Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Beaug.

  Till at last a good Uncle, who now, Peace be with his Soul, sleeps with his Fathers, bestow’d a Portion of Two hundred pounds upon me, with which I took Shipping, and set Sail for the Coast of Fortune.

  Fath.

  That is to say, You went to the Wars, to learn the Liberal Arts of Murder, Whoredom, Burning, Ravishing, and a few other necessary Accomplishments for a young Gentleman to set up a Livelihood withal, in this Civil Government, where, Heav’n be prais’d, none of those Vertues need grow rusty.

  Beaug.

  Sir, I hope I have brought you no Dishonour home with me.

  Fath.

  Nay, the Scanderbeg-Monkey has not behav’d himself unhandsomly, that’s the truth of the Bus’ness; but the Varlet won’t marry: the Dog has got Two thousand pound a year left him by an old curmudgeonly moldy Uncle, and I can’t perswade him to marry.

  Beaug.

  Sir, that curmudgeonly moldy Uncle you speak of, was your Elder Brother, and never married in all his Life: He, dying, bequeaths me Two thousand pound a year: You, Sir, the younger Brother, and my honoured Father, have been married, and are not able, for ought I can perceive, to leave me a bent Ninepence: So, Sir, I wish you a great deal of Health, Long life, and merry as it has been hitherto; but for Marriage, it has thriven so very ill with my Family already, that I am resolved to have nothing to do with it.

  Fath.

  Here’s a Rogue! Here’s a Villain! Why, Sirrah, you have lost all Grace; you have no Duty left; you are a Rebel: I shall see you hang’d, Sirrah. Come, come, let me examine you a little, while I think on’t: What Religion are you of? — hah? —

  Beaug.

  Sir, I hope you took care, after I was born, to see me Christen’d.

  Fath.

  Oh Lord! Christen’d! Here’s an Atheistical Rogue, thinks he has Religion enough, if he can but call himself a Christian!

  Beaug.

  Why, Sir, would you have me disown my Baptism?

  Fath.

  No, Sirrah: but I would have you own what sort of Christian you are though

  Beaug.

  What sort, Sir?

  Fath.

  Ay, Sir; what sort, Sir.

  Beaug.

  Why, of the honestest sort.

  Fath.

  As if there were not Knaves of all sorts!

  Beaug.

  Why then, Sir, if that will satisfie you, I am of your sort.

  Fath.

  And that, for ought you know, may be of no sort at all.

  Beaug.

  But, Sir, to make short of the matter, I am of the Religion of my Country, hate Persecution and Penance, love Conformity, which is going to Church once a Month, well enough; resolve to make this transitory Life as pleasant and delightful as I can; and for some sober Reasons best known to my self, resolve never to marry.

  Fath.

  Look me in the Face; stand still, and look me in the Face. So; you won’t marry? —

  Beaug.

  No, Sir.

  Fath.

  Oh Lord!

  Beaug.

  But I’ll do something that shall be more for your good, and perhaps may please you as well. Knowing Fortune of late has not been altogeter so good-natur’d as she might have been, and that your Revenues are something anticipated, be pleas’d, Sir, to go home as well satisfi’d as you can, and my Servant shall not fail to meet you at your Lodgings, with a Hundred smiling Smock-fac’t Guinea’s, within this half-hour: Now who the Devil would marry?

  Fath.

  No Body that has half an ounce of Brains in his Noddle: The ungodly good-natur’d Rogue is in the right on’t; damnably, damnably in the right on’t.

  Beaug.

  So, here’s your Father for you now!

  Fath.

  But look you Iack now, little Iack, Two thousand pounds a year! Why thou wilt be a damnable rich Rogue now, if thou dost not marry; though I know thou wilt live bravely and deliciously, eat and drink nobly, have always half a dozen honest, jolly, true-spirited, spritely Friends about thee, and so forth, hah! Then for Marriage, to speak the truth on’t, it is at the best but a chargeable, vexatious, uneasie sort of Life; it ruin’d me, Iack, utterly ruin’d thy poor old Father, Iack. Thou wilt be sure to remember the Hundred pound, Iackie-boy, hah?

  Beaug.

  Most punctually, Sir.

  Fath.

  Thou shalt always, ever now and then, that is, lend thy old Father a Hundred pound, or so, upon a good occasion, Iack, after this manner, in a Friendly way: You must make much of your old Daddy, Iack: But if thou hast no mind to’t, the truth on’t is, I would never have thee marry.

  Beaug.

  Not marry, Sir?

  Fath.

  No.

  Beaug.

  No?

  Fath.

  No. A Hundred Pound, Iack, is a pretty little round Sum.

  Beaug.

  I’ll not fail of sending it.

  Fath.

  Then, Iack, it will do as well to let thy Man come to me to Harry the Eighth’s Head in the Back Street, behind my Lodgings: There’s a Cup of smart Racy Canary, Iack, will make an old Fellow’s Heart as light as a Feather. Ah, little Iackie-rogue, it Glorisies through the Glass, and the Nits dance about in’t like Attoms in the Sun-shine, you young Dog.

  Beaug.

  Do you intend to Dine there, Sir?

  Fath.

  Ay, Man; I have two or three bonny old Tilbury Roysterers, with delicate red Faces, and bald Crowns, that have obliged me to meet ’em there; they helpt me to spend my Estate when I was young, and the Rogues are grateful, and do not forsake me now I am grown poorish and old, — . Almost Twelve a clock, Iack.

  Beaug.

  I’ll be sure to remember, Sir.

  Fath.

  And thou wilt never marry!

  Beaug.

  Never, I hope, Sir.

  Fath.

  Ah, you wicked-hearted Rogue, I know what you will do then, that will be worse, though, I think, not much worse neither. Would I were a young Fellow again, but to keep him Company for one Week or a Fortnight. A hundred Guinea’s! eeee! Db’ny Iack. You’l remember? See thee agen to morrow, Iack. — Poor Iack! Dainty Canary — and a delicate Black-ey’d Wench at the Bar! Db’uy Iack.

  Beaug.

  Adieu, Father. — Fourbine.

  Fourb.

  Did your Honour call?

  Beaug.

  Take a hundred Guinea’s out of the Cabinet, and carry ’em after the Old Gentleman to his Place of Rendezvous. This Father of mine (Heav’n be thanked) is a very ungodly Father He was in his Youth just such another wicked Fellow as his Son Iohn here; but he had no Estate, there I have the better of him: for out of meer Opinion of my Good-husbandry, my Uncle thought fit to disinherit the extravagant Old Gentleman, and leave all to me. Then he was married, there I had the better of him again; yet he married a Fortune of Ten thousand pound, and before I was Seven years old, had broke my Mothers Heart, and spent three parts of her Portion: Afterwards he was pleas’d to retain a certain Familiar Domestick, call’d a House-keeper, which I one day, to shew my Breeding, call’d Whore, and was fairly turn’d a starving for it. Now he has no way to squeeze me out of Contribution, but by taking up his Fatherly Authority, and offering to put the Penal Law call’d Marriage in execution. I must e’en get him a Governour, and send him with a Pension into the Country: Ay, it must be so; For, Wedlock, I deny thee; Father, I’ll supply thee; and, Pleasure, I will have thee. Who’s there?

  Enter a Servant.

  Serv.

  Oh, Sir, the most fortunate Tidings!

  Beaug.

  What’s the matter?

  Serv.

  Captain Courtine, your old Acquaintance, Friend, and Comrade, is just arrived out of the Country, and desires to see you, Sir.

  Beaug.

  Courtine! Wait on him up, you Dog, with Reverence and Honour.

  Enter Courtine.

  Court.

  Dear Beaugard!
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br />   Beaug.

  Ah, Friend! — from the very tenderest part of my Heart I was just now wishing for thee. Why thou lookst as like a Married-man already, with as grave a Fatherly Famelick Countenance, as ever I saw.

  Court.

  Ay, Beaugard, I am married, that’s my Comfort: But you, I hear, have had worse Luck of late; an old Uncle dropt into the Grave, and Two thousand pound a year into your Pocket, Beaugard.

  Beaug.

  A small Conveniency, Ned, to make my Happiness hereafter a little more of a piece than it has been hitherto, in the Enjoyment of such hearty, sincere, honest Friends, and good-natur’d Fellows, as thou art.

  Court.

  Sincere, honest Friends! Have a care there, Beaugard. — I am, since I saw thee, in a few words, grown an errant Raskal; and for Goodnature, it is the very thing I have solemnly forsworn: no, I am married, Iack, in the Devil’s name, I am married.

  Beaug.

  Married! That is, thou call’st a Woman thou likest by the name of Wife: Wife and t’other thing begin with a Letter. Thou liest with her when thy Appetite calls thee, keepest the Children thou begettest of her Body; allowest her Meat, Drink, and Garments, fit for her Quality, and thy Fortune; and when she grows heavy upon thy Hands, what a’ Pox, ’tis but a Separate-maintenance, kiss and part, and there is an end of the Bus’ness.

  Court.

  Alas, Beaugard, thou art utterly mistaken; Heav’n knows it is quite on the contrary: For I am forced to call a Woman I do not like, by the name of Wife; and lie with her, for the most part, with no Appetite at all; must keep the Children that, for ought I know, any Body else may beget of her Body; and for Food and Rayment, by her good will she would have them both Fresh three times a day: Then for Kiss and part, I may kiss and kiss my Heart out, but the Devil a bit shall I ever get rid of her.

  Beaug.

  Alas, poor Husband! But art thou really in this miserable Condition?

  Court.

  Ten times worse, if possible: By the vertue of Matrimony, and long Cohabitation, we are grown so really One Flesh, that I have no more Inclination to hers, than to eat a piece of my own. Then her Ladiship is so Jealous, that she does me the Honour to make me Stalion-general to the whole Parish, from the Parson’s Importance in Paragon, to the Cobler’s scolding Wife, that drinks Brandy, and smoaks loathsom Tobacco. In short, Iack, she has so order’d the Bus’ness, that I am half weary of the World, wish all Mankind hang’d, and have not laugh’d these Six months.

  Beaug.

  Ha, ha, ha!

  Court.

  Why, thou canst laugh, I see, though.

  Beaug.

  Ay, Ned, I have Two thousand pound per Annum, Ned, old Rents, and well Tenanted; have no Wife, nor ever will have any, Ned; resolve to make my Days of Mortality all Joyful, and Nights Pleasurable, with some dear, lovesom, young, beautiful, kind, generous She, that every Night shall bring me all the Joys of a New Bride, and none of the Vexations of a worn-out, insipid, troublesom, jealous Wife, Wife, Ned.

  Court.

  But where lies this Treasure? Where is there such a Jewel to be found?

  Beaug.

  Ah, Rogue! Do you despise your own Manna indeed, and long after Quails? Why, thou unconscionable Hobnail, thou Country Cowlstaff, thou absolute Piece of thy own dry’d Dirt, wouldst thou have the Impudence, with that hideous Beard, and grisly Countenance, to make thy Appearance before the Footstool of a Bona Roba that I delight in? For shame get off that Smithfield Horsecoursers Equipage; Appear once more like Courtine the Gay, the Witty, and Unbounded, with Joy in thy Face, and Love in thy Blood, Money in thy Pockets, and good Cloaths on thy Back; and then I’ll try to give thee a Recipe that may purge away those foul Humours Matrimony has bred in thee, and fit thee to rellish the Sins of thy Youth again. Bless us! What a Beard’s there? It puts me in mind of the Blazing Star.

  Court.

  Beard, Beaugard! Why, I wear it on purpose, Man; I have wish’t it a Furze-bush a thousand times, when I have been kissing my —

  Beaug.

  Whom? —

  Court.

  Wife. — Let me never live to bury her, if the word Wife does not stick in my Throat.

  Beaug.

  Then this Peruque! Why, it makes thee shew like the Sign of a Head looking out at a Barbers Window.

  Court.

  No more, no more; all shall be rectified: For, to deal with thee as honestly as a Fellow in my damn’d Condition can do, e’er I resolv’d absolutely to hang my self, I thought there might be some Remedy left; and that was this dear Town, and thy dear Friendship: So that, in short, I am very fairly run away; pretended a short Journey to visit a Friend, but came to London; and, if it be possible, will not see Country, Wife, nor Children agen these seven years. Therefore, prethee, for my better Encouragement, tell me a little what Sins are stirring in this Noble Metropolis, that I may know my Bus’ness the better, and fall to it as fast as I can.

  Beaug.

  Why, ‘faith, Ned, considering the Plot, the Danger of the Times, and some other Obstructions of Trade and Commerce, Iniquity in the general has not lost much Ground. There’s Cheating and Hypocrisie still in the City; Riot and Murder in the Suburbs; Grinning, Lying, Fawning, Flattery, and False-promising at Court; Assignations at Coventgarden Church; Cuckolds, Whores, Pimps, Panders, Bawds, and their Diseases, all over the Town.

  Court.

  But what Choice Spirits, what Extraordinary Rascals may a Man oblige his Curiosity withal?

  Beaug.

  I’ll tell thee: In the first place, we are over-run with a Race of Vermin they call Wits, a Generation of Insects that are always making a Noise, and buzzing about your Ears, concerning Poets, Plays, Lampoons, Libels, Songs, Tunes, Soft Scenes, Love, Ladies, Peruques, and Crevatstrings, French Conquests, Duels, Religion, Snuff-boxes, Points, Garnitures, Mill’d Stockings, Foubert’s Academy, Politicks, Parliament-Speeches, and every thing else which they do not understand, or would have the World think they did.

  Court.

  And are all these Wits?

  Beaug.

  Yes, and be hang’d to ’em, these are the Wits.

  Court.

  I never knew one of these Wits in my Life, that did not deserve to be Pillory’d; twenty to one if half of ’em can read, and yet they will venture at Learning as familiarly, as if they had been bred in the Vatican. One of ’em told me one day, he thought Plutarch well done would make the best English Heroick Poem in the World. Besides, they will rail, cavil, censure, and, what is worst of all, make Jests; the dull Rogues will Jest, though they do it as awkerdly as a Tarpawlin would ride the Great Horse. I hate a pert, dull, Jesting Rogue from the bottom of my Heart.

  Beaug.

  But above all, the most abominable is your Witty Squire, your young Heir that is very Witty; who having newly been discharg’d from the Discretion of a Governour, and come to keep his own Money, gets into a Cabal of Coxcombs of the Third Form, who will be sure to cry him up for a Fine Person, that he may think all them so.

  Court.

  Oh, your Asses know one anothers Nature exactly, and are always ready to nabble, because it is the certain way to be nabbled again: But above all the rest, what think you of the Atheist?

  Beaug.

  By this good Light, thou hast prevented me: I have one for thee of that Kind, the most unimitable Varlet, and the most insufferable Stinkard living; one that has Doubts enow to turn to all Religions, and yet would fain pretend to be of none: In short, a Cheat, that would have you of opinion that he believes neither Heav’n nor Hell, and yet never feels so much as an Ague-sit, but he’s afraid of being damn’d.

  Court.

  That must be a very Noble Champion, and certainly an Original.

  Beaug.

  The Villain has less Sincerity than a Bawd, less Courage than a Hector, less Good-nature than a Hangman, and lest Charity than a Phanatique; talks of Religion and Church-Worship as familiarly as a little Courtier does of the Maids of Honour; and swears the King deser
ves to be Chan’d out of the City, for suffering Zealous Fools to build Pauls again, when it would make so proper a Place for a Citadel.

  Court.

  A very worthy Member of a Christian Commonwealth, that is the truth on’t.

  Beaug.

  I am intimately acquainted with him.

  Court.

  I honour you for’t, with all my Heart, Sir.

  Beaug.

  After all, the Rogue has some other little tiny Vices, that are not very ungrateful.

  Court.

  Very probable.

  Beaug.

  He makes a very good odd Man at Ballum-rancum, or so; that is, when the rest of the Company is coupled, will take care to see there’s good Attendance paid; and when we have a mind to make a Ballum of it indeed, there is no Lewdness so scandalous that he will not be very proud to have the Honour to be put upon.

  Court.

  A very necessary Instrument of Damnation, truly.

  Beaug.

  Besides, to give the Devil his due, he is seldom Impertinent; but, barring his Darling-Topick, Blasphemy, a Companion pleasant enough. Shall I recommend him to thy Service? I’ll enter into Bonds of Five hundred pounds, that he teaches thee as good a way to get rid of that Whip and a Bell, call’d thy Wife, as thy Heart would wish sor.

  Court

  And that is no small Temptation, I assure you.

  Enter Boy, with a Letter.

  Boy.

  Sir!

  Beaug.

  My Child!

  Court.

  A Pimp, for a Guiny, he speaks so gently to him.

  Beaug.

  Tell her, she has undone me, she has chosen the only way to enslave me utterly; tell her, my Soul, my Life, my future Happiness, and present Fortune, are only what she’ll make’em.

  Boy.

  At Seven, Sir.

  Beaug.

  Most infallibly.

  Court.

  Ay, ay, ’tis so: Now what a damn’d Country-Itch have I, to dive into the Secret! Beaugard, Beaugard, are all things in a readiness? the Husband out of the way, the Family dispos’d of? Come, come, come, no trisling; be free-hearted and friendly.

  Beaug.

  You are married, Ned, you are married; that’s all I have to say: you are married.

  Court.

  Let a Man do a foolish thing once in his Life-time, and he shall always hear of it. — Married, quoth’a! Prethee be patient: I was married about a Twelvemonth ago, but that’s past and forgotten. Come, come, communicare, communicate, if thou art a Friend, communicate.