by Thomas Otway
Sir Jol. Alack-a-day! [Weeps.
L. Dunce. Ah me!
Sir Dav. Ah, pr’ythee be comforted now, pr’ythee do; why, I’ll love thee the better for this, for all this, mun; why shouldst be troubled for another’s ill doings? I know it was no fault of thine.
Sir Jol. No, no more it was not, I dare swear. [Aside.
Sir Dav. See, see, my neighbour weeps too; he’s troubled to see thee thus.
L. Dunce. Oh, but revenge!
Sir Dav. Why, thou shalt have revenge; I’ll have him murdered; I’ll have his throat cut before to-morrow morning, child: rise now, pr’ythee rise.
Sir Jol. Ay, do, madam, and smile upon Sir Davy.
L. Dunce. But will you love me then as well as e’er you did?
Sir Dav. Ay, and the longest day I live too.
L. Dunce. And shall I have justice done me on that prodigious monster?
Sir Dav. Why, he shall be crows’-meat by to-morrow night; I tell thee he shall be crows’-meat by midnight, chicken.
L. Dunce. Then I will live; since so, ’tis something pleasant:
When I in peace may lead a happy life
With such a husband —
Sir Dav. I with such a wife. [Exeunt.
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I. — A Tavern.
Enter Beaugard, Courtine, and Drawer.
Draw. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome, sir; will you please to walk up one pair of stairs?
Beau. Get the great room ready presently; carry up too a good stock of bottles before-hand, with ice to cool our wine, and water to refresh our glasses.
Draw. It shall be done, sir. — Coming, coming there, coming: speak up in the Dolphin, somebody. [Exit.
Beau. Ah, Courtine, must we be always idle? must we never see our glorious days again? when shall we be rolling in the lands of milk and honey; encamped in large luxuriant vineyards, where the loaded vines cluster about our tents; drink the rich juice, just pressed from the plump grape; feeding on all the fragrant golden fruit that grow in fertile climes, and ripened by the earliest vigour of the sun?
Cour. Ah, Beaugard, those days have been, but now we must resolve to content ourselves at an humble rate. Methinks it is not unpleasant to consider how I have seen thee in a large pavilion, drowning the heat of the day in champagne wines, sparkling sweet as those charming beauties whose dear remembrance every glass recorded, with half a dozen honest fellows more; friends, Beaugard; faithful hearty friends; things as hard to meet with as preferment here; fellows that would speak truth boldly, and were proud on’t; that scorned flattery, loved honesty, for ’twas their portion; and never yet learned the trade of ease and lying: but now —
Beau. And now we are at home in our natural hives, and sleep like drones; but there’s a gentleman on the other side the water, that may make work for us all one day.
Cour. But in the meanwhile —
Beau. In the meanwhile patience, Courtine; that is the Englishman’s virtue. Go to the man that owes you money, and tell him you are necessitated; his answer shall be “A little patience, I beseech you, sir.” Ask a cowardly rascal satisfaction for a sordid injury done you; he shall cry, “Alas-a-day, sir, you are the strangest man living, you won’t have patience to hear one speak.” Complain to a great man that you want preferment, that you have forsaken considerable advantages abroad, in obedience to public edicts; all you shall get of him is this, “You must have patience, sir.”
Cour. But will patience feed me, or clothe me, or keep me clean?
Beau. Pr’ythee no more hints of poverty: ’tis scandalous; ‘sdeath, I would as soon choose to hear a soldier brag as complain. Dost thou want any money?
Cour. True, indeed, I want no necessaries to keep me alive; but I do not enjoy myself with that freedom I would do; there is no more pleasure in living at stint, than there is in living alone. I would have it in my power, when he needed me, to serve and assist my friend; I would to my ability deal handsomely too by the woman that pleased me.
Beau. Oh, fie for shame! you would be a whore-master, friend; go, go, I’ll have no more to do with you.
Cour. I would not be forced neither at any time to avoid a gentleman that had obliged me, for want of money to pay him a debt contracted in our old acquaintance: it turns my stomach to wheedle with the rogue I scorn, when he uses me scurvily, because he has my name in his shop-book.
Beau. As, for example, to endure the familiarities of a rogue that shall cock his greasy hat in my face, when he duns me, and at the same time vail it to an over-grown deputy of the ward, though a frowzy fellmonger.
Cour. To be forced to concur with his nonsense too, and laugh at his parish-jests.
Beau. To use respects and ceremonies to the milchcow his wife, and praise her pretty children, though they stink of their mother, and are uglier than the issue of a baboon; yet all this must be endured.
Cour. Must it, Beaugard?
Beau. And, since ’tis so, let’s think of a bottle.
Cour. With all my heart, for railing and drinking do much better together than by themselves; a private room, a trusty friend or two, good wine and bold truths, are my happiness. But where’s our dear friend and intimate, Sir Jolly, this evening?
Beau. To deal like a friend, Courtine, I parted with him but just now; he’s gone to contrive me a meeting, if possible, this night, with the woman my soul is most fond of. I was this evening just entering upon the palace of all joy, when I met with so damnable a disappointment — in short, that plague to all well-meaning women, the husband, came unseasonably, and forced a poor lover to his heels, that was fairly making his progress another way, Courtine: the story thou shalt hear more at large hereafter.
Cour. A plague on him, why didst thou not murder the presumptuous cuckold? saucy intruding clown, to dare to disturb a gentleman’s privacies! I would have beaten him into sense of his transgression, enjoyed his wife before his face, and ha’ taught the dog his duty.
Beau. Look you, Courtine, you think you are dealing with the landlord of your winter-quarters in Alsatia now. Friend, friend, there is a difference between a free-born English cuckold and a sneaking wittol of a conquered province.
Cour. Oh, by all means, there ought to be a difference observed between your arbitrary whoring, and your limited fornication.
Beau. And but reason: for, though we may make bold with another man’s wife in a friendly way, yet nothing upon compulsion, dear heart.
Cour. And now Sir Jolly, I hope, is to be the instrument of some immortal plot; some contrivance for the good of thy body, and the old fellow’s soul, Beaugard: for all cuckolds go to Heaven, that’s most certain.
Beau. Sir Jolly! why, on my conscience, he thinks it as much his undoubted right to be pimp-mastergeneral to London and Middlesex, as the estate he possesses is: by my consent his worship should e’en have a patent for it.
Cour. He is certainly the fittest for the employment in Christendom; he knows more families by their names and titles than all the bell-men within and without the walls.
Beau. Nay, he keeps a catalogue of the choicest beauties about town, illustrated with a particular account of their age, shape, proportion, colour of hair and eyes, degrees of complexion, gunpowder spots and moles.
Cour. I wish the old pander were bound to satisfy my experience, what marks of good-nature my Sylvia has about her.
Enter Sir Jolly Jumble.
Sir Jol. My captains! my sons of Mars and imps of Venus! well encountered; what, shall we have a sparkling bottle or two, and use Fortune like a jade? Beaugard, you are a rogue, you are a dog, I hate you; get you gone, go.
Beau. But, Sir Jolly, what news from paradise Sir Jolly? Is there any hopes I shall come there to-night?
Sir Jol. May be there is, may be there is not; I say let us have a bottle, and I will say nothing else without a bottle: after a glass or two my heart may open.
Cour. Why, then we will have a bottle, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. Will? we’ll have dozens, and drink till
we are wise, and speak well of nobody; till we are lewder than midnight whores, and out-rail disbanded officers.
Beau. Only one thing more, my noble knight, and then we are entirely at thy disposal.
Sir Jol. Well, and what’s that? What’s the business?
Beau. This friend of mine here stands in need of thy assistance; he’s damnably in love, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. In love! is he so? In love! odds my life! Is she? what’s her name? where does she live? I warrant you I know her: she’s in my table-book, I’ll warrant you: virgin, wife, or widow? [Pulls out a table-book.
Cour. In troth, Sir Jolly, that’s something of a difficult question; but, as virgins go now, she may pass for one of them.
Sir Jol. Virgin, very good: let me see; virgin, virgin, virgin; oh, here are the virgins; truly, I meet with the fewest of this sort of any. Well, and the first letter of her name now? for a wager I guess her.
Cour. Then you must know, Sir Jolly, that I love my love with an S.
Sir Jol. S, S, S, oh, here are the Esses; let me consider now — Sappho?
Cour. No, sir.
Sir Jol. Selinda?
Cour. Neither.
Sir Jol. Sophronia?
Cour. You must guess again, I assure you.
Sir Jol. Sylvia?
Cour. Ay, ay, Sir Jolly, that’s the fatal name; Sylvia the fair, the witty, the ill-natured; do you know her, my friend?
Sir Jol. Know her! why, she is my daughter, and I have adopted her these seven years. Sylvia! let me look. [Reads.] “Light brown hair, her face oval, and nose Roman, quick sparkling eyes, plump, pregnant, ruby lips, with a mole on her breast, and the perfect likeness of a heart-cherry on her left knee.” Ah, villain! ah, sly-cap! have I caught you? are you there, i’faith? well, and what says she? Is she coming? do her eyes betray her? does her heart beat, and her bubbies rise, when you talk to her, ha?
Beau. Look you, Sir Jolly, all things considered, it may make a shift to come to a marriage in time.
Sir Jol. I’ll have nothing to do in it; I won’t be seen in the business of matrimony. Make me a match-maker, a filthy marriage-broker! sir, I scorn it, I know better things. Look you, friend, to carry her a letter from you or so, upon good terms, though it be in a church, I’ll deliver it; or when the business is come to an issue, if I may bring you handsomely together, and so forth, I’ll serve thee with all my soul, and thank thee into the bargain; thank thee heartily, dear rogue; I will, you little cock-sparrow, faith and troth, I will: but no matrimony, friend, I’ll have nothing to do with matrimony; ’tis a damned invention, worse than a monopoly, and a destroyer of civil correspondence.
Re-enter Drawer.
Draw. Gentlemen, your room is ready, your wine and ice upon the table; will your honours please to walk in?
Sir Jol. Ay, wine, wine, give us wine! a pox on matrimony — matrimony, in the devil’s name!
Cour. But if an honest harlot or two chance to inquire for us, friend —
Sir Jol. Right, sirrah, if whores come never so many, give ’em reverence and reception, but nothing else; let nothing but whores and bottles come near us, as you tender your ears.
[A door is opened, discovering a table, with bottles, &c.
Beau. Why, there’s, there’s the land of Canaan now in little. Hark you, drawer, dog, shut, shut the door, sirrah, do you hear? Shut it so close that neither cares nor necessities may peep in upon us.
[Exeunt Beaugard, Courtine, and Sir Jolly.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce, Fourbin, and Bloody-Bones.
Four. Bloody-Bones, be sure to behave yourself handsomely, and like your profession; show yourself a cut-throat of parts, and we’ll fleece him.
Bloody-B. My lady says, we must be expeditious; Sir Jolly has given notice to the captain by this time, so that nothing is wanting but the management of this over-grown gull to make us hectors at large, and keep the whore Fortune under.
Draw. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome, sir; will’t please you to walk into a room? Or shall I wait upon your honour’s pleasure here?
Sir Dav. Sweetheart, let us be quiet, and bring us wine hither. [Exit Drawer, who returns with wine.] So — [sits down] — from this moment, war, war, and mortal dudgeon against that enemy of my honour, and thief of my good name, called Beaugard. You can cut a throat upon occasion you say, friend?
Four. Sir, cutting of throats is my hereditary vocation; my father was hanged for cutting of throats before me, and my mother for cutting of purses.
Sir Dav. No more to be said; my courage is mounted like a little Frenchman upon a great horse, and I’ll have him murdered.
Four. Sir! murdered you say, sir?
Sir Dav. Ay, murdered I say, sir; his face flayed off, and nailed to a post in my great hall in the country, amongst all the other trophies of wild beasts slain by our family since the Conquest; there’s never a whore-master’s head there yet.
Four. Sir, for that let me recommend this worthy friend of mine to your service; he’s an industrious gentleman, and one that will deserve your favour.
Sir Dav. He looks but something ruggedly, though, methinks.
Four. But, sir, his parts will atone for his person; forms and fashions are the least of his study: he affects a sort of philosophical negligence indeed; but, sir, make trial of him, and you’ll find him a person fit for the work of this world.
Sir Dav. What trade are you, friend?
Bloody-B. No trade at all, friend; I profess murder; rascally butchers make a trade on’t; ’tis a gentleman’s divertisement.
Sir Dav. Do you profess murder?
Bloody-B. Yes, sir, ’tis my livelihood: I keep a wife and six children by it.
Sir Dav. Then, sir, here’s to you with all my heart. Would I had done with these fellows! [Aside.
Four. Well, sir, if you have any service for us, I desire we may receive your gold and your instructions as soon as is possible.
Sir Dav. Soft and fair, sweetheart; I love to see a little how I lay out my money. Have you very good trading now-a-days in your way, friend?
Bloody-B. In peaceable times a man may eat and drink comfortably upon’t: a private murder done handsomely is worth money; but now that the nation’s unsettled, there are so many general undertakers, that ’tis grown almost a monopoly; you may have a man murdered almost for little or nothing, and nobody e’er know who did it neither.
Sir Dav. Pray what countryman are you? where were you born, most noble sir?
Bloody-B. Indeed, my country is foreign. I was born in Argier; my mother was an apostate Greek, my father a renegado Englishman, who by oppressing of Christian slaves grew rich; for which, when he lay sick, I murdered him one day in his bed; made my escape to Malta, where, embracing the faith, I had the honour given me to command a thousand horse aboard the galleys of that state.
Sir Dav. O Lord, sir! my humble service to you again.
Four. He tells you, sir, but the naked truth.
Sir Dav. I doubt it not in the least, most worthy sir. — These are devilish fellows, I’ll warrant ’em.
[Aside.
Four. War, friend, and shining honour has been our province, till rusty peace reduced us to this base obscurity. Ah, Bloody-Bones! ah, when thou and I commanded that party at the siege of Philipsburg, where, in the face of the army, we took the impenetrable half-moon!
Bloody-B. Half-moon, sir! by your favour ’twas a whole moon.
Four. Brother, thou art in the right; ’twas a full moon, and such a moon, sir!
Sir Dav. I doubt it not in the least, gentlemen; but, in the meanwhile, to our business.
Four. With all my heart, so soon as you please.
Sir Dav. Do you know this Beaugard? He’s a devilish fellow, I can tell you that; he’s a captain.
Four. Has he a heart, think you, sir?
Sir Dav. Oh, like a lion! he fears neither God, man, nor devil.
Bloody-B. I’ll bring it you for your breakfast to-morrow. Did you never eat a man’s heart, sir?
Sir Dav.
Eat a man’s heart, friend?
Four. Ay, ay, a man’s heart, sir; it makes absolutely the best ragout in the world: I have eaten forty of ’em in my time without bread.
Sir Dav. O Lord, a man’s heart! my humble service to you both, gentlemen.
Bloody-B. Why, your Algerine pirates eat nothing else at sea; they have them always potted up like venison: your well-grown Dutchman’s heart makes an excellent dish with oil and pepper.
Sir Dav. O Lord, O Lord! friend, friend, a word with you: how much must you and your companion have to do this business?
Four. What, and bring you the heart home to your house?
Sir Dav. No, no, keeping the heart for your own eating. — I’ll be rid of ’em as soon as possible I can.
[Aside.
Four. You say, sir, he’s a gentleman?
Sir Dav. Ay, such a sort of gentleman as are about this town: the fellow has a pretty handsome outside; but I believe little or no money in his pockets.
Four. Therefore we are like to have the honour to receive the more from your worship’s bounty.
Bloody-B. For my part, I care for no man’s bounty: I expect to have my bargain performed, and I’ll make as good a one as I can.
Sir Dav. Look you, friend, don’t you be angry, friend; don’t be angry, friend, before you have occasion: you say you’ll have — let’s see how much will you have now — I warrant the devil and all, by your good will.
Four. Truly, Sir Davy, if, as you say, the man must be well murdered, without any remorse or mercy, betwixt Turk and Jew, ’tis honestly worth two hundred pounds.
Sir Dav. Two hundred pounds! why, I’ll have a physician shall kill a whole family for half the money.
Bloody-B. Damme, sir, how do ye mean?
Sir Dav. Damme, sir, how do I mean? Damme, sir, not to part with my money.
Bloody-B. Not part, brother?
Four. Brother, the wight is improvable, and this must not be borne withal.
Bloody-B. Have I for this dissolved Circean charms?
Broke iron durance; whilst from these firm legs
The well-filed, useless fetters dropped away,
And left me master of my native freedom?
