Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Sir Jol. That ever I was born!

  Beau. Here, here, madam, I’ll return you your dirt; I scorn your wages, as I do your service.

  L. Dunce. Fie for shame! what, refund? that is not like a soldier, to refund: keep, keep it to pay your sempstress withal.

  Sir Jol. His sempstress! who the devil is his sempstress? Odd, what would I give to know that now! [Aside.

  L. Dunce. There was a ring too, which I sent you this afternoon; if that fit not your finger, you may dispose of it some other way, where it may give no occasion of scandal, and you’ll do well.

  Beau. A ring, madam?

  L. Dunce. A small trifle; I suppose Sir Davy delivered it to you, when he returned you your miniature.

  Beau. I beseech you, madam! —

  L. Dunce. Farewell, you traitor.

  Beau. As I hope to be saved, and upon the word of a gentleman —

  L. Dunce. Go, you are a false, ungrateful brute; and trouble me no more. [Exit.

  Beau. Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly.

  Sir Jol. Ah, thou rebel!

  Beau. Some advice, some advice, dear friend, ere I’m ruined.

  Sir Jol. Even two pennyworth of hemp for your honour’s supper, that’s all the remedy that I know.

  Beau. But pr’ythee hear a little reason.

  Sir Jol. No, sir, I ha’ done; no more to be said, I ha’ done; I am ashamed of you, I’ll have no more to say to you; I’ll never see your face again, good-b’w’ye. [Exit.

  Beau. Death and the devil! what have my stars been doing to-day? A ring! delivered by Sir Davy — what can that mean? Pox on her for a jilt, she lies, and has a mind to amuse and laugh at me a day or two longer. Hist, here comes her beast once more; I’ll use him civilly, and try what discovery I can make.

  Re-enter Sir Davy Dunce.

  Sir Dav. Ha, ha, ha! here’s the captain’s jewel; very well: in troth, I had like to have forgotten it. Ha, ha, ha! — how damnable mad he’ll be now, when I shall deliver him his ring again, ha, ha! — Poor dog, he’ll hang himself at least, ha, ha, ha! — Faith, ’tis a very pretty stone, and finely set: humph! if I should keep it now? — I’ll say I have lost it — no, I’ll give it him again o’ purpose to vex him, ha, ha, ha!

  Beau. Sir Davy, I am heartily sorry —

  Sir Dav. O sir, ’tis you I was seeking for, ha, ha, ha! — What shall I say to him now to terrify him? [Aside.

  Beau. Me, sir!

  Sir Dav. Ay, you, sir, if your name be Captain Beaugard. [Aside.] How like a fool he looks already!

  Beau. What you please, sir.

  Sir Dav. Sir, I would speak a word with you, if you think fit. — What shall I do now to keep my countenance? [Aside.

  Beau. Can I be so happy, sir, as to be able to serve you in anything?

  Sir Dav. No, sir; ha, ha, ha! I have commands of service to you, sir. O Lord! ha, ha, ha!

  Beau. Me, sir!

  Sir Dav. Ay, sir! you, sir: but put on your hat, friend, put on your hat; be covered.

  Beau. Sir, will you please to sit down on this bank?

  Sir Dav. No, no, there’s no need, no need; for all I have a young wife, I can stand upon my legs, sweetheart.

  Beau. Sir, I beseech you.

  Sir Dav. By no means; I think, friend, we had some hard words just now; ’twas about a paltry baggage; but she’s a pretty baggage, and a witty baggage, and a baggage that —

  Beau. Sir, I am heartily ashamed of all misdemeanour on my side.

  Sir Dav. You do well; though are not you a damned whore-master, a devilish cuckold-making fellow? Here, here, do you see this? here’s the ring you sent a-roguing; sir, do you think my wife wants anything that you can help her to? Why, I’ll warrant this ring cost fifty pounds: what a prodigal fellow are you to throw away so much money! or didst thou steal it, old boy? I’ll believe thou mayst be poor; I’ll lend thee money upon’t, if thou thinkest fit, at thirty in the hundred, because I love thee, ha, ha, ha!

  Beau. Sir, your humble servant. I am sorry ’twas not worth your lady’s acceptance. [Aside.] Now what a dog am I!

  Sir Dav. I should have given it thee before, but, faith, I forgot it, though it was not my wife’s fault in the least; for she says, as thou likest this usage, she hopes to have thy custom again, child. Ha, ha, ha!

  Beau. Then, sir, I beseech you tell her, that you have made a convert of me, and that I am so sensible of my insolent behaviour towards her —

  Sir Dav. Very well, I shall do it.

  Beau. That ’tis impossible I shall ever be at peace with myself, till I find some way how I may make her reparation.

  Sir Dav. Very good, ha, ha, ha!

  Beau. And that if ever she find me guilty of the like offence again —

  Sir Dav. No, sir, you had best not; but proceed; ha, ha, ha!

  Beau. Let her banish all good opinion of me for ever.

  Sir Dav. No more to be said: your servant; good b’w’ye.

  Beau. One word more, I beseech you, Sir Davy.

  Sir Dav. What’s that?

  Beau. I beg you tell her that the generous reproof she has given me has so wrought upon me —

  Sir Dav. Well, I will.

  Beau. That I esteem this jewel, not only as a wreck redeemed from my folly, but that for her sake I will preserve it to the utmost moment of my life.

  Sir Dav. With all my heart, I vow and swear.

  Beau. And that I long to convince her I am not the brute she might mistake me for.

  Sir Dav. Right. [Aside.] Well, this will make the purest sport. — Let me see; first you acknowledge yourself to be a very impudent fellow?

  Beau. I do so, sir.

  Sir Dav. And that you shall never be at rest till you have satisfied my lady?

  Beau. Right, sir.

  Sir Dav. Satisfied her! very good; ha, ha, ha! and that you will never play the fool any more? Be sure you keep your word, friend.

  Beau. Never, sir.

  Sir Dav. And that you will keep that ring for her sake, as long as you live, ha?

  Beau. To the day of my death, I’ll assure you.

  Sir Dav. I protest that will be very kindly done. And that you long, mightily long to let her understand that you are another guess fellow than she may take you for?

  Beau. Exactly, sir, this is the sum and end of my desires.

  Sir Dav. Well, I’ll take care of your business, I’ll do your business, I’ll warrant you. [Aside.] This will make the purest sport when I come home! — Well, your servant; remember, be sure you remember: your servant. [Exit.

  Beau. So, now I find a husband is a delicate instrument rightly made use of; — to make her old jealous coxcomb pimp for me himself! I think is as worthy an employment as such a noble consort can be put to.

  Ah, were ye all such husbands and such wives,

  We younger brothers should lead better lives. [Exit.

  ACT THE THIRD.

  SCENE I. — Outside Sir Davy Dunce’s House in Covent Garden.

  Enter Sylvia.

  Sylv. To fall in love, and to fall in love with a soldier! nay, a disbanded soldier too; a fellow with the mark of Cain upon him, which everybody knows him by, and is ready to throw stones at him for.

  Enter Courtine.

  Cour. Damn her! I shall never enjoy her without ravishing; if she were but very rich and very ugly, I would marry her. Ay, ’tis she; I know her mischievous look too well to be mistaken in it. — Madam.

  Sylv. Sir.

  Cour. ’Tis a very hard case, that you have resolved not to let me be quiet.

  Sylv. ’Tis very unreasonably done of you, sir, to haunt me up and down everywhere at this scandalous rate; the world will think we are acquainted, shortly.

  Cour. But, madam, I shall fairly take more care of my reputation, and from this time forward shun and avoid you most watchfully.

  Sylv. Have you not haunted this place these two hours?

  Cour. ’Twas because I knew it to be your ladyship’s home, then, and therefore might reasonably be the place you lea
st of all frequented; one would imagine you were gone a-coxcomb-hunting by this time, to some place of public appearance or other; ’tis pretty near the hour; ‘twill be twilight presently, and then the owls come all abroad.

  Sylv. What need I take the trouble to go so far a-fowling, when there’s game enough at our own doors?

  Cour. What, game for your net, fair lady?

  Sylv. Yes, or any woman’s net else, that will spread it.

  Cour. To show you how despicably I think of the business, I will here leave you presently, though I lose the pleasure of railing at you.

  Sylv. Do so, I would advise you; your raillery betrays your wit, as bad as your clumsy civility does your breeding.

  Cour. Adieu!

  Sylv. Farewell!

  Cour. Why do not you go about your business?

  Sylv. Because I would be sure to be rid of you first, that you might not dog me.

  Cour. Were it but possible that you could answer me one question truly, and then I should be satisfied.

  Sylv. Any thing for composition to be rid of you handsomely.

  Cour. Are you really very honest? look in my face, and tell me that.

  Sylv. Look in your face and tell you! for what? to spoil my stomach to my supper?

  Cour. No, but to get thee a stomach to thy bed, sweetheart; I would if possible be better acquainted with thee, because thou art very ill-natured.

  Sylv. Your only way to bring that business about effectually, is to be more troublesome; and if you think it worth your while to be abused substantially, you may make your personal appearance this night.

  Cour. How? where? and when? and what hour, I beseech thee?

  Sylv. Under the window, between the hours of eleven and twelve exactly.

  Cour. Where shall these lovely eyes and ears

  Hear my plaints, and see my tears?

  Sylv. At that kind hour thy griefs shall end,

  If thou canst know thy foe from thy friend. [Exit.

  Cour. Here’s another trick of the devil now; under that window between the hours of eleven and twelve exactly! I am a damned fool, and must go: let me see; suppose I meet with a lusty beating: pish, that’s nothing for a man that’s in love; or suppose she contrive some way to make a public coxcomb of me, and expose me to the scorn of the world, for an example to all amorous blockheads hereafter? why, if she do, I’ll swear I have lain with her; beat her relations, if they pretend to vindicate her; and so there’s one love-intrigue pretty well over. [Exit.

  Enter Sir Davy Dunce and Vermin.

  Sir Dav. Go, get you in to your lady now, and tell her I am coming.

  Ver. Her ladyship, right worshipful, is pleased not to be at home.

  Sir Dav. How’s that? my lady not at home! Run, run in and ask when she went forth, whither she is gone, and who is with her; run and ask, Vermin.

  Ver. She went out in her chair presently after you this afternoon.

  Sir Dav. Then I may be a cuckold still for aught I know: what will become of me? I have surely lost, and ne’er shall find her more; she promised me strictly to stay at home till I came back again; for aught I know she may be up three pair of stairs in the Temple now.

  Ver. Is her ladyship in law then, sir?

  Sir Dav. Or it may be taking the air as far as Knightsbridge, with some smooth-faced rogue or another. ’Tis a damned house, that Swan: that Swan at Knightsbridge is a confounded house, Vermin.

  Ver. Do you think she is there then?

  Sir Dav. No, I do not think she is there neither; but such a thing may be, you know: would that Barn-Elms was under water too! there’s a thousand cuckolds a year made at Barn-Elms by Rosamond’s Ponds: the devil! if she should be there this evening my heart’s broke.

  Enter Sir Jolly.

  Sir Jol. That must be Sir Davy; ay, that’s he, that’s he, ha, ha, ha; was ever the like heard of? was ever anything so pleasant?

  Sir Dav. I’ll lock her up three days and three nights without meat, drink, or light; I’ll humble her in the devil’s name.

  Sir Jol. Well, could I but meet my friend Sir Davy, it would be the joyfullest news for him —

  Sir Dav. Who’s there that has anything to say to me?

  Sir Jol. Ah, my friend of friends, such news, such tidings!

  Sir Dav. I have lost my wife, man.

  Sir Jol. Lost her! she’s not dead, I hope?

  Sir Dav. Yes. Alas, she’s dead, irrecoverably lost!

  Sir Jol. Why, I parted with her within this half-hour.

  Sir Dav. Did you so? are you sure it was she? where was it? I’ll have my lord chief-justice’s warrant and a constable presently.

  Sir Jol. And she made the purest sport now with a young fellow, man, that she met withal accidentally.

  Sir Dav. O Lord, that’s worse and worse! a young fellow! — my wife making sport with a young fellow! O Lord! here are doings, here are vagaries! I’ll run mad. I’ll climb Bow-steeple presently, bestride the dragon, and preach cuckoldom to the whole city.

  Sir Jol. The best of all was, too, that it happened to be an idle coxcomb that pretended to be in love with her, neighbour.

  Sir Dav. Indeed! in love with her! who was it? what’s his name? I warrant you won’t tell a body — I’ll indict him in the Crown-office; no, I’ll issue warrants to apprehend him for treason upon the statute of Edward 19. Won’t you tell me what young fellow it was? was it a very handsome young fellow, ha?

  Sir Jol. Handsome? yes, hang him; the fellow’s handsome enough: he is not very handsome neither, but he has a devilish leering black eye.

  Sir Dav. O Lord!

  Sir Jol. His face too is a good riding face; ’tis no soft effeminate complexion indeed, but his countenance is ruddy, sanguine, and cheerful; a devilish fellow in a corner, I’ll warrant him.

  Sir Dav. Bless us! what will become of me? Why the devil did I marry a young wife? Is he very well shaped too, tall, straight, and proportionable, ha?

  Sir Jol. Tall? no, he’s not very tall neither, yet he is tall enough too: he’s none of your overgrown, lubberly Flanders jades, but more of the true English breed, well-knit, able, and fit for service, old boy; the fellow is well shaped truly, very well proportioned, strong and active. I have seen the rogue leap like a buck.

  Sir Dav. Who can this be? Well, and what think you, friend, has he been there? Come, come, I’m sensible she’s a young woman; and I am an old fellow — troth, a very old fellow, I signify little or nothing now. But do you think he has prevailed? am I cuckold, neighbour?

  Sir Jol. Cuckold! what, a cuckold in Covent-garden! no, I’ll assure you, I believe her to be the most virtuous woman in the world; but if you had but seen —

  Sir Dav. Ay, would I had! what was it?

  Sir Jol. How like a rogue she used him: first of all comes me up the spark to her. “Madam,” says he — and then he bows down, thus. “How now,” says she, “what would the impertinent fellow have?”

  Sir Dav. Humph! ha! well, and what then?

  Sir Jol. “Madam,” says he again, bowing as he did before, “my heart is so entirely yours, that except you take pity on my sufferings I must here die at your feet.”

  Sir Dav. So, and what said she again, neighbour? ha!

  Sir Jol. “Go, you are a fop.”

  Sir Dav. Ha, ha, ha! did she indeed? Did she say so indeed? I am glad on’t, troth, I am very glad on’t. Well, and what next? And how, and well, and what? ha!

  Sir Jol. “Madam,” says he, “this won’t do; I am your humble servant for all this; you may pretend to be as ill-natured as you please, but I shall make bold.”

  Sir Dav. Was there ever such an impudent fellow?

  Sir Jol. With that, “Sirrah,” says she, “you are a saucy jackanapes, and I’ll have you kicked.”

  Sir Dav. Ha, ha, ha! Well, I would not be unmarried again to be an angel.

  Sir Jol. But the best jest of all was, who this should be at last.

  Sir Dav. Ay, who indeed! I’ll warrant you some silly fellow or other, poor fool!


  Sir Jol. E’en a scandalous rakehell, that lingers up and down the town by the name of Captain Beaugard; but he has been a bloody cuckold-making scoundrel in his time.

  Sir Dav. Hang him, sot, is it he? I don’t value him this, not a wet finger, man. To my knowledge she hates him, she scorns him, neighbour; I know it, I am very well satisfied in the point; besides, I have seen him since that, and out-hectored him: I am to tell her from his own mouth, that he promises never to affront her more.

  Sir Jol. Indeed!

  Sir Dav. Ay, ay —

  Enter Lady Dunce, paying her Chairman.

  Chair. God bless you, madam, thank your honour!

  Sir Jol. Hush, hush! there’s my lady. I’ll be gone, I’ll not be seen; your humble servant, God b’w’ye.

  Sir Dav. No faith, Sir Jolly, e’en go into my house now, and stay supper with me, we ha’n’t supped together a great while.

  Sir Jol. Ha! say you so? I don’t care if I do, faith, with all my heart; this may give me an opportunity to set all things right again. [Aside.

  Sir Dav. My dear!

  L. Dunce. Sir!

  Sir Dav. You have been abroad, my dear, I see.

  L. Dunce. Only for a little air; truly I was almost stifled within doors; I hope you will not be angry, Sir Davy, will you?

  Sir Dav. Angry, child! no, child, not I; what should I be angry for?

  L. Dunce. I wonder, Sir Davy, you will serve me at this rate. Did you not promise to go in my behalf to Beaugard, and correct him according to my instructions for his insolence?

  Sir Dav. So I did, child; I have been with him, sweetheart; I have told him all to a tittle; I gave him back again the picture too: but, as the devil would have it, I forgot the ring — faith, I did.

  L. Dunce. Did you purpose, Sir Sodom, to render me ridiculous to the man I abominate? what scandalous interpretation, think you, must he make of my retaining any trifle of his, sent me on so dishonourable terms!

  Sir Dav. Really, my lamb, thou art in the right; yet I went back afterwards, dear heart, and did the business to some purpose.

  L. Dunce. I am glad that you did, with all my heart.

  Sir Dav. I gave him his lesson, I’ll warrant him.

  L. Dunce. Lesson! what lesson had you to give him?