into the country, and invite himself the next Lord’s day to dinner.
Good. I am glad to see you so pleasant, madam.
Mrs. Good. Then the next morning our tenant’s dainty daughter is sent with a present of pippins of the largest size, culled by the good old drudge her mother, which she delivers with a curtesy, and blushes in expectation of what his worship will bestow upon her.
Good. Oh, madam, let not any thoughts of that nature disturb you; I shall leave all my wanton inclinations here, and only please myself, when. I am there sometimes to contemplate your ladyship’s picture in the gallery.
Mrs. Good. Then come the country squires, and their dogs, the cleanlier sort of creatures of the two: straight we’re invited to the noble hunt, and not a deer in all the forest’s safe.
Good. No, madam; no horned beast shall suffer for my pleasure; I am lately grown a philosopher, madam; and find we ought not to hurt our fellow-creatures.
Mrs. Good. What is the reason that you use me thus?
Good. What is’t I would not do to purchase quietness? Your injurious suspicions of me were tolerable, but the wrongs your jealousy has done Victoria —
Mrs. Good. I jealous of Victoria! No, though my passion last night made me extravagant when I discovered you with that naughty Lady Squeamish, which I can easily forgive, if you’ll but promise to forget her: for I am confident it was your first transgression.
Good. Very quaint and pretty.
Mrs. Good. Yet I am too well satisfied of Victoria’s virtue, for she’s my friend; and though I should see her in your arms, I could not harbour such a thought. No, Victoria, you must love me, and I’ll love you; you shall call me your love, and I’ll call you my dear, and we’ll always go to the play together, and to the park together, and every where together; and when Mr. Goodvile’s out of town, we’ll lie together.
Enter Servant.
Scr. Sir, the coach is ready.
Good. You think, madam, you have a fine easy fool to play withal, but the gayness of your face is too thin to hide the rancour of your heart; and so my dear, jocund, witty devil wife, I take my leave of you, never more from this minute to look on you.
Mrs. Good. Are you then inexorable? relentless cruel man!
Good. Good; easy-melting, kind-hearted worn an, farewell. [Exit.
Mrs. Good. Ah wretched me!
Let. My lady swoons’. Dear Madam Victoria, hasten and bring my master back again; you can do any thing with him. [Exit VICTORIA.
Mrs. Good. No, no, Lettice! let him alone, art thou sure he’s gone? !
Let. I hope so, madam.
Mrs. Good. Then so soon as I am returned to my chamber, be sure you go yourself to Mr. Truman, and tell him if he has nothing else to do he may come hither to-day.
Enter VICTORIA.
Vic. There is no prevailing with him, he cries aloud his house is infected, and that no man that values his health will stay in it. My Lady Squeamish too is arrived just as he left the door; I am sure shell come in; will you see her, madam?
Mrs. Good. Oh! I am sick at the very name of her: let all the doors be barred against’ her, and gunpowder put under each threshold place, ready to blow her up if she but offer an entrance. Lettice, lend me your hand a little; I’ll to my chamber instantly: oh my head! [Exit with LETTICE.
Vic. This management of tier’s so charms me, that I can almost forget all the mischief she has done me: ’tis true site reproached me, but ’twas done so - handsomely that I doubly deserved it to have taken notice of it.
Enter LADY SQUEAMISH.
Lady Squ. O dear, Victoria, what will become of me! I am lost and undone for ever; oh I shall die, I shall die! the lord of my heart, the jewel of my soul is false to me.
Vic. What ails your ladyship? surely she’s distracted.
Lady Squ. Oh Goodvile! Goodvile! the false, cruel, remorseless Goodvile! I came just as his coach was parting from the door, yet he would not speak to me, would hardly see me, but away he drove, and smiling mocked my sorrows.
Vic. Alas! her ladyship is passionate, as I live, very passionate.
Lady Squ. So Theseus left the wretched Ariadne on the shore; so fled the false Æneas from his Dido.
Vic. What could you expect less of him, madam? falsehood is his province: your ladyship should have made choice of a civil, sober, discreet person; but Goodvile you know is a spark, a very spark.
Lady Squ. That has been my ruin; it was therefore I adored him: what woman would doat on a dull melancholy ass, because she might be sure of him? No, a spark is my life, my darling, the joy of my soul. Oh how I doat on a spark? I could live and die with a spark. Victoria, I make you a confidante, and you must pardon me for robbing you of Mr. Goodvile: come, come, I know all.
Vic. Your ladyship knows more than all the world besides.
Lady Squ. And as I was saying, a spark is the dearest thing to me in the world I have had acquaintance I think with all the sparks. Well, one of them that you know was a sweet person: oh he danced and sung, and dressed to a miracle, and then he spoke French as if he had been bred all his life-time at Paris, and admired every thing that was French: besides, he would look so languishingly, and lisp so prettily when he talked; and then never wanted discourse; I’ll swear he has entertained me two hours together, with the description of ah equipage.
Vic. That must needs be very charming.
Lady Squ. But Mr. Goodvile was a wit too: Oh! never had a wit before, for to speak the truth, now I think on’t better, all my lovers have been a little foolish, I’ll swear, ha, ha, ha!
[SIR NOBLE and MALA, at the door.
Mala. Scour, scour, scour.
Clum. Down goes the main-mast, down, down, down. [They enter.] Malagene, roar, roar, and ravish, here are punks in beaten satin, sirrah; termagant, triumphant, first-rate punks, you rogue.
Vic. How came these ruffians here?
Clum. Ruffians! do you know who you talk to, madam? I am a civil, sober, discreet person; and come particularly to embrace thy lovely body.
Mala. Look you, madam, make no noise about this matter. This is a person of quality, and a friend of mine, therefore pray be civil.
Lady Squ. Has Mr. Goodvile left no footmen at home to cudgel such fops? Fough how like drunken journeymen taylors they look?
Mala. Journeymen, madam! hold there! none of your ladyship’s jou
rneymen, that’s one comfort! woe to the poor devil that is, I say.
Lady Squ. Were Mr. Goodvile at home you durst not talk thus, you scandalous fellow.
Mala. Goodvile, say you — hark you, my dear, were he here in person, I would first of all decently kick him out of doors, then turn up thy keel, and discover here to thy kinsman what a leaky vessel thou art.
Clum. Why, what is that Goodvile? will be wrestle? or will he box for fifty pounds? Look you, this fellow is my pimp. ’Tis true, his countenance is none of the best: but he’s a neat lad, and keeps good company.
Mala. Hark you, knight: you’ll bear me out of this business, knight: for, under the rose, I have apprehension, that this carcase of mine may suffer else.
Clum. No more of that, rogue! no mote. Take notice, good people, this civil person shall marry my sister: she is a pretty hopeful lady — truly she is not full thirteen — but she has had two children already. Odd’s heart.
Lady Squ. Ridiculous oaf.
Clum. Come, let us talk bawdy.
Vic. I’ll call those shall talk with you presently.
[Exit VICTORIA.
Clum. Wheugh — she’s gone.
Lady Squ. Beast! brute! barbarian! sot!
Clum. Oh law, my aunt! what have I done now? Madam, as I hope to be —
[Runs against her, and almost beats her ward.
Lady Squ. Oh help; I am murdered! oh my head!
Clum. Nay, lady, that was no fault of mine: you shall see I’ll keep my distance; and, as I was saying, if I have offended —
[Reels against a table, and throws down a china jar, and several little china dishes.
Lady Squ. Oh insufferable! quickly, quickly, a porter and basket, to carry out this swine to a dung-
Clum. Look you, madam, no harm! no harm! you shall see me behave myself notably yet — as for example suppose now suppose this the door. [Goes to the door.] Very well; thus then I move [Steps forwards, and leaves his peruke on one of the hinges.
Hah, who was that? rogues! dogs! sons of whores!
Enter Servants.
1 Ser. Such as we are, sir, you shall find us at your service.
