Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Enter Sylvia and Maid.

  Sylv. What would you do with her, my enchanted knight, if you had her? you are too sober for her by this time: next time you get drunk, you may perhaps venture to scale her balcony like a valiant captain as you are.

  Cour. Hast thou done this, my dear destruction? and am I in thy limbo? I must confess, when I am in my beer, my courage does run away with me now and then; but let me loose, and thou shalt see what a gentle humble animal thou hast made me. Fie upon’t! what, tie me up like an ungovernable cur to the frame of a table! let, let thy poor dog loose, that he may fawn and make much of thee a little.

  Sylv. What, with those paws which you have been ferreting Moor-fields withal, and are very dirty still? After you have been daggling yourself abroad for prey, and can meet with none, you come sneaking hither for a crust, do you?

  Maid. Shall I fetch the whip and the bell, madam, and slash him for his roguery soundly?

  Cour. Indeed, indeed! Do you long to be ferking of man’s flesh, madam flea-trap? Does the chaplain of the family use you to the exercise, that you are so ready for it?

  Sylv. If you should be let loose, and taken into favour now, you would be for rambling again so soon as you had got your liberty.

  Cour. Do but try me, and if ever I prove recreant more, let me be beaten and used like a dog in good earnest.

  Sylv. Promise to grant me but one request, and it shall be done.

  Cour. Hear me but swear.

  Sylv. That anybody may do ten thousand times a-day.

  Cour. Upon the word of a gentleman; nay, as I hope to get money in pocket.

  Sylv. There I believe him, lelely. You’ll keep your word, you say?

  Cour. If I don’t, hang me up in that wench’s old garters.

  Sylv. See, sir, you have your freedom. [Unbinds him.

  Cour. Well, now name the price; what I must pay for’t?

  Sylv. You know, sir, considering our small acquaintance, you have been pleased to talk to me very freely of love-matters.

  Cour. I must confess, I have been something to blame that way; but if ever thou hearest more of it from my mouth after this night’s adventure — would I were well out of the house!

  Sylv. Have a care of swearing, I beseech you; for you must understand that, spite of my teeth, I am at last fallen in love most unmercifully.

  Cour. And dost thou imagine I am so hard-hearted a villain as to have no compassion of thee?

  Sylv. No, for I hope he’s a man you can have no exceptions against.

  Cour. Yes, yes, the man is a man, I’ll assure you, that’s one comfort.

  Sylv. Who do you think it may be now? try if you can guess him.

  Cour. Whoever he is, he’s an honest fellow, I’ll warrant him, and I believe will not think himself very unhappy neither.

  Sylv. If a fortune of five thousand pounds, pleasant nights, and quiet days, can make him happy, I assure you he may be so; but try once to guess at him.

  Cour. But if I should be mistaken?

  Sylv. Why, who is it you would wish me to?

  Cour. You have five thousand pound, you say?

  Sylv. Yes.

  Cour. Faith, child, to deal honestly, I know well enough who ’tis I wish for; but, sweetheart, before I tell you my inclinations, it were but reasonable that I knew yours.

  Sylv. Well, sir, because I am confident you will stand my friend in the business, I’ll make a discovery; and to hold you in suspense no longer, you must know I have a month’s mind to an arm-full of your dearly-beloved friend and brother captain; what say you to’t?

  Cour. Madam, your humble servant; good-bye, that’s all.

  Sylv. What, thus cruelly leave a lady that so kindly took you in, in your last night’s pickle, into her lodging? whither would you rove now, my wanderer?

  Cour. Faith, madam, you have dealt so gallantly in trusting me with your passion, that I cannot stay here without telling you, that I am three times as much in love with an acquaintance of yours, as you can be with any friend of mine.

  Sylv. Not with my waiting-woman, I hope, sir.

  Cour. No, but it is with a certain kinswoman of thine, child; they call her my Lady Dunce, and I think this is her house too; they say she will be civil upon a good occasion, therefore, pr’ythee be charitable, and show the way to her chamber a little.

  Sylv. What, commit adultery, captain? fie upon’t! what, hazard your soul?

  Cour. No, no, only venture my body a little, that’s all; look you, you know the secret, and may imagine my desires, therefore as you would have me assist your inclinations, pray be civil and help me to mine; look you, no demurring upon the matter, no qualms, but show me the way — [To the Maid] or you, hussy, you shall do’t; any bawd will serve at present, for I will go. [Exit Maid.

  Sylv. But you shan’t go, sir.

  Cour. Shan’t go, lady?

  Sylv. No, shan’t go, sir; did I not tell you when once you had got your liberty, that you would be rambling again.

  Cour. Why, child, wouldst thou be so uncharitable to tie up a poor jade to an empty rack in thy stable, when he knows where to go elsewhere, and get provender enough?

  Sylv. Any musty provender, I find, will serve your turn, so you have it but cheap, or at another man’s charges.

  Cour. No, child, I had rather my ox should graze in a field of my own, than live hide-bound upon the common, or run the hazard of being pounded every day for trespasses.

  Sylv. Truly, all things considered, ’tis a great pity so good a husbandman as you should want a farm to cultivate.

  Cour. Wouldst thou be but kind, and let me have a bargain in a tenement of thine, to try how it would agree with me!

  Sylv. And would you be contented to take a lease for your life?

  Cour. So pretty a lady of the manor, and a moderate rent!

  Sylv. Which you’ll be sure to pay very punctually?

  Cour. If thou doubtest my honesty, faith, e’en take a little earnest beforehand.

  Sylv. Not so hasty neither, good tenant. Imprimis, you shall oblige yourself to a constant residence, and not, by leaving the house uninhabited, let it run to repairs.

  Cour. Agreed.

  Sylv. Item, for your own sake you shall promise to keep the estate well fenced and inclosed, lest some time or other your neighbour’s cattle break in and spoil the crop on the ground, friend.

  Cour. Very just and reasonable, provided I don’t find it lie too much to common already.

  Sylv. Item, you shall enter into strict covenant not to take any other farm upon your hands, without my consent and approbation; or, if you do, that then it shall be lawful for me to get me another tenant, how and where I think fit.

  Cour. Faith, that’s something hard though, let me tell you but that, landlady.

  Sylv. Upon these terms, we’ll draw articles.

  Cour. And when shall we sign them?

  Sylv. Why, this morning, as soon as the ten o’clock office in Covent-garden is open.

  Cour. A bargain; but how will you answer your entertainment of a drunken red-coat in your lodgings at these unseasonable hours?

  Sylv. That’s a secret you will be hereafter obliged to keep for your own sake; and for the family, your friend Beaugard shall answer for us there.

  Cour. Indeed I fancied the rogue had mischief in his head, he behaved himself so soberly last night: has he taken a farm lately too?

  Sylv. A trespasser, I believe, if the truth were known, upon the provender you would fain have been biting at just now.

  Re-enter Maid.

  Maid. Madam, madam, have a care of yourself: I see lights in the great hall; whatever is the matter, Sir Davy and all the family are up.

  Cour. I hope they’ll come, and catch me here: well, now you have brought me into this condition, what will you do with me, ha?

  Sylv. You won’t be contented for awhile to be tied up like a jade to an empty rack without hay, will you?

  Cour. Faith, e’en take me, and put thy mark upon me quickly, that if I l
ight into strange hands they may know me for a sheep of thine.

  Sylv. What, by your wanting a fleece do you mean? If it must be so, come follow your shepherdess. Ba-a-a! [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — A Room in Sir Davy Dunce’s House.

  Enter Sir Davy Dunce and Vermin.

  Sir Dav. I cannot sleep, I shall never sleep again: I have prayed too so long, that were I to be hanged presently, I have never a prayer left to help myself: I was no sooner lain down upon the bed just now, and fallen into a slumber, but methought the devil was carrying me down Ludgate-hill a-gallop, six puny fiends with flaming fire-forks running before him like link-boys, to throw me headlong into Fleetditch, which seemed to be turned into a lake of fire and brimstone: would it were morning!

  Ver. Truly, sir, it has been a very dismal night.

  Sir Dav. But didst thou meet never a white thing upon the stairs?

  Ver. No, sir, not I; but methoughts I saw our great dog Towzer, with his brass collar on, stand at the cellar-door as I came along the old entry.

  Sir Dav. It could never be: Towzer has a chain; had this thing a chain on?

  Ver. No, sir, no chain, but it had Towzer’s eyes for all the world.

  Sir Dav. What, ugly, great, frightful eyes?

  Ver. Ay, ay, huge saucer eyes, but mightily like Towzer’s.

  Sir Dav. O Lord! O Lord! hark! hark!

  Ver. What? what I beseech you, sir?

  Sir Dav. What’s that upon the stairs? Didst thou hear nothing? Hist, hark, pat, pat, pat, hark, hey!

  Ver. Hear nothing! where, sir?

  Sir Dav. Look! look! what’s that? what’s that in the corner there?

  Ver. Where?

  Sir Dav. There.

  Ver. What, upon the iron chest?

  Sir Dav. No, the long black thing up by the old clock-case. See! see! now it stirs, and is coming this way.

  Ver. Alas, sir, speak to it — you are a justice o’ peace — I beseech you. I dare not stay in the house: I’ll call the watch, and tell ’em hell’s broke loose; what shall I do? oh! [Exit.

  Sir Dav. O Vermin, if thou art a true servant, have pity on thy master, and do not forsake me in this distressed condition. Satan, begone! I defy thee. I’ll repent and be saved, I’ll say my prayers, I’ll go to church; help! help! help! Was there anything or no? in what hole shall I hide myself? [Exit.

  Enter Sir Jolly, Fourbin, and Bloody-Bones.

  Sir Jol. That should be Sir Davy’s voice; the waiting-woman, indeed, told me he was afraid and could not sleep. Pretty fellows, pretty fellows both; you’ve done your business handsomely; what, I’ll warrant you have been a-whoring together now; ha! You do well, you do well, I like you the better for’t; what’s o’clock?

  Four. Near four, sir; ‘twill not be day yet these two hours.

  Sir Jol. Very well, but how got ye into the house?

  Four. A ragged retainer of the family, Vermin I think they call him, let us in as physicians sent for by your order.

  Sir Jol. Excellent rogues! and then I hope all things are ready, as I gave directions?

  Four. To a tittle, sir; there shall not be a more critical observer of your worship’s pleasure than your humble servant the Chevalier Fourbin.

  Sir Jol. Get you gone, you rogue, you have a sharp nose, and are a nimble fellow; I have no more to say to you, stand aside, and be ready when I call: here he comes; hist, hem, hem, hem.

  [Exeunt Fourbin and Bloody-Bones.

  Re-enter Sir Davy Dunce.

  Sir Dav. Ha! what art thou?

  Approach thou like the rugged Bankside bear,

  The East-cheap bull, or monster shown in fair, —

  Take any shape but that, and I’ll confront thee!

  Sir Jol. Alas, unhappy man! I am thy friend.

  Sir Dav. Thou canst not be my friend, for I defy thee. Sir Jolly! neighbour! ha! is it you? are you sure it is you? are you yourself? if you be, give me your hand. Alas-a-day, I ha’ seen the devil.

  Sir Jol. The devil, neighbour?

  Sir Dav. Ay, ay, there’s no help for’t; at first I fancied it was a young white bear’s cub dancing in the shadow of my candle; then it was turned to a pair of blue breeches with wooden legs on, stamped about the room, as if all the cripples in town had kept their rendezvous there; when all of a sudden, it appeared like a leathern serpent, and with a dreadful clap of thunder flew out of the window.

  Sir Jol. Thunder! why, I heard no thunder.

  Sir Dav. That may be too; what, were you asleep?

  Sir Jol. Asleep, quoth-a? no, no; no sleeping this night for me, I assure you.

  Sir Dav. Well, what’s the best news then? How does the man?

  Sir Jol. Even as he did before he was born nothing at all; he’s dead.

  Sir Dav. Dead! what, quite dead?

  Sir Jol. As good as dead, if not quite dead; ’twas a horrid murder! and then the terror of conscience, neighbour.

  Sir Dav. And truly I have a very terrified one, friend, though I never found I had any conscience at all till now. Pray whereabout was his death’s-wound?

  Sir Jol. Just here, just under his left pap, a dreadful gash.

  Sir Dav. So very wide?

  Sir Jol. Oh, as wide as my hat; you might have seen his lungs, liver, and heart, as perfectly as if you had been in his belly.

  Sir Dav. Is there no way to have him privately buried, and conceal this murder? Must I needs be hanged by the neck like a dog, neighbour? Do I look as if I would be hanged?

  Sir Jol. Truly, Sir Davy, I must deal faithfully with you, you do look a little suspiciously at present; but have you seen the devil, say you?

  Sir Dav. Ay, surely it was the devil, nothing else could have frighted me so.

  Sir Jol. Bless us, and guard us all the angels! what’s that?

  Sir Dav. “Potestati sempiternæ cujus benevolentiâ servantur gentes, et cujus misericordiâ” —

  [Kneels, holding up his hands, and muttering as if he prayed.

  Sir Jol. Neighbour, where are you, friend, Sir Davy?

  Sir Dav. Ah, whatever you do, be sure to stand close to me: where, where is it?

  Sir Jol. Just, just there, in the shape of a coach and six horses against the wall.

  Sir Dav. Deliver us all! he won’t carry me away in that coach and six, will he?

  Sir Jol. Do you see it? [Exit.

  Sir Dav. See it! plain, plain: dear friend, advise me what I shall do: Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, do you hear nothing? Sir Jolly — ha! has he left me alone, Vermin?

  Ver. Sir.

  Sir Dav. Am I alive? Dost thou know me again? Am I thy quondam master, Sir Davy Dunce?

  Ver. I hope I shall never forget you, sir.

  Sir Dav. Didst thou see nothing?

  Ver. Yes, sir, methought the house was all a-fire, as it were.

  Sir Dav. Didst thou not see how the devils grinned and gnashed their teeth at me, Vermin?

  Ver. Alas, sir, I was afraid one of ’em would have bit off my nose, as he vanished out of the door.

  Sir Dav. Lead me away, I’ll go to my wife, I’ll die by my own dear wife. Run away to the Temple, and call Counsellor, my lawyer; I’ll make over my estate presently, I shan’t live till noon; I’ll give all I have to my wife. Ha, Vermin!

  Ver. Truly, sir, she’s a very good lady.

  Sir Dav. Ah, much, much too good for me, Vermin; thou canst not imagine what she has done for me, man; she would break her heart if I should give any thing away from her, she loves me so dearly. Yet if I do die, thou shalt have all my old shoes.

  Ver. I hope to see you live many a fair day yet though.

  Sir Dav. Ah, my wife, my poor wife! lead me to my poor wife. [Exeunt.

  SCENE III. — Lady Dunce’s Chamber.

  Lady Dunce and Beaugard discovered.

  L. Dunce. What think you now of a cold wet march over the mountains, your men tired, your baggage not come up, but at night a dirty watery plain to encamp upon, and nothing to shelter you, but an old leaguer cloak as tattered as your colours? Is not thi
s much better, now, than lying wet, and getting the sciatica?

  Beau. The hopes of this made all fatigue easy to me; the thoughts of Clarinda have a thousand times refreshed me in my solitude. Whene’er I marched, I fancied still it was to my Clarinda; when I fought, I imagined it was for my Clarinda; but when I came home, and found Clarinda lost! — How could you think of wasting but a night in the rank, surfeiting arms of this foul-feeding monster, this rotten trunk of a man, that lays claim to you?

  L. Dunce. The persuasion of friends, and the authority of parents.

  Beau. And had you no more grace than to be ruled by a father and mother?

  L. Dunce. When you were gone, that should have given me better counsel, how could I help myself?

  Beau. Methinks, then, you might have found out some cleanlier shift to have thrown away yourself upon than nauseous old age, and unwholesome deformity.

  L. Dunce. What, upon some over-grown, full-fed country fool, with a horse-face, a great ugly head, and a great fine estate; one that should have been drained and squeezed, and jolted up and down the town in hackneys with cheats and hectors, and so sent home at three o’clock every morning, like a lolling booby, stinking, with a belly-full of stummed wine, and nothing in’s pockets?

  Beau. You might have made a tractable beast of such a one; he would have been young enough for training.

  L. Dunce. Is youth then so gentle, if age be stubborn? Young men, like springs wrought by a subtle workman, easily ply to what their wishes press them; but the desire once gone that kept them down, they soon start straight again, and no sign’s left which way they bent before.

  Sir Jol. [At the door peeping.] So, so, who says I see anything now? I see nothing, not I; I don’t see, I don’t see, I don’t look, not so much as look, not I. [He enters.

  Enter Sir Davy Dunce.

  Sir Dav. I will have my wife, carry me to my wife, let me go to my wife, I’ll live and die with my wife, let the devil do his worst; ah, my wife, my wife, my wife!

  L. Dunce. [To Beaugard.] Alas! alas! we are ruined! shift for yourself; counterfeit the dead corpse once more, or anything.

  Sir Dav. Ha! whosoe’er thou art thou canst not eat me! speak to me, who has done this? Thou canst not say I did it.

  Sir Jol. Did it? did what? Here’s nobody says you did anything that I know, neighbour; what’s the matter with you? what ails you? whither do you go? whither do you run? I tell you here’s nobody says a word to you.