"HÆc nÔsse salus est adolescentulis."[38]—Tertullian.

The Lying Lover: or the Ladies' Friendship, a Comedy, was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on December 2, 1703, and ran for six nights. It was published by Bernard Lintot on January 26, 1704. Wilks (Bookwit, jun.), Mills (Lovemore), Cibber (Latine), Pinkethman (Storm), and Bullock (Charcoal), together with Mrs. Oldfield (Victoria), and Mrs. Rogers (Penelope), acted in this piece, which, so far as is known, has been revived only once (April 4, 1746) since it was originally produced. The plot was taken from Le Menteur, by Corneille, who had borrowed from Ruiz de Alarcon's Verdad Sospechosa. Steele is, of course, solely responsible for the scenes in Newgate towards the end of the piece. Samuel Foote afterwards made much use of Steele's play in his Liar.

To His Grace the

DUKE OF ORMOND.[39]

My Lord,

Out of gratitude to the memorable and illustrious patron of my infancy,[40] your Grace's grandfather, I presume to lay this Comedy at your feet. The design of it is to banish out of conversation all entertainment which does not proceed from simplicity of mind, good-nature, friendship, and honour. Such a purpose will not, I hope, be unacceptable to so great a lover of mankind as your Grace; and if your patronage can recommend it to all who love and honour the Duke of Ormond, its reception will be as extensive as the world itself.

'Twas the irresistible force of this humanity in your temper that has carried you through the various successes of war, with the peculiar and undisputed distinction that you have drawn your sword without other motive than a passionate regard for the glory of your country; since before you entered into its service, you were possessed of its highest honours, but could not be contented with the illustrious rank your birth gave you, without repeating the glorious actions by which it was acquired.

But there cannot be less expected from the son of an Ossory, than to contemn life, to adorn it, and with munificence, affability, scorn of gain, and passion for glory, to be the honour and example to the profession of arms; all which engaging qualities your noble family has exerted with so steadfast a loyalty, that in the most adverse fortune of our monarchy, popularity, which in others had been invidious, was a security to the Crown, when lodged in the House of Ormond.

Thus your Grace entered into the business of the world with so great an expectation, that it seemed impossible there could be anything left which might still conduce to the honour of your name. But the most memorable advantage your country has gained this century was obtained under your command; and Providence thought fit to give the wealth of the Indies into his hands, who only could despise it; while, with a superior generosity, he knows no reward but in opportunities of bestowing. The great personage whom you succeed in your honours, made me feel, before I was sensible of the benefit, that this glorious bent of mind is hereditary to you. I hope, therefore, you will pardon me, that I take the liberty of expressing my veneration for his remains, by assuring your Grace that I am,

My Lord,

Your Grace's most obedient

And most devoted

Humble Servant,

Richard Steele.

THE PREFACE.

Though it ought to be the care of all Governments that public representations should have nothing in them but what is agreeable to the manners, laws, religion, and policy of the place or nation in which they are exhibited; yet is it the general complaint of the more learned and virtuous amongst us, that the English stage has extremely offended in this kind. I thought, therefore, it would be an honest ambition to attempt a Comedy which might be no improper entertainment in a Christian commonwealth.

In order to this, the spark of this play is introduced with as much agility and life as he brought with him from France, and as much humour as I could bestow upon him in England. But he uses the advantages of a learned education, a ready fancy, and a liberal fortune, without the circumspection and good sense which should always attend the pleasures of a gentleman; that is to say, a reasonable creature.

Thus he makes false love, gets drunk, and kills his man; but in the fifth Act awakes from his debauch, with the compunction and remorse which is suitable to a man's finding himself in a gaol for the death of his friend, without his knowing why.

The anguish he there expresses, and the mutual sorrow between an only child and a tender father in that distress, are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but I am sure they are a justice to those of morality. And passages of such a nature being so frequently applauded on the stage, it is high time that we should no longer draw occasions of mirth from those images which the religion of our country tells us we ought to tremble at with horror.

But her Most Excellent Majesty has taken the stage into her consideration;[41] and we may hope, by her gracious influence on the Muses, wit will recover from its apostasy; and that, by being encouraged in the interests of virtue, it will strip vice of the gay habit in which it has too long appeared, and clothe it in its native dress of shame, contempt, and dishonour.

PROLOGUE.

All the commanding powers that awe mankind
Are in a trembling poet's audience joined,
Where such bright galaxies of beauty sit,
And at their feet assembled men of wit:
Our author, therefore, owns his deep despair
To entertain the learned or the fair;
Yet hopes that both will so much be his friends,
To pardon what he does, for what he intends;
He aims to make the coming action move
On the dread laws of friendship and of love;
Sure then he'll find but very few severe,
Since there's of both so many objects here.
He offers no gross vices to your sight,
Those too much horror raise for just delight;
And to detain the attentive knowing ear,
Pleasure must still have something that's severe.[42]
If then you find our author treads the stage
With just regard to a reforming age;
He hopes, he humbly hopes, you'll think there's due
Mercy to him, for justice done to you.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Old Bookwit.

Young Bookwit, the "Lying Lover."

Lovemore, in love with Penelope.

Frederick, Friend to Lovemore.

Latine, Friend to Young Bookwit.

Storm, a Highwayman.

Charcoal, an Alchemist and Coiner.

Simon, Servant to Penelope.

Penelope.

Victoria, Friend to Penelope.

Betty, Victoria's Woman.

Lettice, Penelope's Woman.

Constables, Watch, Turnkey, Cookmaid, and several Gaol-birds.

SCENE—London.

THE LYING LOVER: OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.—St. James's Park.

Enter Young Bookwit and Latine.

Latine. But have you utterly left Oxford?

Y. Book. For ever, sir, for ever; my father has given me leave to come to town, and I don't question but will let my return be in my own choice. But Jack, you know we were talking in Maudlen Walks last week of the necessity, in intrigues, of a faithful, yet a prating servant. We agreed, therefore, to cast lots who should be the other's footman for the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, gave me the superiority.

Lat. She shall be called no more so, for that one action. And I am, sir, in a literal sense, your very humble servant.

Y. Book. Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and flatter me egregiously. Has the fellow fitted me? How is my manner? my mien? Do I move freely? Have I kicked off the trammels of a gown? or does not the tail on't seem still tucked under my arm, where my hat is, with a pert jerk forward, and little hitch in my gait like a scholastic beau? This wig, I fear, looks like a cap.

Lat. No, faith, it looks like a cap and gown too; though at the same time you look as if you ne'er had worn either.

Y. Book. But my sword, does it hang careless? Do I look bold, negligent, and erect? that is, do I look as if I could kill a man without being out of humour? I horridly mistrust myself. Am I military enough in my air? I fancy people see I understand Greek. Don't I pore a little in my visage? Han't I a down bookish lour, a wise sadness? I don't look gay enough and unthinking, I fancy.

Lat. I protest you wrong yourself. You look very brisk and very ignorant.

Y. Book. O fie! I am afraid you flatter me.

Lat. I don't indeed; I'll be hanged if my tutor would know either of us. But, good master, to what use do you design to put the noble arts and sciences he taught us? The conduct of our lives, the government of our passions, were his daily talk to us, good man!

Y. Book. Good man! Why I'll obey his precepts, but abridge 'em. For as he used to advise me, I'll contract my thoughts, as I'll tell you, Jack:—for the passions, I'll turn 'em all into that one dear passion, love; and when that's the only torture of my heart, I'll give that tortured heart quite away; deny there's any such thing as pain, and turn stoic a shorter way than e'er thy tutor taught thee. This is the new philosophy, you rogue you.

Lat. But you would not in earnest be thought wholly illiterate?

Y. Book. No; for as when I walk, I'd have you know by my motion I can dance; so when I speak, I'd have you see I read: yet would ordinarily neither cut capers nor talk sentences. But you prate as if I came to town to get an employment. No; hang business, hang care; let it live and prosper among the men; I'll ne'er go near the solemn ugly things again. I'll keep company with none but ladies—bright ladies. O London! London! O woman! woman! I am come where thou livest, where thou shinest.

Lat. Hey day! why, were there no women in Oxford?

Y. Book. No, no; why, do you think a bed-maker's a woman?

Lat. Yes, and thought you knew it.

Y. Book. No, no, 'tis no such thing. As he that is not honest or brave is no man; so she that is not witty or fair is no woman. No, no, Jack, to come up to that high name and object of desire, she must be gay and chaste, she must at once attract, and banish you. I don't know how to express myself, but a woman, methinks, is a being between us and angels. She has something in her that at the same time gives awe and invitation; and I swear to you I was never out in't yet, but I always judged of men as I observed they judged of women. There's nothing shows a man so much as the object of his affections.—But what do you stare at so considerately?

Lat. Faith, sir, I am wondering at you—how 'tis possible you could be so jaunty a town-spark in a moment, and have so easy a behaviour. I look, methinks, to you, as if I were really your footman.

Y. Book. Why, if you're serious in what you say, I owe it wholly to the indulgence of an excellent father, in whose company I was always free and unconstrained. But what's this to ladies, Jack, to ladies? I was going to tell you I had studied 'em, and know how to make my approaches to 'em by contemplating their frame, their inmost temper. I don't ground my hopes on the scandalous tales and opinions your wild fellows have of 'em—fellows that are but mere bodies, machines—which at best can but move gracefully. No; I draw my pretences from philosophy—from nature.

Lat. You'll give us by-and-by a lecture over your mistress: you can dissect her.

Y. Book. That I can, indeed, and have so accurately observed on woman, that I can know her mind by her eye as well as her doctor shall her health by her pulse; I can read approbation through a glance of disdain; can see when the soul is divided by a sparkling tear that twinkles and betrays the heart. A sparkling tear's the dress and livery of love—of love made up of hope and fear, of joy and grief.

Lat.[43] But what have the wars to do with all this? Why must you needs commence soldier all of a sudden?

Y. Book. Were't not a taking compliment with my college face and phrase to accost a lady:—"Madam, I bring your ladyship a learned heart, one newly come from the University. If you want definitions, axioms, and arguments, I am an able schoolman. I've read Aristotle twice over, compared his jarring commentators too, examined all the famous peripatetics, know where the Scotists and the Nominals differ:"—this, certainly, must needs enchant a lady.

Lat. This is too much on th' other side.

Y. Book. The name of soldier bids you better welcome. 'Tis valour and feats done in the field a man should be cried up for; nor is't so hard to achieve.

Lat. The fame of it, you mean?

Y. Book. Yes; and that will serve. 'Tis but looking big, bragging with an easy grace, and confidently mustering up an hundred hard names they understand not: Thunder out Villeroy, Catinat, and Boufflers; speak of strange towns and castles, whose barbarous names, the harsher they're to the ear, the rarer and more taking; still running over lines, trenches, outworks, counterscarps, and forts, citadels, mines, countermines, pickeering, pioneers, sentinels, patrols, and others, without sense or order; that matters not, the women are amazed, they admire to hear you rap 'em out so readily; and many a one that went no farther for it, retailing handsomely some warlike terms, passes for a brave fellow. Don't stand gaping, but live and learn, my lad. I can tell thee ten thousand arts to make thee known and valued in these regions of wit and gallantry—the park, the playhouse.

Lat. Now you put me in mind where we are. What have we to do here thus early, now there's no company?

Y. Book. Oh! sir, I have put on so much of the soldier with my red coat, that I came here to observe the ground I am to engage upon. Here must I act, I know, some lover's part, and therefore came to view this pleasant walk. I privately rambled to town last November. Here, ay here, I stood and gazed at high Mall, till I forgot it was winter, so many pretty shes marched by me. Oh! to see the dear things trip, trip along, and breathe so short, nipt with the season! I saw the very air not without force leave their dear lips. Oh! they were intolerably handsome.

Lat. You'll see, perhaps, such to-day; but how to come at 'em?

Y. Book. Ay, there's it, how to come at 'em.

Lat.[44] Are you generous?

Y. Book. I think I am no niggard.

Lat. You must entertain them high, and bribe all about them. They talk of Ovid and his Art of Loving; be liberal, and you outdo his precepts. The art of love, sir, is the art of giving. Be free to women, they'll be free to you. Not every open-handed fellow hits it neither. Some give by lapfulls, and yet ne'er oblige. The manner, you know, of doing a thing is more than the thing itself. Some drop a jewel, which had been refused if bluntly offered.

Y. Book. Some lose at play what they design a present.

Lat. Right; the skill is to be generous, and seem not to know it of yourself, 'tis done with so much ease; but a liberal blockhead presents his mistress as he'd give an alms.

Y. Book. Leaving such blockheads to their deserved ill-fortune, tell me if thou know'st these ladies?

Lat. No, not I, sir; they are above an academic converse many degrees. I've seen ten thousand verses writ in the University on wenches not fit to be either of their handmaids. I never spoke to such a fine thing as either in my whole life—I'm downright asleep o' sudden. I must fall back, and glad it is my place to do so; yet I can get you intelligence perhaps. I'll to the footman.

Y. Book. Do you think he'll tell?

Lat. He would not to you, perhaps, but to a brother footman. Do but listen at the entrance of the Mall at noon, and you'll have all the ladies' characters in town among their lackeys. You know all fame begins from our domestics.

Y. Book. That was a wise man's observation. Follow him, and know what you can. [Exit Latine.

Enter Penelope, Victoria, Simon, and Lettice.

Pen. A walk round would be too much for us; we'll keep the Mall.—But to our talk: I must confess I have terrors when I think of marrying Lovemore. He is, indeed, a man of an honest character. He has my good opinion, but love does not always follow that. He is so wise a fellow, always so precisely in the right, so observing and so jealous; he's blameless indeed, but not to be commended. What good he has, has no grace in it; he's one of those who's never highly moved, except to anger. Give me a man that has agreeable faults rather than offensive virtues.

Vict. Offensive virtues, madam?

Pen. Yes, I don't know how—there's a sort of virtue, or prudence, or what you'll call it, that we can but just approve. That does not win us. Lovemore wants that fire, that conversation-spirit I would have. They say he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that. I'm sure he's no woman's scholar; his wisdom he should turn into wit, and his learning into poetry or humour.

Vict. Well, I'm not so much of your mind; I like a sober passion.

Pen. A sober passion! you took me up just now when I said an offensive virtue.—Bless me! [Stumbling almost to a fall.

Y. Book.[45] [Catching her.] How much am I indebted to an accident, that favours me with an occasion of this small service! for 'tis to me an happiness beyond expression thus to kiss your hand.

Pen. The occasion, methinks, is not so obliging, nor the happiness you mention worth that name, sir.

Y. Book. 'Tis true, madam, I owe it all to fortune; neither your kindness nor my industry had any share in't. Thus am I still as wretched as I was, for this happiness I so much prize had doubtless been refused my want of merit.

Pen. It has very soon, you see, lost what you valued in it; but I find you and I, sir, have a different sense; for, in my opinion, we enjoy with most pleasure what we attain with least merit. Merit is a claim, and may pretend justly to favour; when without it what's conferred is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing.

Y. Book. You talk very well, madam, of an happiness you can't possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying without desert. But indeed you have done me a very singular good office, in letting me know myself very much qualified for felicity.

Vict. I swear he's a very pretty fellow, and how readily the thing talks! I begin to pity Lovemore, but I begin to hate Penelope. How he looks! he looks at her!

Y. Book.[46] But judge, madam, what the condition of a passionate man must be, that can approach the hand only of her he dies for, when her heart is inaccessible.

Pen. 'Tis very well the heart lies not so easily to be seized as the hand—I find——Pray, sir—I don't know what there is in this very odd fellow: I'm not angry, though he's downright rude—but I must——

Y. Book. But your heart, madam, your heart—[Pressingly.

Pen. You seemed, sir, I must confess, to have shown a ready civility when I'd like to fall just now, for which I could not but thank you, and permit you to say what you pleased on that occasion—"But your heart, madam!" 'tis a sure sign, sir, you know not me; or, if you are what indeed you seem—a gentleman—sure you forget yourself, or rather you talk, by memory, a form or cant which you mistake for something that's gallant.

Y. Book. Madam, I very humbly beg your pardon, if I pressed too far and too abruptly. I forgot, indeed, that I broke through decencies, and that though you have been long a familiar to me, I am a stranger to you.

Pen. Pray, familiar stranger, what can you mean? I never saw you before this instant, nor you me, I believe.

Y. Book.[47] Perhaps not, that you know of, madam, for your humility, it seems, makes you so little sensible of your own perfection, that you overlook your conquest; nor have you e'er observed me, though I hover day and night about your lodging, haunt you from place to place, at balls, in the park, at church. I gave you all the serenades you've had, yet never till this minute could I find you, and this minute an unfortunate one—But this is always my luck when I'm out of the field.

Vict. You've travelled then, and seen the wars, sir?

Y. Book. I—madam—I—all that I know of the matter is, that Louis the Fourteenth mortally hates me. They talk of French gold—what heaps have I refused! Yet to be generous even to an enemy, I must allow that Prince has reason for his rancour to me. There has not been a skirmish, siege, or battle since I bore arms, I made not one in; no, nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but I had my share, though perhaps not all my share of the glory. You've seen my name, though you don't know it, often in the Gazette.

Pen. I never read news.

Enter Latine.

Lat. What tale's he telling now, tro'?

Y. Book. You've never heard, I suppose, of such names as Ruremonde, Kaiserswerth, and Liege? nor read of an English gentleman left dead by his precipitancy upon a parapet at Venloo? I was thought so indeed, when the first account came away. Every man has his failings; rashness is my fault.

Lat. Don't you remember a certain place called Oxford among your towns, sir?

Y. Book. Pshaw, away—Oh! oh!—I beg your pardon, ladies, this fellow knows I was shot in my left arm, and cannot bear the least touch, yet will still be rushing on me.

Lat. He has a lie, I think, in every joint. [Aside.

Pen. Do you bear any commission, sir?

Y. Book. There's an intimate of mine, a general officer, who has often said, Tom, if thou would'st but stick to any one application, thou might'st be anything. 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive. I began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince Eugene, but was forced to fly into Holland for a duel with that rough Captain of the Hussars, Paul Diack. They talk of a regiment for me, but those things—besides, it will oblige me to attend it, and then I can't follow honour where'er she's busiest, but must be confined to one nation; when indeed 'tis rather my way of serving with such of our allies as most want me.

Pen. But I see you soldiers never enjoy such a thing as rest: You but come home in winter to turn your valour on the ladies—'tis but just a change of your warfare.

Y. Book. I had immediately returned to Holland, but your beauties at my arrival here disarmed me, madam, made me a man of peace, or raised a civil war within me rather. You took me prisoner at first sight, and to your charms I yielded up an heart, till then unconquered. Martial delights (once best and dearest to me) vanished before you in a moment, and all my thoughts grew bent to please and serve you.

Lett. Lovemore's in the walk, madam; he'll be in a fit.

Y. Book. Rob me o' the sudden thus of all my happiness! Yet ere you quite forsake me, authorise my passion, license my innocent flames, and give me leave to love such charming sweetness.

Pen. He that will love, and knows what 'tis to love, will ask no leave of any but himself. [Exeunt Ladies, etc.

Y. Book. Follow 'em, Jack.

Lat. I know as much of 'em already as needs: the footman was in his talking vein. The handsomer of the two, says he, I serve, and she lives in the Garden.

Y Book. What Garden?

Lat. Covent Garden; the other lies there too. I did not stay to ask her name, but I shall meet him again; I took particular notice of the livery.

Y. Book. Ne'er trouble thyself to know which is which, my heart and my good genius tell me, 'tis she, that pretty she I talked to.

Lat. If, with respect to your worship's opinion, I might presume to be of a contrary one, I should think the other the handsomer now.

Y. Book. What, the dumb thing,[48] the picture?—No, love is the union of minds, and she that engages mine must be very well able to express her own. But I suppose some scolding landlady has made you thus enamoured with silence. But here are two of the dearest of my old comrades—they seem amazed at something by their action.

Enter Lovemore and Frederick.

Fred.[49] How! a collation on the water, and music too?

Love. Yes, music and a collation.

Fred. Last night?

Love. Last night too.

Fred. An handsome treat?

Love. A very noble one.

Fred, Who gave it?

Love. That I'm yet to learn.

Y. Book. How happy am I to meet you here!

Love. When I embrace you thus, no happiness can equal mine. [Saluting.

Y. Book. I thrust myself intrudingly upon you; but you'll pardon a man o'erjoyed to see you.

Love. Where you're always welcome you never can intrude.

Y. Book. What were you talking of?

Love. Of an entertainment.

Y. Book. Given by some lover?

Love. As we suppose.

Y. Book. That circumstance deserves my curiosity; pray go on, and let me share the story.

Love. Some ladies had the fiddles last night.

Y. Book. Upon the water, too, methought you said?

Love. Yes, 'twas upon the water.

Y. Book. Water often feeds the flame.

Love. Sometimes.

Y. Book. And by night too?

Love. Yes, last night.

Y. Book. He chose his time well—The lady is handsome?

Love. In most men's eyes she is.

Y. Book. And the music?

Love. Good, as we hear.

Y. Book. Some banquet followed?

Love. A sumptuous one, they say.

Y. Book. And neither of you all this while know who gave this treat? ha! ha!

Love. D'ye laugh at it?

Y. Book. How can I choose, to see you thus admire a slight divertisement I gave myself?

Love. You?

Y. Book. Even I!

Love. Why, have you got a mistress here already?

Y. Book. I should be sorry else. I've been in town this month or more, though for some reasons I appear but little yet by day. I' the dark o' the evening I peep out, and incognito make some visits. Thus had I spent my time but ill, were not—

Lat. [To Y. Book.] Do you know what you say, sir? Don't lay it on so thick.

Y. Book. [To Lat.] Nay, you must be sure to take care to be in the way as soon as they land, to shew upstairs—I beg pardon, I was giving my fellow some directions about receiving some women of quality that sup with me to-night incog——but you're my dearest friends, and shall hear all.

Fred. [To Love.] How luckily your rival discovers himself!

Y. Book. I took five barges, and the fairest kept for my company; the other four I filled with music of all sorts, and of all sorts the best; in the first were fiddles, in the next theorbo, lutes, and voices.
Flutes and such pastoral instruments i' th' third.
Loud music from the fourth did pierce the air.
Each concert vied by turns,
Which with most melody should charm our ears.
The fifth, the largest of 'em all, was neatly hung,
Not with dull tapestry, but with green boughs,
Curiously interlaced to let in air,
And every branch with jessamines, and orange posies decked;
In this the feast was kept.
Hither, with five other ladies, I led her whose beauty alone governs my destiny. Supper was served up straight; I will not trouble you with our bill of fare, what dishes were best liked, what sauces most recommended; 'tis enough I tell you this delicious feast was of six courses, twelve dishes to a course.

Lat. That's indeed enough of all conscience. [Aside.

Love. Oh, the torture of jealousy! [Aside]—But, sir, how seemed the lady to receive this entertainment? We must know that.

Y. Book. Oh! that was the height on't. She, I warrant you, was quite negligent of all this matter. You know their way, they must not seem to like—no, I warrant it would not so much as smile to make the fellow vain, and believe he had power to move delight in her—ha, ha!

Love. But how then?

Y. Book. Why you must know my humour grew poetic. I pulled off my sword-knot, and with that bound up a coronet of ivy, laurel, and flowers; with that round my temples, and a plate of richest fruits in my hand, on one knee I presented her with it as a cornucopia, an offering from her humble swain of all his harvest—to her the Ceres of our genial feast and rural mirth. She smiled; the ladies clapped their hands, and all our music struck sympathetic rapture at my happiness; while gentle winds, the river, air, and shore echoed the harmony in notes more soft than they received it. Methought all nature seemed to die for love like me. To all my heart and every pulse beat time. Oh, the pleasures of successful love! ha, Lovemore! ha! What, hast thou got a good office lately? you're afraid I should make some request. Prithee ben't so shy, I have nothing to ask but of my mistress—What's the matter?

Love. I only attend, sir, I only attend—

Y. Book. Then I'll go on. As soon[50] as we had supped, the fireworks played. Squibs of all sorts were darted through the skies, whose spreading fires made a new day. A flaming deluge seemed to fall from Heaven, and with such violence attacked the waves, you would have thought the fiery element had left his sphere, to ruin his moist enemy. Their contest done, we landed, danced till day, which hasty Sol disturbed us with too soon. Had he taken our advice, or feared my anger, he might in Thetis's lap have slept as long as at Alcmena's labour he's reported. But steering not as we would have prescribed, he put a period to our envied mirth.

Love. Trust me, you tell us wonders, and with a grace as rare as the feast itself, which all our summer's mirth can't equal.

Y. Book. My mistress took me o' the sudden; I had not a day's warning.

Love. The treat was costly though, and finely ordered.

Y. Book. I was forced to take up with this trifle. He that wants time can't do as he would.

Love. Farewell, we shall meet again at more leisure.

Y. Book. Number me among your creatures.

Love. Oh jealousy! Thou rack, jealousy!

Fred. [To Love.] What reason have you to feel it? the circumstances of the feast nothing agree.

Love. [To Fred.] In time and place they do; the rest is nothing. [Exeunt Fred. and Love.

Lat.[51] May I speak now, sir, without offence?

Y. Book. 'Tis in your choice now to speak or not, but before company you'll spoil all.

Lat. Do you walk abroad and talk in your sleep? or do you use to tell your dreams for current truth?

Y. Book. Dull brain!

Lat. Why, you beat out mine with your battles, your fireworks, your music, and your feasts. You've found an excellent way to go to the wars, and yet keep out of danger. Then you feast your mistresses at the cheapest rate that ever I knew! Why d'ye make 'em believe you ha' been here these six weeks?

Y. Book. My passion has the more growth, and I the better ground to make love.

Lat. You'd make one believe fine things, that would but hearken to you; but this lady might soon have found you out.

Y. Book. Some acquaintance I have got, however; this is making love, scholar, and at the best rate too.

Lat. To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet; your great supper lies on my stomach still. I defy Pontack[52] to have prepared a better o' the sudden. Your enchanted castles, where strangers found strange tables strangely furnished with strange cates, were but sixpenny ordinaries to the fifth barge; you were an excellent man to write romances, for having feasts and battles at command, your Quixote in a trice would over-run the world; revelling and skirmishing cost you nothing; then you vary your scene with so much ease, and shift from court to camp with such facility—

Y. Book. I love thus to outvie a newsmonger; and as soon as I perceive a fellow thinks his story will surprise, I choke him with a stranger, and stop his mouth with an extempore wonder. Did'st thou but know what a pleasure 'tis to cram their own news down their throats again!

Lat. 'Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport, and may involve us in a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, consider that I am of quality to be kicked or caned by this l——

Y. Book. Hush, hush, call it not lying; as for my waging war, it is but just I snatch and steal from fortune that fame which she denies me opportunity to deserve. My father has cramped me in a college, while all the world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my mistress, 'tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call it not then by that coarse name, a lie. 'Tis wit, 'tis fable, allegory, fiction, hyperbole—or be it what you call it, the world's made up almost of nothing else. What are all the grave faces you meet in public? mere silent lies, dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain empty silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I am resolved honestly to love, I don't care how artfully I obtain the woman I pitch upon; besides, did you ever know any of them acknowledge they loved as soon as they loved? No, they'll let a man dwell upon his knees—whom they languish to receive into their arms. They're no fair enemy. Therefore 'tis but just that—

We use all arts the fair to undermine,
And learn with gallantry to hide design. [Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.—Penelope's Lodgings, Covent Garden.

Enter Old Bookwit, Penelope, and Lettice.

Old Book. Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning; nay, to talk to you of marriage.

Pen. To talk to me of marriage, sir?

O. Book. Yes, madam, in behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit.

Pen. Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. [Aside.

O. Book.[53] I sent for him from Oxford with that design. He came to town but yesterday; and, if a father can judge, he brings from a college the mien and air of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you.

Pen. 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that.

O. Book. If I can remember my style to my mistress of old, I'll ease Tom's way, and raise her expectation of my son. [Aside.]—Madam, had I my hat, my feather, pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her just such a young thing as you; her complexion was charming, but not indeed with all your sweetness.

Pen. Oh! sir!

O. Book. Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows; her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant chiding. But 'twas the work of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and——But her charms had not all that emanation which yours have.

Pen. O fie! fie!

O. Book. Not those thousand thousand graces, that soft army of loves and zephyrs, millions of airy beings that attend around you, and appear only to the second sight of lovers.

Pen. O fie! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for your son to say.

O. Book. I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are now certainly daughters of the women before 'em: Flattery still does it. [Aside.]—Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I own I think him of much merit.

Pen. He would derogate from his birth were he not much a gentleman. But to receive a man in the character of a pretender at first sight——

O. Book. I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretences but yourself; but when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be condescension. You shall not answer—Farewell, daughter; we are but too apt to believe what we wish. [Exit Old Book.

Pen. 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to propose his son.

Lett. I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But, madam, you han't heard the song that was made on you. Oh! 'tis mighty pretty! The gentleman is dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses.

Pen, Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have made. They may talk, and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in love, and write verses: nay, and pretty good ones, considering they can tag 'em to settlements. But let's see.

[Reading.] "To Celia's Spinet.

"Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey,
Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay."

Poor man!

"To shun my moan to thee she'll fly;
To her touch be sure reply,
And, if she removes it, die."

The device is just and truly poetical.

"Know thy bliss—"

Ay, ay, there I come in.

"Know thy bliss, with rapture shake,
Tremble o'er all thy numerous make;
Speak in melting sounds my tears,
Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears—"

Which all depend upon me.

"Thus force her, when from me she'd fly,
By her own hand, like me, to die."

Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of woman so much as poetry. I suppose the master is in the next room. 'Tis his hour; desire him to walk in. 'Twill make one's ears tingle, a song on one's self!

[Here the song is performed to a spinet.

Well, dost think, Lettice, my grave lover writ this fine thing—say'st thou?

Lett. No, madam, nobody writes songs on those they are sure of.

Pen. Sure of me! the insolent!

Lett. Nay, I know no more but that he said he'd turn me away as soon as he had married you.

Pen. 'Tis like enough; that's the common practice of your jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind to dress myself anew, put on my best looks, and send for him to dismiss him. I know he loves me.

Lett. I never knew him show it but by his jealousy.

Pen. As you say, a jealous fellow love! 'tis all mistake—'tis only for himself he has desires; nor cares what the object of his wishes suffers so he himself has satisfaction.—No, he has a gluttony, an hunger for me.

Lett. An hunger for you! I protest, madam, if you'd let me be his cook, and make you ready, I'd poison him. But I'm glad Simon disobeyed you, and told the gentleman's servant who you were, and your lodging.

Pen. Did the rogue do so? Call him hither.

Lett. Simon, why Simon!

Enter Simon.

Pen. Sirrah, I find I must at last turn you off, you saucy fellow. Don't stand staring and dodging with your feet, and wearing out your livery hat with squeezing for an excuse, but answer me, and that presently.

Sim. I will, madam, as soon as you ask me a question.

Pen. Not afore then—Mr. Pert, don't you know, you told the gentleman's footman in the park who I was, against my constant order, when I walk early. Come, sirrah, tell all that passed between you.

Sim. Why, madam, the gentleman's gentleman came up to me very civilly, and said his master was in discourse with my lady, he supposed; then he fell into talk about vails[54]—about profits in a service; at last, after a deal of civil discourse between us——

Pen. Come, without this preamble, what he asked you, impertinence; tell that, do.

Sim. He asked about you, and Madam Victoria. I said the handsomest of the two is my lady.

Pen. Speak on boldly, Simon; I'm never angry at a servant that speaks truth.

Sim. He told me he should be very proud of my acquaintance. Indeed, madam, the man was very well spoken, and showed a great deal of respect for me, on your ladyship's account. He is a mighty well spoken man, and said he found I was a smart gentleman; said he'd come again.

Pen. Go, you have done your business. Go down. [Exit.

Lett. Well, after all, madam, I did not think that gentleman displeased you.

Pen.[55] Had but young Bookwit his mien and conversation, how easily would he exclude Lovemore!

Enter Servant.

Ser. Mr. Lovemore is coming up, madam.

Pen. He has not heard, sure, of this new proposal!

Lett. 'Tis possible he may, and come to rant or upbraid your ladyship. I wonder you endure him on these occasions.

Pen. I'll rack his very heart-strings. He shall know all that man e'er suffered for his native mistress, woman.

Lett. His father, madam, has been so long coming out of Suffolk—-There are strange tricks in the world, but 'tis not my place to speak.

Pen. However, his father, may come at last. I will not wholly lose him; as bad as he is, he's better than no husband at all. Stay in the room; I'll talk to you as if he were not present.

Enter Lovemore.

Love.[56] Ah! Penelope! inconstant, fickle Penelope!

Pen. But, Lettice, you don't tell me what the gentleman said. Now there's nobody here, you may speak.

Love. Now there's nobody here? Then I am a thing, a utensil! I am nobody, I have no essence that I am sensible of! I think 'twill be so soon!—This ingrate—this perjured!

Pen. Tell me, I say, how the match happened to break off?

Love. This is downright abuse! What! don't you see me, madam?

Lett. He had the folly, upon her being commonly civil to him, to talk of directing her affairs before his time. In the first place, he thought it but necessary her maid, her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty, should be removed.

Love. Her faithful servant, Mrs. Betty? Her betrayer, her whisperer, Mrs. Lettice! Madam, would you but hear me? I will be heard!

Pen. Prithee step, Lettice, and see what noise is that without.

Love. The noise is here, madam; 'tis I that make what you call noise. 'Tis I that claim aloud my right and speak to all the world the wrongs I suffer.

Pen. Cooling herbs, well steeped—a good anodyne at night, made of the juice of hellebore, with very thin diet, may be of use in these cases. [Both looking at him as disturbed.

Love. Cases! what cases? I shall downright run mad with this damned usage! Am I a jest?

Lett. A jest? No, faith, this is far from a merry madness. Ha! ha! ha!

Love. Harkee, Lettice, I'll downright box you. Hold your tongue, gipsy.

Lett. Dear madam, save me! Go you to him.

Pen. Let him take you.—Bless me, how he stares! Take her.

Lett. Pen. Take her. [Running round each other.

Love. Very fine!—No, madam, your gallant, your spark last night; your fine dancer, entertainer, shall take you. He that was your swain; and you, I warrant, a fantastic nymph of the flood or forest. Ha! ha! ha! To be out all night with a young fellow! Oh! that makes you change your countenance, does it so? Fine lady—you wonder how I came to know. Why, choose a discreeter the next time—he told me all himself. Swoon—die for shame at hearing of these words—do!

Pen. I am, indeed, downright ashamed for him that speaks 'em. Whence this insolence, if not from utter distraction, under this roof?

Love. Oh, the ingrate! Have not I, madam, two long years, two ages, with humblest resignation, depended on your smile? and shall I suffer one of yesterday's to treat you, to dance all night with you?

Pen.[57] Speak softly; my father's coming down.

Love. Thy father's coming down! Faithless! Thou hast no father—But to cross me by night upon the water!

Pen. Well, by night upon the water; what then?

Love. Yes, all night.

Pen. What of that?

Love. Without blushing when you hear of 't!

Pen. Blush for what? What do you drive at?

Love. Can you, then, coolly ask what 'tis I mean, thou reveller, thou rambler? A fine young lady, with your midnight frolics! But what do I pretend to? I know not how with bended knees to call you Ceres; make you an offering of summer fruits, and deify your vanity! Thou art no goddess; thou'rt a very woman, with all the guile! Your barges! your treats! your fireworks!

Pen. What means the insolent? You grow insufferable!

Love. Oh, Penelope! that look, that disdainful look has pierced my soul, and ebbed my rage to penitence and sorrow. I own my fault; I'm too rash——

Pen. The imaginary enemies you raise are but mere forms of your sickly brain: so I think, and scorn 'em. A diffident, a humorous, and ungenerous man, who, without grounds, calls me inconstant, shall surely find me so. She will be very happy that takes a constant man with twenty thousand humours.

Love. Is it a fault my life's bound up in thee,
That all my powers change with thy looks,
That my eyes gloat on thee when thou'rt present,
And ache and roll for light when thou'rt absent?

Pen. A little ill-usage, I see, improves a lover. I never heard him speak so well in my life before. [Aside.

Love. Of you I am not jealous:
'Tis my own indesert[58] that gives me fears,
And tenderness forms dangers where they're not;
I doubt and envy all things that approach thee:
Not a fond mother of a long-wished-for only child beholds with such kind terrors her infant offspring, as I do her I love. She thinks its food, if she's not by, unwholesome; and all the ambient air made up of fevers and of quartan agues, except she shrouds it in her arms. Such is my unpitied, anxious care for you; and can I see another——

Pen. What other?

Love. Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting, there's all that I suspect in it. Another? Young Bookwit is another——

Pen. I never saw his face. Young Bookwit?

Love. What! not though he solicited a glance, with symphonies of charming note, with sumptuous dishes? Not when the flying meteors from the earth made a new day? Not see him? Oh, that was hard; that was unkind! Not one look for all this gallantry?—But love is blind. You can be all night with the son, all day with the father, and never see either. His father was here this morning.—Seek not to excuse: I find your arts, and see their aim too. Go, go, take your Bookwit; forget your lover, as he now must you. [Going.

Pen. Hear but three words.

Love. What shall they be?

Pen. Prithee hear me.

Love. No, no, your father's coming down.

Pen. He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's time and privacy enough to disabuse you.

Love. I'll hear nothing unless you will be married; unless you give me, as a present earnest of yourself, three kisses, and your word for ever.

Pen. To give way to my satisfaction, then, and be friends again, you would, Mr. Lovemore, have three kisses——

Love. Three kisses, your faith and hand.

Pen. Nothing else? Will you be so contented?

Love. I'll expect higher terms if you accept not these—Quickly, then.

Pen. Well, then—no, my father's coming. Ha! ha! ha!

Love. Laugh at my sufferings! slight my anger!
Is this your base requital of my love?—
Revenge, revenge! I'll print on thy favourite in his heart's blood my revenge. Our swords—our swords shall dispute our pretences, rather than he enjoy what my long services entitle me to, which is to do myself right for what he intends an injury; though perhaps what we shall dispute for is better lost.

Pert. Mr. Lovemore, you have taken very great liberties. You say I have injured you in my regard to another. Is your opinion, then, of what you say you will dispute for, such as you just now said—better lost?

Love. Look you, madam—so—therefore—as to that—this is such—for that it—You don't consider what you said to me.

Pen. Ha! ha! ha!

Love. You shall by all that's—you shall repent this. [Flings out.

Pen. This is all we have for 't, a little dominion beforehand. These are the creatures that are born to rule us; who creep, who flatter, and servilely beseech our favour; which obtained, they grow sullen, proud, and insolent; pry into the gift, the manner of bestowing, with all the little arts the ungrateful use to hide, or kill their sense and conscience of a benefit.

Lett. Ay, ay, madam, 'tis so. I had a sweetheart once, a lady's butler, to whom I gave a lock of my hair, and the villain, when we quarrelled, told me half of them were grey.

Pen. Ha! ha! ha! the ingrate—the faithless, as Lovemore says.

Lett. And yet, madam, the rogue stole a letter out of a book to ask me for it, as my next suitor found out.

Pen. However, I am sure 'tis in my fate to be subject to one of them very suddenly.

Lett. Ah! madam! the gentleman this morning——

Pen. The fellow's very well, and I am mightily mistaken if my cousin Victoria did not think so.

Lett. And so do you heartily. [Aside.

Pen. Yet I wish I had seen this young Bookwit before Lovemore came to-day.

Lett.[59] I'll tell you how, madam. Victoria has ne'er a lover, and is your entire friend. Now, madam, suppose you got her to write a letter to this young gentleman in her own name. You meet him under that name incognito; then, if an accident should happen, both you and she will be safe, and puzzle the truth: you never writ to him, she never met him.

Pen. A lucky thought—step to her immediately. I'll come to her, or she to me.

Lett. I fly, I fly. [Exit.

Pen. This is, indeed, a lucky hint of the wench, in which I have another drift, too. Now shall I sift my friend Victoria, and perfectly understand whether she likes that agreeable young fellow; for if her reserved humour easily falls in with this design on Bookwit, she's certainly smitten with the other, and suspects me to be so too—What is this dear, this sudden intruder, love, that Victoria's long and faithful friendship, Lovemore's anxious and constant passion, both vanish before it in a moment? Why are our hearts so accessible at our eyes?—My dear——

Enter Victoria and Lettice.

Vict. Dear Pen, I ran to you. Well, what is it?

Pen. Set chairs, and the bohea tea, and leave us. [Exit Lett.] Dear Victoria, you have always been my most intimate bosom friend; your wary carriage and circumspection have often been a safety against errors to me—I must confess it. [Filling her tea.

Vict. But, my dear, why this preface to me? To the matter—

Pen. You know all that has passed between me and Mr. Lovemore.

Vict. I have always approved him, and do now more than ever; for 'tis not a mien and air that makes that worthy creature, a kind husband; but——

Pen. True, but here was old Bookwit this morning, with my father's authority to talk to me of the subject of love.

Vict. Nay, madam, if so, and you can resolve to obey your father—I contend not for Lovemore; for though the young men of this age are so very vicious, so expensive, both of their health and fortune——

Pen. How zealous she is to put me out of her way! False creature! [Aside.]—But, my dear friend, you don't take me; your friendship outruns my explanation. 'Twas for his son at Oxford he came to me: He is to walk with him before the door that I may view him, by-and-by.

Vict. Nay, as one must obey their parents wholly, I think a raw young man that never saw the town is better than an old one that has run through all its vices. I congratulate your good fortune. There's a great estate; and he knows nothing—just come to town. The furniture and the horse-cloths will be all your own device for the wedding, and the horses when and where you please. He knows no better.

Pen. But one shall be so long teaching a raw creature a manner.

Vict. Never let him have one; 'twill make him like himself, and think of making advances elsewhere: You'd better have him a booby.—How could I think of the old fellow for you! Look you, Pen, old age has its infirmities, and 'tis a sad prospect for an honest young woman to be sure of being a nurse, and never of being a mother.

Pen. Oh, that I had but your prudence! But, my dear, I have a request to make to you, and that is that you would write him an assignation this evening in the Park. I'll obey the appointment, and converse with him under that disguise; for the old people will clap up a match before I know anything of the real man. And if one don't know one's husband, how can one manage him—that is to say, obey him?

Vict. Oh! pray, my dear, do you think I don't understand you? Oh! and there's another thing—a scholar makes the best husband in the world.

Pen. Because they are the most knowing?

Vict. No, because they are the least knowing.—But I'll go immediately and obey your commands. I wish you heartily well, my dear, in this matter. [Kissing her.

Pen. I thank you, dearest; I don't doubt it indeed.

Vict. Where are you going now, my dear? O fie! this is not like a friend—Do I use you so, dear madam?

Pen. Nay, indeed, madam, I must wait on you.

Vict. Indeed you shan't—indeed you shan't. [Pen. follows Vict.

Pen. Well, madam, will you promise, then, to be as free with me?—Thus does she hope to work me out of my lover, by being made my confident—but that baseness has been too fashionable to pass any more. I have not trusted her, the cunning creature. I begin to hate her so—I'll never be a minute from her. [Exit.

SCENE II.—Covent Garden.

Enter Old Bookwit, Young Bookwit, and Latine.

O. Book. Well, Tom, where have you sauntered about since I saw you? Is not the town mightily increased since you were in it?

Y. Book. Ay, indeed, I need not have been so impatient to have left Oxford. Had I stayed a year longer, they had builded to me.

O. Book. But I don't observe you affected much with the alterations. Where have you been?

Y. Book. No, faith, the New Exchange[60] has taken up all my curiosity.

O. Book. Oh! but, son, you must not go to places to stare at women! Did you buy anything?

Y. Book. Some baubles. But my choice was so distracted among the pretty merchants and their dealers, I knew not where to run first. One little, lisping rogue—"Ribbandths, gloveths, tippeths"—"Sir," cries another, "will you buy a fine sword-knot?" Then a third pretty voice and curtsey—"Does not your lady want hoods, scarfs, fine green silk stockings?"[61] I went by as if I had been in a seraglio, a living gallery of beauties, staring from side to side—I bowing, they laughing—so made my escape, and brought your son and heir safe to you, through all these darts and glances, to which indeed my breast is not impregnable. But I wonder whence I had this amorous inclination?

O. Book. Whoever you had it from, sirrah, 'tis your business to correct it, by fixing it upon a proper object—But, Tom, you know I am always glad to hear you talk with the gaiety before me that you do elsewhere. But I have now something of consequence (that sudden, serious look was so like me). [Aside.]—What I am going to say now, I tell you is extraordinary.

Y. Book. I could not indeed help some seeming extravagancies I have been forced to. But——

O. Book. I do not grudge you your expenses, I was not going to speak on it. For I decay, and so do my desires, while yours grow still upon you. Therefore, what may be spared from mine, I heartily give you to supply yours; 'tis but the just order of things. I scorn to hoard what I only now can gaze at, while your youth and person want those entertainments you may become and taste. All your just pleasures are mine also; in you my youth and gayer years methinks I feel repeated.

Y. Book Then what can give you, sir, uneasiness?

O. Book. Your affectation of a soldier's dress; makes me think you bent upon a dangerous though noble course; that you'll expose a life, that's dearer to your father than yourself, to daily hazards. I, therefore, have resolved to settle thee,[62] and chosen a young lady, witty, prudent, rich, and fair——

Y. Book. Oh, Victoria! [Aside.]—You cannot move too slowly in such a business.

O. Book. Nay, 'tis no sudden thing. Her father and I have been old acquaintance, and I was so confident of her worth, and your compliance, that I can't with honour disengage myself.

Y. Book. How, sir! when honour calls me to the field, where I may perpetuate your name by some brave exploit——

O. Book. You may do it much better, Tom, at home, by a brave boy. Come, come, it must be so——

Y. Book. What shall I do for some invention? [Aside.

O. Book. Let it be so, dear Tom; it must be so.

Y. Book. What if it be impossible?

O. Book. Impossible! as how?

Y. Book. Upon my knees I beg your pardon, sir; I am——

O. Book. What?

Y. Book. At Oxford——

O. Book. What art thou at Oxford? Rise and tell me.

Y. Book. Why I am married there, since you needs must know.

O. Book. Married, without my consent!

Y. Book. There was a force upon me; you'll easily get all annulled if you desire it. It was the crossest, most unhappy accident. Yet, indeed, she is an excellent creature!

Lat. How could he conceal this all this while from me? But I remember he used to be out of the college whole nights, we knew not where. [Aside.

Penelope and Victoria at the window.

Pen. [Aside.] The very man we met this morning; and I employ my rival to write to him! How confidently she stares at the fellow, and observes his action!

Vict. Betty, do you see with what intent and with what fire in her eyes Penelope gazes yonder? But take you that letter and give it when the old gentleman's gone. Goodness! how concerned she seems! Well, some women!——[Exeunt Ladies from above.

O. Book. Let that pass, since the business is irrevocable. What is her name?

Y. Book. Matilda, and her father's, Newtown.

O. Book. They're names I never heard before; but go on.

Y. Book. This lady, sir, I saw in a public assembly; at the first sight she made me hers for ever. From that instant I languished, nor had vital heat out of her presence. The sun to me shed influence in vain; he rose and set both unobserved, nor was to any living this human life so much a dream as me. All this she observed, but not untouched observed. She shewed a noble gratitude to a noble passion; favours I soon received, but severely modest ones.

Lat. Oh! that's pre-supposed; you, to be sure, would ne'er desire any other. [Aside.

Y. Book. We had contrived to meet o'nights,
The sweetest hours of love; and there was I
One evening in her lodging—'Twas, as I remember,
Yes, 'twas on the second of December;
That's the very night I was caught——

Lat. 'Tis strange, a fellow of his wit to be trepanned into a marriage——[Aside.

Y. Book. Her father supped abroad that night, which made us think ourselves secure. But coming home by accident sooner than we expected, we heard him at the door. How did that noise surprise us! She hid me behind the bed, then lets him in.

O. Book. I tremble for the poor young lady.—Pray go on. How did she recover herself?

Y. Book. She fell into the prettiest artful little tales to divert him and hide her discomposure—which he interrupted by telling her she must be married suddenly to one proposed to him that evening. This was to me daggers.

O. Book. But she!——

Y. Book. She, by general answers, in that case managed it so well that he was going down, when instantly my watch in my pocket struck ten. He turns him short on his amazed daughter, asked where she had it. She cried her cousin Martha sent it out of the country to be mended for her. He said he would take care on't. She comes to me, but as I was giving it her the string was so entangled in the cock of a pistol I always had about me on those occasions, that my haste to disengage it fired it off. My mistress swoons away. The father ran out, crying out murder. I thought her dead, feared his return, which he soon did with two boisterous rogues, his sons, and his whole family of servants. I would have made my escape, but they opposed me with drawn swords. I wounded both; but a lusty wench, with a fireshovel, at one blow struck down my sword, and broke it all to pieces.

O. Book. But still, the poor young lady!——

Y. Book. Here was I seized. Meantime, Matilda wakes from her trance, beholding me held like a ruffian, both her brothers bleeding. She was returning to it. What should I do? I saw the hoary father in the divided sorrow, for his sons' lives and daughter's honour, of both which he thought me the invader. She, with pitying, dying and reproaching looks, beseeched me, and taught me what I owed her constant love. I yielded, sir, I own I yielded to the just terror of their family resentment, and to my mistress's more dreadful upbraiding. Thus am I, sir, the martyr of an honest passion——

O. Book. That I most blame is, that you concealed it from your best friend. I'll instantly to Penelope's father, and make my apology. He is my friend. [Exit.

Lat. This marriage strangely surprised me.

Y. Book. Why, did you believe it, too, as well as the old gentleman? Why, then, I did it excellently. Ha! ha! ha!

Lat. What,[63] the watch! The pistol! Lady swooning! Her pitying, upbraiding look! All chimera?

Y. Book. Nothing but downright wit, to keep myself safe for Victoria.

Lat. May I desire one favour?

Y. Book. What can I deny thee, my privado?

Lat. Only that you'd give me some little secret hint when next you l——are going to be witty. But to jumble particulars so readily! 'Tis impossible you could, I believe, at the beginning of your tale know the ending—Yet——

Y. Book. These are gifts, child, mere gifts; 'tis not to be learnt—the skill of lying—except humour, wit, invention, presence of mind, retention, memory, circumspection, etc., were to be obtained by industry. You must not hum, nor haw, nor blush for't——

Lat. Who have we got here?

Betty entering.

Bet. May I be so bold as to crave the liberty to ask your name?

Y. Book. My bright handmaid, my little she Ganymede—thou charming Hebe—you may ask me my name, for I won't tell it you—till you do; because I'd have the more words with you.

Bet. Are not you Mr. Bookwit?

Y. Book. The very same, my dear.

Bet. There, then [Giving him letter.] He's a mighty pretty man. [Exit Betty.

Y. Book. [Reading.] "You may wonder—your person and character—this evening, near Rosamond's Pond, on the other side the Park.—Victoria."

Oh, the happiness! What is become of the girl? Oh! Latine! Latine! ask me fifty questions all at once! What ails me? Why this joy? Who is this from? Oh, I could die, methinks, this moment, lest there should be in fate some future ill to dash my present joy! Why, Jack, why dost not ask me what's the matter?

Lat. If you'd but give me leave——

Y. Book. No; do not speak. Let me talk all; I fain would celebrate my fair one's praise, her every beauty! but the mind's too full to utter anything that is articulate, and will give way to nothing but mere names and interjections. O Victoria! Victoria! Victoria! O my Victoria! Read there.

Lat. Well, I own this subscribed "Victoria"—but still I am afraid of mistakes.

Y. Book. No—kneel down and ask forgiveness. You don't believe that she that would not speak to me would write.—But after all raptures and ecstasies—prithee step after the maid, learn what you can of her fortune, and so forth. Get interest to be admitted another time. [Exit Latine.

Enter Frederick.

Fred. Sir, your servant

Y. Book. Yours, sir; have you business with me?

Fred. This paper speaks it.

Y. Book. [Reading.] "Of a friend you've made me your mortal enemy. With your sword I expect satisfaction to-morrow morning at six in Hyde Park.—Lovemore." Do you know the contents of this letter?

Fred. Yes, sir, it is a challenge from Lovemore.

Y. Book. Are you to be his second?

Fred. I offered it, but he will meet you single.

Y. Book. The fewer the better cheer.

Fred. You're very pleasant, sir.

Y. Book. My good humour was ever challenge-proof. I will be very punctual. [Exit Fred.]—I fall into business very fast. There, thou dear letter of love; be there, thou of hatred. There; men of business must sort their papers.—I fear he saw me put up two letters.

Enter Latine.

Oh, Jack, more adventures, another lady has writ.

Lat. Let's see it.

Y. Book. No; always tender of rep.—she is of quality—a gentleman usher came with it. I can't believe there's anything in that old whim of being wrapt in one's mother's smock to be thus lucky; I suppose I was used like other children. They clapped me on a skull-cap, swathed me hard, played me in arms, and shewed me London. But however it comes about I have strange luck with the women.

Lat. But let us see this letter.

Y. Book. [Reading.] "No, no—A woman of condition to go so far—But, indeed, your passion, your wit—My page—at the back 'stairs—secrecy, and your veracity——"

Lat. There her ladyship nicked it. Pox, I'll be as humourous and frolic as you. You pert fellows are the only successful——

Y. Book. Well said, lad; and, as Mr. Bayes says,[64] now the plot thickens upon us we'll spend our time as gaily as the best of 'em, and all of it in love—

For since through all the race of man we find,
Each to some darling passion is inclined,
Let love be still the bias of my mind. [Exeunt.

Enter Victoria and Betty.