Complete Works of Thomas Otway
Page 41
Mrs. Good. So, now your heart is opening, and for your ease I’ll give it a little vent myself: you are jealous, alas! jealous of Truman, are you?
Good. And have I no reason, madam, though I come and catch you in his arms, rolling and throwing your wanton eyes like fireballs at his heart?
Oh what an indulgent creature’s Mr. Goodvile! so seasonably to withdraw and leave you mistress of such freedom: to spend your days in triumph as you do, to sacrifice yourself, your soul, and sense to him, the lord of all your joys, your conqueror and protector.”
Mrs. Good. I am glad to find my plot so well succeed: [aside.] I knew of your jealousy last night, knew too your journey out of town was but a pretence, in hopes to return and surprise me with Truman. I was informed too of your return but now, and your disguise; I knew you through it so soon as I saw you, and therefore I acted all that fondness to Truman before your face. It was all the revenge I had within my power.
Good. Can you deny your being with Truman in the garden last night? were yon not there so openly, that even the broad eyes of fools might see?
Mrs. Good. What fool? what villain have you, dares accuse me?
Good. One, who, though be rarely told truth before, will be sure, to do it now; Malagene, your kinsman Malagene, a hopeful branch of your own stock.
Tru. The rascal dares not own it.
Good. But he shall, sir, though you protect him.
Tru. ’Twas basely done to set a spy upon your friend, after the trick you had played me with Victoria.
Good. Basely done?
Tru. Yes, basely, sir.
Good. Death, you lie, sir! why do I trifle thus when I have a sword by my side?
Cap. Nay, look you, Frank; you had better be patient. Here shall be nothing dome, therefore pray put up.
Enter VALENTINE.
Val. What, again quarrelling? Goodvile, this must not be, Truman is my friend, and if he has done you wrong, I’ll engage shall make you satisfaction.
Saun. Ay, ay, pr’ythee, man, take some other time, and don’t quarrel now and spoil good company.
Good. Death! you dancing, talking, mettled, frisking rogues, stand off! Oh, I had forgot — footmen, where are ye?
Enter Footmen.
Here, take away these butterflies, and do speedy execution upon them as I ordered; do it instantly.
[They seize them.
Cap. Nay, Frank, what’s all this for?
Saun. Nay, Goodvile, pr’ythee now, as I hope to live.
Enter MALAGENE.
Good. Away with them — [Exeunt CAPER and SAUNTER.] NOW for Malagene — Oh, here he comes, madam, who will refresh your memory; speak, sir, as you tender life and limb, whom did you see together in the garden last night?
Mala. Ha! nobody.
Good. Were not Truman and my wife there to your knowledge, privately.
Mala. Ha, ha, ha — child! no.
Good. Did you not tell me that you overheard them whispering in the grotto together?
Mala. No.
Good. Hell and devils! this fellow has been tampered withal, and instructed to abuse me. This is all contrivance, a studied scene to fool me of my reason.
Enter Footmen.
Here, take him hence and harness him with the other two, till he confess the truth.
Mrs. Good. He shall not go, touch him who dares. Must people then be forced and tortured to accuse me falsely? ah, Mr. Goodvile, how have I deserved this at your hands? let not my good name be ravished from me: if you have resolved to break my heart, kill me now quickly, and put me out of pain [MAL. runs away.
Good. Nay, madam, here is that shall yet convince — see here a letter from your lover, left for you in a private corner; hear me read it. And if you have modesty enough left, blush.
Reads. If Goodvile goes out of town let me know it, that I may wait on and tell you the rest of my heart, for you do not know how much I love you yet. TRUMAN.
Mrs. Good. Death and destruction! it was all my own contrivance: madded with your jealousy, I sought all ways to vex you, I counterfeited it with my own hand, and left it in a place were you might be sure to find it. To convince you farther, see here a caution sent me just before by one whom you have trusted and loved too much for my quiet: peruse it, and when you have done, consider how, you have used me, and how I have deserved it. Oh!
[Gives VICTORIA’S letter.
Good. [Reads.] Journey out of town — is a pretence — return and surprise — believe by this discovery — your servant Victoria.
Victoria! has she betrayed me? nay then, I pronounce there is no trust nor faith in the sex. By Heaven, in every condition they are jilts, all false from the bawd to the babe.
Mrs. Good. Now, sir, I hope I may withdraw; from this minute never expect I’ll see your face again: no, I’ll leave you to be happy at your own choice. Love where you please, and be as free as if I ne’er had had relation to you. I shall take care to trouble you no more, but wish you may be happier then ever yet I made you.
Good. Stay, madam.
Mrs. Good. No, sir, I’ll be gone; I will not stay a moment longer; inhuman, cruel, false traitor! wert thou now languishing on thy knees, prostrate at my feet, ready to grow mad with thy own guilt, I would not stop nor turn my face to save thee from despair.
Good. You shall.
Mrs. Good. For what?
Good. To let the world see how much a fool I can be: art thou innocent?
Mrs. Good. By my love I am; I never wronged you; but you have undone me, ruined my fame and quiet. What mouth will not be full of my dishonour? henceforth let all my sex remember me, when they’d upbraid mankind for baseness: oh that I could dissemble longer with you, that I might to your torment persuade you still all your jealousies were just, and I as infamous as you are cruel.
[Exit in a rage.
Good. Get thee in then, and talk to me no more; there’s something in thy face will make a fool of me; and there’s a devil in this business which yet I cannot discover. Truman, if thou hast enjoyed her, I beg thee keep it close, and if it be possible let us yet be friends.
Tru. ’Tis not my fault if we be foes.
Good. But now to my fools; bring them forth, and let us see how their new equipage becomes them. Oh dear Valentine, how does the fair Camilla?
Val. Faith, sir; she and I have been dispatching a trifling affair this morning, commonly called matrimony.
Good. Married! nay then there is some comfort yet, that thou art fallen into the snare — Valentine! look to her, keep her as secret as thou wouldst a murder, hadst thou committed one: trust her not with thy dearest friend; she has beauty enough to corrupt him.
Enter CAPER and SAUNTER, their hands tied behind them, fools’ caps on their CAPER with one leg tied up, and SAUNTER gagged.
See here these rogues how like themselves they look. Now, you paltry vermin, you rats that run squeaking from house to house up and down the town; that no man can eat his bread in quiet for you: take warning of what you feel, and come not near these doors again on peril of hanging. Here, discharge them of their punishment, and see them forth the gates.
Enter LADY SQUEAMISH, SIR NOBLE CLUMSEY, and VICTORIA.
Lady Squ. Oh gallants, your humble servant. Dear Mr. Goodvile, be pleased to give my kinsman, Sir Noble, joy: he has done himself the honour to marry your cousin, Victoria, whom now I must be proud to call my relation, since she has accepted of the title of my Lady Clumsey.
Clum. Ay, sir, I am married, and will be drunk again too before night, as simply as I stand here.
Good. Sir Noble married to Victoria too! nay then in spite of misfortunes
This day shall be a day of jubilee. But first,
Good people all that my sad fortune see,
I beg you to take warning here by me,
Marriage and hanging go by destiny.
Especially you gay young married blades,
Beware and, keep your wives from balls and masquerades.
[Exeunt Omnes.
EPILOGUE.<
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WELL, sirs, if now my spouse and I should
To which kind critic shall I give my heart?
Stay, let me look, not one in all the place
But has a scurvy, froward, damning face.
Have you resolv’d then on the poet’s fall?
Go, ye ill-natur’d, ugly devils all.
The married sparks I know this play will curse
For the wife’s sake; but some of them have worse.
Poets themselves their own ill-luck have wrought,
You ne’er had learnt, had not their quarrels taught.
But as in the disturbance of a state,
Each factious maggot thinks of growing great:
So when the poets first had jarring fits,
You all set up for critics and for wits:
They straight there came, which cost your mothers’ pains, —
Songs and lampoons in litters from your brains:
Libels, like spurious brats, ran up and down,
Which their dull parents were asham’d to own;
But vented them in others’ names, like whores
That lay their bastards down at honest doors.
For shame, leave off this higgling way of wit,
Railing abroad, and roaring in the pit,
Let poets live in peace, in quiet write,
Else may they all to punish you unite,
Join in one force to study to abuse ye,
And teach your wives and misses how to use ye.
The History and Fall of Caius Marius
CONTENTS
TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FALKLAND.
PROLOGUE
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
Bust of Gaius Marius at Munich Glyptothek
TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FALKLAND.
MY LORD,
WHEN first it entered into my thoughts to make this Present to Your Lordship, I received not only Encouragement, but Pleasure, since upon due examination of my self, I found it was not a bare Presumption, but my Duty to the remembrance of many extraordinary Favours which I have received at Your hands.
For heretofore having had the honour to be near You, and bred under the same Discipline with You, I cannot but own, that in a great measure I owe the small share of Letters I have to Your Lordship. For Your Lordship’s Example taught me to be asham’d of Idleness; and I first grew in love with Books, and learnt to value them, by the wonderfull Progress which even in Your tender years You made in them; so that Learning and Improvement grew daily more and more lovely in my Eyes, as they shone in You.
Your Lordship has an extraordinary Reason to be a Patron of Poetry, for Your great Father loved it. May Your Lordship’s Fame and Employments grow as great, or greater then His were; and may Your Vertues find a Poet to record them, equall (if possible) to that great Genius which sung of him.
My slender humble Talent must not hope for it; for You have a Judgment which I must always submit to, a general Goodness which I never (to its worth) can value: and who can praise that well which he knows not how to comprehend?
Already the Eyes and Expectations of men of the best Judgement are fixt upon You: for wheresoever You come, You have their Attention when present, and their Praise when You are gone: and I am sure (if I obtain but Your Lordship’s Pardon) I shall have the Congratulation of all my friends, for having taken this opportunity to express my self
Your Lordship’s most humble Servant, Thomas Otway.
PROLOGUE
Spoke by Mr. Betterton.
IN Ages past, (when will those Times renew?)
When Empires flourisht, so did Poets too.
When Great Augustus the World’s Empire held,
Horace and Ovid’s happy Verse excell’d.
Ovid’s soft Genius and his tender Arts
Of moving Nature melted hardest Hearts.
It did th’ Imperial Beauty Julia move
To listen to the Language of his Love.
Her Father honour’d him: and on her Breast,
With ravish’d sense in her Embraces prest,
He lay transported, fancy-full and blest.
Horace’s lofty Genius boldlier rear’d
His manly head, and through all Nature steer’d;
Her richest Pleasures in his Verse refin’d,
And wrought ’em to the relish of the Mind.
He lasht with a true Poet’s fearless Rage
The Villanies and Follies of the Age.
Therefore Moecenas that great Fav’rite rais’d
Him high, and by him was he highly prais’d.
Our Shakespear wrote too in an Age as blest,
The happiest Poet of his time and best.
A gracious Prince’s Favour chear’d his Muse,
A constant Favour he ne’r fear’d to lose.
Therefore he wrote with Fancy unconfin’d,
And Thoughts that were Immortal as his Mind.
And from the Crop of his luxuriant Pen
E’re since succeeding Poets humbly glean.
Though much the most unworthy of the Throng,
Our this-day’s Poet fears h’ has done him wrong.
Like greedy Beggars that steal Sheaves away,
You’ll find h’ has rifled him of half a Play.
Amidst this baser Dross you’ll see it shine
Most beautifull, amazing, and Divine.
To such new Shifts of late are Poets worn,
Whilst we both Wit’s and Caesar’s Absence mourn.
Oh! when will He and Poetry return?
When shall we there again behold him sit
‘Midst shining Boxes and a Courtly Pit,
The Lord of Hearts, and President of Wit?
When that blest Day (quick may it come) appears,
His Cares once banisht, and his Nation’s Fears,
The joyfull Muses on their Hills shall sing
Triumphant Songs of Britain’s happy King.
Plenty and Peace shall flourish in our Isle,
And all things like the English Beauty smile.
You Criticks shall forget your nat’ral Spite,
And Poets with unbounded Fancy write.
Ev’n This-day’s Poet shall be alter’d quite:
His Thoughts more loftily and freely flow;
And he himself, whilst you his Verse allow,
As much transported as he’s humble now.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
MEN
Caius Marius. Mr. Betterton.
Sylla. Mr. Williams.
Marius junior Mr. Smith.
Granius. Mr. Percivale.
Metellus. Mr. Gillow.
Quintus Pompeius. Mr. Williams.
Cinna. Mr. Jevon.
Sulpitius. Mr. Underhill.
Ancharius a Senatour.
Priest.
Apothecary.
Q. Pompeius’s Son.
Guards, Lictors,
Ruffians, &c.
WOMEN
Lavinia. Mrs. Barry.
Nurse. Mr. Noakes.
ACT I.
SCENE 1.
Within.
Liberty! Liberty! Marius and Sulpitius!
Liberty! Liberty! Liberty! &c.
Enter Metellus, Antonius, Cinna, and Senatours.
Metell.
WHEN will the Tut’lar Gods of Rome awake,
To fix the Order of our wayward State,
That we may once more know each other; know
Th’ extent of Laws, Prerogatives and Dues;
The Bounds of Rules and Magistracy; who
Ought first to govern, and who must obey?
It was not thus when God-like Scipio held
The Scale of Pow’r; he who with temp’rate poise
Knew how to guide the People’s Liberty
In its full bounds, nor did the Nobles wrong,
For he himself was one —
Cinna.
He was indeed,
A Noble born: and still in Rome there are
Most worthy Patrons of her ancient Honour,
Such as are fit to fill the seat of Pow’r,
And awe this riotous unruly Rabble,
That bear down all Authority before ’em,
Were we not sold to Ruine.
Metell.
Cinna, there
Thou’st hit my Mark: We are to Ruine sold;
In all things sold; Voices are sold in Rome:
And yet we boast of Liberty. Just Gods!
That Guardians of an Empire should be chosen
By the lewd noise of a Licentious Rout!
The sturdiest Drinker makes the Ablest Statesman.
Anton.
Would it not anger any true-born Roman,
To see the giddy Multitude together,
Never consulting who ’tis best deserves,
But who Feasts highest to obtain their Suffrage?
As ’tis not many years since two Great men
In Rome stood equal Candidates together,
For high Command: In every house was Riot.
To day the Drunken Rabble reel’d to one;
To morrow they were mad agen for t’other;
Changing their Voices with their Entertainment:
And none could guesse on whom the Choice would settle;
Till at the last a Stratagem was thought of.
A mighty Vessell of Falernian Wine
Was brought into the Forum crown’d with Wreaths
Of Ivy sacred to the Jolly God.
The Monster-people roar’d aloud for Joy:
When straight the Candidate himself appears
In pomp, to grace the Present he had made ’em.
The Fools all gap’d. Then when a while he had
With a smooth Tale tickled their Asses Ears,
H’ at both ends tapt his Butt, and got the Consulship.
Cinna.
This Curse we owe to Marius Pride,
That made him first most basely bribe the People
For Consul in the War against Iugurtha:
Where he went out, Metellus, your Lieutenant.
And how the Kindness was return’d, all know.