by Thomas Otway
Sir Dav. What does he mean now?
Four. Truly, sir, I am sorry to see it with all my heart; ’tis a distraction that frequently seizes him, though I am sorry it should happen so unluckily at this time.
Sir Dav. Distracted, say you? is he so apt to be distracted?
Four. Oh, sir, raging mad; we that live by murder are all so; guilt will never let us sleep. I beseech you, sir, stand clear of him; he’s apt to be very mischievous at these unfortunate hours.
Bloody-B. Have I been drunk with tender infants’ blood,
And ripped up teeming wombs? Have these bold hands
Ransacked the temples of the gods, and stabbed
The priests before their altars? Have I done this? ha!
Sir Dav. No, sir, not that I know, sir; I would not say any such thing for all the world, sir. Worthy gentleman, I beseech you, sir — you seem to be a civil person — I beseech you, sir, to mitigate his passion. I’ll do anything in the world; you shall command my whole estate.
Four. Nay, after all, sir, if you have not a mind to have him quite murdered, if a swingeing drubbing to bed-rid him, or so, will serve your turn, you may have it at a cheaper rate a great deal.
Sir Dav. Truly, sir, with all my heart; for methinks, now I consider matters better, I would not by any means be guilty of another man’s blood.
Four. Why, then let me consider: to have him beaten substantially, a beating that will stick by him, will cost you — half the money.
Sir Dav. What, one hundred pounds! sure the devil’s in you, or you would not be so unconscionable.
Bloody-B. The devil! where? where is the devil? show me;
I’ll tell thee, Beelzebub, thou’st broke thy covenant;
Didst thou not promise me eternal plenty,
When I resigned my soul to thy allurements?
Sir Dav. Ah, Lord!
Bloody-B. Touch me not yet; I’ve yet ten thousand murders
To act before I’m thine: with all those sins
I’ll come with full damnation to thy caverns
Of endless pain, and howl with thee for ever.
Sir Dav. Bless us! what will become of this mortal body of mine? Where am I? is this a house? do I live? am I flesh and blood?
Bloody-B. There, there’s the fiend again! don’t chatter so,
And grin at me; if thou must needs have prey,
Take here, take him, this tempter that would bribe me,
With shining gold,
To stain my hands with new iniquity.
Sir Dav. Stand off, I charge thee, Satan, wheresoe’er thou art; thou hast no right nor claim to me; I’ll have thee bound in necromantic charms. Hark you, friend, has the gentleman given his soul to the devil?
Four. Only pawned it a little; that’s all.
Sir Dav. Let me beseech you, sir, to despatch, and get rid of him as soon as you can. I would gladly drink a bottle with you, sir, but I hate the devil’s company mortally: as for the hundred pound here, it is ready; no more words, I’ll submit to your good-nature and discretion.
Four. Then, wretch, take this, and make thy peace with the infernal king; he loves riches; sacrifice and be at rest.
Bloody-B. ’Tis done, I’ll follow thee, lead on; nay, if thou smile, I more defy thee; fee, fa, fum. [Exit.
Four. ’Tis very odd, this.
Sir Dav. Very odd, indeed; I’m glad he’s gone, though.
Four. Now, sir, if you please, we’ll refresh ourselves with a cheerful glass, and so chacun chez lui — I would fain make the gull drunk a little, to put a little mettle into him. [Aside.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, sir; but no more words of the devil, if you love me.
Four. The devil’s an ass, sir, and here’s a health to all those that defy the devil.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, and all his works too.
Four. Nay, sir, you must do me right, I assure you.
Sir Dav. Not so full, not so full, that’s too much of all conscience: in troth, friend, these are sad times, very sad times; but here’s to you.
Four. Pox o’ the times! the times are well enough, so long as a man has money in his pocket.
Sir Dav. ’Tis true, here I have been bargaining with you about a murder, but never consider that idolatry is coming in full speed upon the nation. Pray what religion are you of, friend?
Four. What religion am I of, sir? Sir, your humble servant.
Sir Dav. Truly a good conscience is a great happiness; and so I’ll pledge you, hemph, hemph. But shan’t the dog be murdered this night?
Four. My brother rogue is gone by this time to set him, and the business shall be done effectually, I’ll warrant you. Here’s rest his soul.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, faith; I hate to be uncharitable.
Re-enter Courtine and Drawer.
Cour. Look you, ’tis a very impudent thing not to be drunk by this time: shall rogues stay in taverns to sip pints, and be sober, when honest gentlemen are drunk by gallons? I’ll have none on’t.
Sir Dav. O Lord, who’s there? [Sits up in his chair.
Draw. I beseech your honour — our house will be utterly ruined by this means.
Cour. Damn your house, your wife and children, and all your family, you dog! — Sir, who are you? [To Sir Davy.
Sir Dav. Who am I, sir? what’s that to you, sir? Will you tickle my foot, you rogue?
Cour. I’ll tickle your guts, you poltroon, presently.
Sir Dav. Tickle my guts, you mad-cap! I’ll tickle your toby, if you do.
Cour. What, with that circumcised band? that grave hypocritical beard, of the reformation-cut? Old fellow, I believe you are a rogue.
Sir Dav. Sirrah, you are a whore, an arrant bitch-whore; I’ll use you like a whore; I’ll kiss you, you jade; I’ll ravish you, you buttock; I am a justice of the peace, sirrah, and that’s worse.
Cour. Damn you, sir, I care not if you were a constable and all his watch: what, such a rogue as you send honest fellows to prison, and countenance whores in your jurisdiction for bribery, you mongrel! I’ll beat you, sirrah, I’ll brain you; I’ll murder you, you mooncalf! [Throws the chair after him.
Sir Dav. Sir, sir, sir! constable! watch! stocks! stocks! stocks! murder! [Exit.
Cour. Huzza, Beaugard!
Re-enter Beaugard and Sir Jolly Jumble.
Four. Well, sir, the business is done; we have bargained to murder you.
Beau. Murdered! who’s to be murdered, ha, Fourbin?
Sir Jol. You are to be murdered, friend; you shall be murdered, friend.
Beau. But how am I to be murdered? who’s to murder me, I beseech you?
Four. Your humble servant, Fourbin; I am the man, with your worship’s leave: Sir Davy has given me this gold to do it handsomely.
Beau. Sir Davy! uncharitable cur; what! murder an honest fellow for being civil to his family! What can this mean, gentlemen?
Sir Jol. No, ’tis for not being civil to his family, that it means, gentlemen; therefore are you to be murdered to-night, and buried a-bed with my lady, you Jack Straw, you.
Beau. I understand you, friends; the old gentleman has designed to have me butchered, and you have kindly contrived to turn it to my advantage in the affair of love. I am to be murdered but as it were, gentlemen, ha? [Exit Courtine.
Four. Your honour has a piercing judgment. Sir, Captain Courtine’s gone.
Beau. No matter, let him go: he has a design to put in practice this night too, and would perhaps but spoil ours. But when, Sir Jolly, is this business to be brought about?
Sir Jol. Presently; ’tis more than time ‘twere done already. Go, get you gone, I say. Hold, hold, let’s see your left ear first, hum — ha — you are a rogue, you’re a rogue; get you gone, get you gone, go. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — Outside Sir Davy Dunce’s House.
Enter Sylvia and her Maid in the Balcony.
Maid. But why, madam, will you use him so inhumanly? I’m confident he loves you.
Sylv. Oh! a true lover is to be fo
und out like a true saint, by the trial of his patience. Have you the cords ready?
Maid. Here they are, madam.
Sylv. Let them down, and be sure, when it comes to trial, to pull lustily. Is Will the footman ready?
Will. [Within] At your ladyship’s command, madam.
Sylv. I wonder he should stay so long; the clock has struck twelve.
Enter Courtine, singing.
And was she not frank and free,
And was she not kind to me,
To lock up her cat in her cupboard,
And give her key to me, to me?
To lock up her cat in her cupboard,
And give her key to me?
Sylv. This must be he: ay, ’tis he, and, as I am a virgin, roaring drunk; but, if I find not a way to make him sober —
Cour. Here, here’s the window: ay, that’s hell-door, and my damnation’s in the inside. Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia! dear imp of Satan, appear to thy servant.
Sylv. Who calls on Sylvia in this dead of night,
When rest is wanting to her longing eyes?
Cour. ’Tis a poor wretch can hardly stand upright,
Drunk with thy love, and if he falls he lies.
Sylv. Courtine, is’t you?
Cour. Yes, sweetheart, ’tis I; art thou ready for me?
Sylv. Fasten yourself to that cord there; there, there it is.
Cour. Cord! where? Oh, oh, here, here; so, now to Heaven in a string.
Sylv. Have you done?
Cour. Yes, I have done, child, and would fain be doing too, hussy.
Sylv. [To Will, within.] Then pull away, hoa up, hoa up, hoa up! So, avast there, sir!
[Courtine is drawn halfway up to the balcony.
Cour. Madam!
Sylv. Are you very much in love, sir?
Cour. Oh, damnably, child, damnably.
Sylv. I am sorry for’t with all my heart: good-night, captain.
Cour. Ha, gone! what, left in Erasmus’ paradise, between Heaven and hell? If the constable should take me now for a straggling monkey hung by the loins, and hunt me with his cry of watchmen? Ah, woman, woman, woman! Well, a merry life and a short, that’s all.
[Sings] God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!
I am mighty loyal to-night.
Enter Fourbin and Bloody-Bones, as from Sir Davy Dunce’s House.
Four. Murder, murder, murder! help, help, murder!
Cour. Nay, if there be murder stirring, ’tis high time to shift for myself. [Climbs up to the balcony.
Sylv. [Squeaking.] Ah! [Exeunt Sylvia and Court.
Bloody-B. Yonder, yonder he comes; murder, murder, murder!
[Exeunt Bloody-Bones and Fourbin.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. ’Tis very late; but murder is a melancholy business, and night is fit for’t. I’ll go home. [Knocks.
Ver. [Within.] Who’s there?
Sir Dav. Who’s there! open the door, you whelp of Babylon.
Ver. Oh, sir! you’re welcome home; but here is the saddest news! here has been murder committed, sir.
Sir Dav. Hold your tongue, you fool, and go to sleep; get you in, do you hear? you talk of murder, you rogue? you meddle with state affairs? get you in. [Exit.
SCENE III. — The Entrance Hall in the same.
Sir Jolly Jumble and Lady Dunce discovered putting Beaugard in order, as if he were dead.
Sir Jol. Lie still, lie still, you knave, close, close, when I bid you: you had best quest, and spoil the sport, you had!
Beau. But pray how long must I lie thus?
L. Dunce. I’ll warrant you you’ll think the time mighty tedious.
Beau. Sweet creature, who can counterfeit death when you are near him?
Sir Jol. You shall, sirrah, if a body desires you a little, so you shall; we shall spoil all else, all will be spoiled else, man, if you do not: stretch out longer, longer yet, as long as ever you can. So, so, hold your breath, hold your breath; very well.
Enter Maid.
Maid. Madam, here comes Sir Davy.
Sir Jol. Odds so, now close again as I told you, close, you devil; now stir if you dare; stir but any part about you if you dare now; odd, I’ll hit you such a rap if you do! Lie still, lie you still.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. My dear, how dost thou do, my dear? I am come.
L. Dunce. Ah, sir, what is’t you’ve done? you’ve ruined me; your family, your fortune, all is ruined; where shall we go, or whither shall we fly?
Sir Dav. Where shall we go! why, we’ll go to bed, you little jackadandy: why, you are not a wench, you rogue, you are a boy, a very boy, and I love you the better for’t: sirrah, hey!
L. Dunce. Ah, sir, see there.
Sir Dav. Bless us! a man! and bloody! what, upon my hall-table!
L. Dunce. Two ruffians brought him in just now, pronouncing the inhuman deed was done by your command: Sir Jolly came in the same minute, or sure I had died with my distracting fears. How could you think on a revenge so horrid?
Sir Dav. As I hope to be saved, neighbour, I only bargained with them to bastinado him in a way, or so, as one friend might do to another: but do you say that he is dead?
Sir Jol. Dead, dead as clay; stark stiff and useless all, nothing about him stirring, but all’s cold and still. I knew him a lusty fellow once, a very mettled fellow; ’tis a thousand pities!
Sir Dav. What shall I do? I’ll throw myself upon him, kiss his wide wounds, and weep till blind as buzzard.
L. Dunce. Oh, come not near him; there’s such horrid antipathy follows all murders, his wounds would stream afresh should you but touch him.
Sir Dav. Dear neighbour, dearest neighbour, friend, Sir Jolly, as you love charity, pity my wretched case, and give me counsel; I’ll give my wife and all my estate to have him live again; or shall I bury him in the arbour, at the upper end of the garden?
Sir Jol. Alas-a-day, neighbour, never think on’t, never think on’t; the dogs will find him there, as they scrape holes to bury bones in; there is but one way that I know of.
Sir Dav. What is it, dear neighbour, what is it? You see I am upon my knees to you; take all I have and ease me of my fears.
Sir Jol. Truly the best thing that I can think of is putting of him to bed, putting him into a warm bed, and try to fetch him to life again; a warm bed is the best thing in the world. My lady may do much too, she’s a good woman, and, as I’ve been told, understands a green wound well.
Sir Dav. My dear, my dear, my dear!
L. Dunce. Bear me away! oh, send me hence far off, where my unhappy name may be a stranger, and this sad accident no more remembered to my dishonour!
Sir Dav. Ah, but my love! my joy! are there no bowels in thee?
L. Dunce. What would you have me do?
Sir Dav. Pr’ythee do so much as try thy skill; there may be one dram of life left in him yet. Take him up to thy chamber, put him into thy own bed, and try what thou canst do with him; pr’ythee do: if thou canst but find motion in him, all may be well yet. I’ll go up to my closet in the garret, and say my prayers in the mean while.
L. Dunce. Will ye then leave this ruin on my hands?
Sir Dav. Pray, pray, my dear; I beseech you, neighbour, help to persuade her if it be possible.
Sir Jol. Faith, madam, do, try what you can do. I have a great fancy you may do him good; who can tell but you may have the gift of stroking? Pray, madam, be persuaded.
L. Dunce. I’ll do whate’er’s your pleasure.
Sir Dav. That’s my best dear: I’ll go to my closet and pray for thee heartily. Alas, alas, that ever this should happen! [Exit.
Beau. So, is he gone, madam, my angel?
Sir Jol. What, no thanks, no reward for old Jolly now? Come hither, hussy, you little canary-bird, you little hop-o’-my-thumb, come hither: make me a curtsey, and give me a kiss now, ha! give me a kiss, I say; odd, I will have a kiss, so I will, I will have a kiss if I set on’t. Shoogh, shoogh, shoo
gh, get you into a corner when I bid you, shoogh, shoogh, shoogh — what, there already? [She goes to Beaugard.] Well, I ha’ done, I ha’ done; this ’tis to be an old fellow now.
Beau. And will you save the life of him you’ve wounded?
L. Dunce. Dare you trust yourself to my skill for a cure? [Sir Davy appears at a window above.
Sir Jol. Hist! hist! Close, close, I say again; yonder’s Sir Davy, odds so!
Sir Dav. My dear! my dear! my dear!
L. Dunce. Who’s that calls? my love, is’t you?
Sir Dav. Ay, some comfort or my heart’s broke! are there any hopes yet? I’ve tried to say my prayers, and cannot: if he be quite dead, I shall never pray again! Neighbour, no hopes?
Sir Jol. Truly little or none; some small pulse I think there is left, very little: there’s nothing to be done if you don’t pray: get you to prayers whatever you do. Get you gone; nay, don’t stay now, shut the window, I tell you.
Sir Dav. Well, this is a great trouble to me; but good-night. [Retires.
Sir Jol. Good-night to you, dear neighbour. — Get ye up, get ye up, and begone into the next room presently, make haste. [To Beaugard and Lady Dunce.] But don’t steal away till I come to you; be sure ye remember, don’t ye stir till I come — pish, none of this bowing and fooling, it but loses time; I’ll only bolt the door that belongs to Sir Davy’s lodgings, that he may be safe, and be with you in a twinkle. Ah — so, now for the door; very well, friend, you are fast.
[Bolts the door and sings.
Bonny lass, gan thoo wert mine,
And twonty thoosand poonds aboot thee, &c. [Exeunt.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I. — Sylvia’s Chamber.
Courtine discovered bound on a couch.
Cour. Heigho! heigho! Ha! where am I? Was I drunk or no, last night? Something leaning that way. But where the devil am I? sincerely in a bawdy-house: faugh! what a smell of sin is here! Let me look about; if there be ever a Geneva Bible or a Practice of Piety in the room, I am sure I have guessed right. What’s the matter now? tied fast! bound too! What tricks have I played to come into this condition? I have lighted into the territories of some merrily-disposed chambermaid or other; and she in a witty fit, forsooth, hath trussed me up thus: has she pinned no rags to my tail, or chalked me upon the back, trow? Would I had her mistress here at a venture!
