The dramatic works of William Congreve

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Ices-

THE

SCENE I.— The Street. Bellmour. and Vainlove meeting

Bell. Vainlove, and abroad so early ! good morrow. I thought a contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning, than he could have slept in't.

Vain. Bellmour, good morrow. — Why, truth on't is, these early sallies are not usual to me ; but business, as you see, sir — [Showing letters.] And business must be followed, or be lost.

Bell. Business ! — and so must time, my friend, be close pursued, or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark.

Vain. Pleasure, I guess, you mean.

Bell. Ay, what else has meaning ?

Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you —

Bell. More than they believe — or understand.

Vain. How, how, Ned, a wise man say more than he understands ?

Bell. Ay, ay ; wisdom's nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew was, that he knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools : they have need of 'em : wit, be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation ; and let father Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel 'till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element — I roll in a higher orb, and dwell —

Vain. In castles i'th' air of thy own building : that's thy element, Ned. Well, as high a flyer as you are, I have a lure may make you stoop.

[Flint's a h-lter.

Bell. Ay, marry, sir, I. have a hawk's eye at a woman's hand. — There's more elegancy in the

Scene III. The Old Bachelor

false spelling of this superscription — [Takes up the letter] than in all Cicero. — Let me see — How now S Dear perfidious Vainlove. [Reads.

Vain. Hold ! hold ! 'slife, that 's the wrong.

Bell. Nay, let 's see the name — Silvia ! How canst thou be ungrateful to that creature % She 's extremely pretty, and loves thee entirely. I have heard her breathe such raptures about thee.

Yam. Ay, or anybody that she 's about.

Bell. No, faith, Frank, you wrong her : she has been just to you.

Vain. That's pleasant, by my troth, from thee, who hast had her.

* Bell. Never— her affections. 'Tis true, by heaven, she owned it to my face ; and blushing like the virgin morn when it disclosed the cheat, which that trusty bawd of nature, Night, had hid, confessed her soul was true to you ; though I by treachery had stolen the bliss.

Vain. So was true as turtle — in imagination, Ned, ha ? Preach this doctrine to husbands, and the married women will adore thee.

Bell. Why, faith, I think it will do well enough, if the husband be out of the way, for the wife to show her fondness and impatience of his absence by choosing a lover as like him as she can ; and what is unlike, she may help out with her own fancy.

Vain. But is it not an abuse to the lover to be made a blind of %

Bell. As you say, the abuse is to the lover, not the husband : for 'tis an argument of her great zeal towards him, that she will enjoy him in effigy.

Vain. It must be a very superstitious country, where such zeal passes for true devotion. I doubt it will be damned by all our protestant husbands for flat idolatry. — But if you can make alderman Fondlewife of your persuasion, this letter will be needless.

Bell. What, the old banker with the handsome wife?

Vain. Ay.

Bell. Let me see, Lsetitia ! oh, "'tis a delicious morsel ! — Dear Frank, thou art the truest friend in the world.

Vain. Ay, am I not ? to be continually starting of hares for you to course. We were certainly cut out for one another ; for my temper quits an amour just where thine takes it up. — But read that, it is an appointment for me this evening, when Fondlewife will be gone out of town, to meet the master of a ship, about the return of a venture which he 's in danger of losing. Read, read.

Bell. [Reads.'] Hum, hum — Out of town this evening, and talks of sending for Mr. Spintext to Tceep me company ; but I '11 take care he shall not be at home. Good ! Spintext ! oh, the fanatic one-eyed parson !

Vain. Ay.

Bell. [Reads.] Hum, hum — That your conversation will be much more agreeable, if you can counterfeit his habit to blind the servants. Very good ! Then I must be disguised \ — With all my heart — It adds a gusto to an amour, gives it the greater resemblance of theft, and, among us lewd mortals, the deeper the sin the sweeter. Frank, I 'm amazed at thy good-nature.

Vain. Faith, I hate love when 'tis forced upon a man, as I do wine : and this business is none of my seeking. I only happened to be once or twice where Lsetitia was the handsomest woman in company, so consequently applied myself to her ; and it seems she has taken me at my word. Had you been there, or anybody, 't had been the same.

Bell. I wish I may succeed as the same.

Vain. Never doubt it ; for if the spirit of cuckoldom be once raised up in a woman, the devil can't lay it, 'till she has done 't.

Bell. Prithee, what sort of fellow is Fondlewife ?

Vain. A kind of mongrel zealot, sometimes very precise and peevish ; but I have seen him pleasant enough in his way ; much addicted to jealousy, but more to fondness: so that as he 's often jealous without a cause, he 's as often satisfied without reason.

Bell. A very even temper, and fit for my purpose. I must get your man Setter to provide my disguise.

Vain. Ay, you may take him for good-and-all if you will, for you have made him fit for nobody else.— Well—

Bell. You 're going to visit in return of Silvia's letter — poor rogue ! Any hour of the day or night will serve her. — But do you know nothing of a new rival there ?

Vain. Yes, Heartwell, that surly, old, pretended woman-hater, thinks her virtuous ; that 's one reason why I fail her : I would have her fret herself out of conceit with me, that she may entertain some thoughts of him. I know he visits her every day.

Bell. Yet rails on still, and thinks his love unknown to us. A little time will swell him so, he must be forced to give it birth ; and the discovery must needs be very pleasant from himself, to see what pains he will take, and how he will strain to be delivered of a secret when he has miscarried of it already.

Vain. Well, good morrow, let 's dine together ; I '11 meet at the old place.

Bell. With all my heart ; it lies convenient for us to pay our afternoon services to our mistresses. I find I am damnably in love, I 'm so uneasy for not having seen Belinda yesterday.

Vain. But I saw my Araminta, yet am as impatient.

SCENE II.

Bellmour.

Why, what a cormorant in love am I ! who, not contented with the slavery of honourable love in one place, and the pleasure of enjoying some half a score mistresses of my own acquiring, must yet take Vainlove's business upon my hands, because it lay too heavy upon his : so am not only forced to lie with other men's wives for 'em, but must also undertake the harder task of obliging their mistresses. — I must take up, or I shall never hold out; flesh and blood cannot bear it always.

SCENE III.

Bellmour and Sharped.

Sharp. I "m sorry to see this, Ned ; once a man conies to his soliloquies I give him for gone. Bell. Sharper, I 'm glad to see thee.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

ACT

Sharp. What, is Belinda cruel, that you are so thoughtful ?

Bell. No, faith, not for that. — But there's a business of consequence fallen out to-day, that requires some consideration.

Sharp. Prithee, what mighty business of consequence canst thou have ?

Bell. Why, you must know 'tis a piece of work toward the finishing of an alderman ; it seems I must put the last hand to it, and dub him cuckold, that he may be of equal dignity with the rest of his brethren ; so I must beg Belinda's pardon.

Sharp. Faith, e'en give her over for good-andall ; you can have no hopes of getting her for a mistress ; and she is too proud, too inconstant, too affected and too witty, and too handsome for a wife.

Bell. But she can't have too much money. — There's twelve thousand pounds, Tom. — 'Tis true she is excessively foppish and affected ; but, in my conscience, I believe the baggage loves me ; for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me. Then, as I told you, there's twelve thousand pounds — hum — Why, faith, upon second thoughts, she does not appear to be so very affected neither. — Give her her due, I think the woman's a woman, and that's all. As such I am sure I shall like her, for the deyil take me if I don't love all the sex !

Sharp. And here comes one who swears as heartily he hates all the sex.

SCENE IV. Bellmotjr, Sharper, and Heartwell

Bell. Who ? Heartwell ? ay, but he knows better things. — How now, George, where hast thou been snarling odious truths, and entertaining company like a physician, with discourse of their diseases and infirmities ? What fine lady hast thou been putting out of conceit with herself, and persuading that the face she had been making all the morning was none of her own ? for I know thou art as unmannerly and as unwelcome to a woman as a looking-glass after the small-pox.

Heart. I confess I have not been sneering fulsome lies and nauseous flattery, fawning upon a little tawdry whore that will fawn upon me again, and entertain any puppy that comes, like a tumbler, with the same tricks over and over. For such I guess may have been your late employment.

Bell. Would thou hadst come a little sooner ! Vainlove would have wrought thy conversion, and been a champion for the cause.

Heart. What, has he been here ? That's one of lovers April-fools, is always upon some errand that's to no purpose, ever embarking in adventures, yet never comes to harbour.

Sharp. That's because he always sets out in foul weather, loves to buffet with the winds, meet the tide, and sail in the teeth of opposition.

Heart. What, has he not dropped anchor at Araminta ?

Bell. Truth on't is, she fits his temper best, is a kind of floating-island; sometimes seems in reach, then vanishes, and keeps him busied in the search.

Sharp. She had need have a good share of sense to manage so capricious a lover.

Beu. Faith, I don't know ; he's of a temper the most easy to himself in the world : he takes as much always of an amour as he cares for, and quits it when it grows stale or unpleasant.

Sharp. An argument of very little passion, very good understanding, and very ill-nature.

Heart. And proves that Vainlove plays the fool with discretion.

Sharp. You, Bellmour, are bound in gratitude to stickle for him ; you with pleasure reap that fruit, which he takes pains to sow ; he does the drudgery in the mine, and you stamp your image on the gold.

Bell. He's of another opinion, and says I do the drudgery in the mine. Well, we have each our share of sport, and each that which he likes best ; 'tis his diversion to set, 'tis mine to cover the partridge.

Heart. And it should be mine to let 'em go again.

Sharp. Not till you had mouthed a little, George- I think that's all thou art fit for now.

Heart. Good Mr. Young-fellow, you're mistaken ; as able as yourself, and as nimble too, though I mayn't have so much mercury in my limbs. 'Tis true, indeed, I don't force appetite, but wait the natural call of my lust, and think it time enough to be lewd, after I have had the temptation.

Bell. Time enough ! ay too soon, I should rather have expected, from a person of your gravity.

Heart. Yet it is oftentimes too late with some of you young, termagant flashy sinners : you have all the guilt of the intention, and none of the pleasure of the practice. 'Tis true you are so eager in pursuit of the temptation, that you save the devil the trouble of leading you into it : nor is it out of discretion that you don't swallow that very hook yourselves have baited, but you are cloyed w r ith the preparative, and what you mean for a whet, turns the edge of your puny stomachs. Your love is like your courage, which you show for the first year or two upon all occasions ; till in a little time, being disabled or disarmed, you abate of your vigour, and that daring blade which was so often drawn is bound to the peace for ever after.

Bell. Thou art an old fornicator of a singular good principle indeed ! and art for encouraging youth, that they may be as wicked as thou art at thy years.

Heart. I am for having everybody be what they pretend to be ; a whoremaster be a whoremaster, and not like Vainlove, kiss a lapdog with passion, when it would disgust him from the lady's own lips.

Bell. That only happens sometimes, where the dog has the sweeter breath, for the more cleanly conveyance. But, George, you must not quarrel with little gallantries of this nature : women are often won by 'em. Who would refuse to kiss a lapdog, if it were preliminary to the lips of his lady ?

Sharp. Or omit playing with her fan, and cooling her if. she were hot, when it might entitle him to the office of warming her when she should be cold?

Bell. What is it to read a play in a rainy day, though you should be now and then interrupted in a witty scene, and she perhaps preserve her laughter,' till the jest were over ! even that may be borne with, considering the reward in prospect.

Heart. I confess, you that are women's asses

J

Scene V. The Old Bachelor

bear greater burdens; are forced to undergo, dressing, dancing, singing, sighing, whining, rhyming, flattering, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drudgery of loving to boot.

Bell. O brute ! the drudgery of loving !

Heart. Ay, why to come to love through all these encumbrances, is like coming to an estate overcharged with debts ; which, by the time you have paid, yields no further profit than what the bare tillage and manuring of the land will produce at the expense of your own sweat.

Bell. Prithee, how dost thou love ?

Sharp. He ! he hates the sex.

Heart. So I hate physic too — yet I may love to take it for my health.

Bell. Well come off, George, if at any time you should be taken straying.

Sharp. He has need of such an excuse, considering the present state of his body.

Heart. How d'ye mean ?

Sharp. Why, if whoring be purging (as you call it), then, I may say, marriage is entering into a course of physic.

Bell. How, George, does the wind blow there ?

Heart. It will as soon blow north and by south. — Marry, quotha ! I hope, in heaven, I have a greater portion of grace, and I think I have baited too many of those traps to be caught in one myself.

Bell. Who the devil would have thee ? unless 'twere an oyster-woman, to propagate young fry for Billingsgate : — thy talent will never recommend thee to anything of better quality.

Heart. My talent is chiefly that of speaking truth, which I don't expect should ever recommend me to people of quality. I thank heaven, I have very honestly purchased the hatred of all the great families in town.

Sharp. And you, in return of spleen, hate them. But could you hope to be received into the alliance of a noble family —

Heart. No, I hope I shall never merit that affliction — to be punished with a wife of birth — be a stag of the first head, and bear my horns aloft, like one of the supporters of my wife's coat. 'Sdeath, I would not be a cuckold to e'er an illustrious whore in England !

Bell. What, not to make your family, man ! and provide for your children ?

Sharp. For her children, you mean.

Heart. Ay, there you've nicked it — there's the devil upon devil. — O the pride and joy of heart j 'twould be to me, to have my son and heir resemble such a duke ! — to have a fleering coxcomb scoff and cry, Mr., your son's mighty like his Grace, has just his smile and air of's face. Then replies another, Methinks he has more of the Marquis of such a place about his nose and eyes, though he has my Lord What-d'ye-call's mouth to a tittle. — Then I, to put it off as unconcerned, come chuck the infant under the chin, force a smile, and cry, Ay, the boy takes after his mother's relations : when the devil and she knows, 'tis a little compound of the whole body of nobility.

Bell and Sharp. Ha ! ha ! ha !

Bell. Well, but, George, I have one question to ask you. —

Heart. Pshaw ! I have prattled away my time. I hope you are in no haste for an answer — for I shan't stay now. [Looking on his watch.

Bell. Nay, prithee, George —

Heart. No : besides my business, I see a fool coming this way. Adieu.

SCENE V.

Bellmour and Sharper.

Bell. What does he mean ? Oh, 'tis sir Joseph Wittol with his friend ; but I see he has turned the corner, and goes another way.

Sharp. What in the name of wonder is it ?

Bell. Why, a fool.

Sharp. 'Tis a tawdry outside.

Bell. And a very beggarly lining — yet he may be worth your acquaintance. A little of thy chemistry, Tom, may extract gold from that dirt.

Sharp. Say you so ? faith, I am as poor as a chemist, and would be as industrious. But what was he that followed him ? Is not he a dragon that watches those golden pippins ?

Bell. Hang him, no, he a dragon ! if he be, 'tis a very peaceful one ; I can ensure his anger dormant ; or should he seem to rouse, 'tis but well lashing him, and he will sleep like a top.

Sharp. Ay, is he of that kidney ?

Bell. Yet is adored by that bigot sir Joseph Wittol, as the image of valour : he calls him his back, and indeed they are never asunder — yet last night, I know not by what mischance, the knight was alone, and had fallen into the hands of some night-walkers, who I suppose would have pillaged him ; but I chanced to come by, and rescued him : though I believe he was heartily frightened, for as soon as ever he was loose he ran away, without staying to see who had helped him.

Sharp. Is that bully of his in the army ?

Bell. No, but is a pretender, and wears the habit of a soldier ; which now-a-days as often cloaks cowardice, as a black gown does atheism. You must know, he has been abroad — went purely to run away from a campaign ; enriched himself with the plunder of a few oaths — and here vents 'em against the general ; who slighting men of merit, and preferring only those of interest, has made him quit the service.

Sharp. Wherein, no doubt, he magnifies his own performance.

Bell. Speaks miracles, is the drum to his own praise — the only implement of a soldier he resembles ; like that, being full of blustering noise and emptiness.

Sharp. And like that, of no use but to be beaten.

Bell. Right ; but then the comparison breaks, for he will take a drubbing with as little noise as a pulpit- cushion.

Sharp. His name, and I have done ?

Bell. Why, that, to pass it current too, he has gilded with a title : he is called Captain Bluffe.

Sharp. Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance ; you steer another course, are bound

For Love's Island ; I for the golden coast :

May each succeed in what he wishes most !

[Exeunt.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

ACT IT.

SCENE I.— The Street. Sir Joseph Wittol, Sharper following

Sharp. [Aside.] Sure that's he, and alone.

Sir Jo. [Not perceiving Sharper.] Um — ay, this, this is the very damned place ; the inhuman cannibals, the bloody-minded villains would have butchered me last night : no doubt they would have flayed me alive, have sold my skin, and devoured &c.

Sharp. How's this ?

Sir Jo. An it hadn't been for a civil gentleman as came by and frighted 'em away — but, agad, I durst not stay to give him thanks.

Sharp. This must be Bellmour he means. — Ha ! I have a thought —

Sir Jo. Zooks, would the captain would come ! the very remembrance makes me quake ; agad, I shall never be reconciled to this place heartily.

Sharp. 'Tis but trying, and being where I am at worst. Now luck ! — [Aloud.'] Cursed fortune ! this must be the place, this damned unlucky place !

Sir Jo. [Aside.] Agad, and so it is. Why, here has been more mischief done, I perceive.

Sharp. No, 'tis gone, 'tis lost, — ten thousand devils on that chance which drew me hither! Ay, here, just here, this spot to me is hell ; nothing to be found but the despair of what I've lost.

[Looking about as in search.

Sir Jo. Poor gentleman ! — By the lord Harry I'll stay no longer, for I have found too —

Sharp. Ha ! who's that has found ? what have you found ? restore it quickly, or by —

Sir Jo. Not I, sir, not I, as I've a soul to be saved, I have found nothing but what has been to my loss, as I may say, and as you were saying, sir.

Sharp. O your servant, sir, you are safe then it seems ; 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good. Well, you may rejoice over my ill fortune, since it paid the price of your ransom.

Sir Jo. I rejoice ! agad, not I, sir ; I'm very sorry for your loss, with all my heart, blood and guts, sir ; and if you did but know me, you'd ne'er say I were so ill-natured.

Sharp. Know you ! why, can you be so ungrateful to forget me ?

Sir Jo. [Aside.] O lord, forget him ! — [Aloud.] No, no, sir, I don't forget you — because I never saw your face before, agad ; — ha ! ha ! ha !

Sharp. How ! [Angrily.

Sir Jo. Stay, stay, sir, let me recollect. — [Aside.] He's a damned angry fellow — I believe I had better remember him, till I can get out of his sight ; but out o'sight, out o'mind, agad.

Sharp. Methought the service I did you last night, sir, in preserving you from those ruffians, might have taken better root in your shallow memory.

Sir Jo. [Aside.] Gads-daggers-belts-blades and scabbards, this is the very gentleman ! How shall I make him a return suitable to the greatness of his merit ? I had a pretty thing to that purpose, if he ha'n't frighted it out of my memory. — [Aloud. ] Hem, hem, sir, I most submissively implore your pardon for my transgression of ingratitude and omission ; having my entire dependence, sir, upon the superfluity of your goodness, which, like an inundation, will, I hope, totally immerge the recollection of my error, and leave me floating in your sight upon the full-blown bladders of repentance, by the help of which I shall once more hope to swim into your favour. [Bows.

Sharp. So ! — O, sir, I'm easily pacified, the acknowledgment of a gentleman —

Sir Jo. Acknowledgment ! sir, I'm all over acknowledgment, and will not stick to show it in the greatest extremity, by night or by day, in sickness or in health, winter or summer ; all seasons and occasions shall testify the reality and gratitude of your super-abundant humble servant, sir Joseph Wittol, knight. — Hem, hem.

Sharp. Sir Joseph Wittol !

Sir Jo. The same, sir, of Wittol Hall, in comitatu Bucks.

Sharp. Is it possible ! then I am happy, to have obliged the mirror of knighthood, and pink of courtesy in the age. Let me embrace you.

Sir Jo. O Lord, sir !

Sharp. My loss I esteem as a trifle repaid with interest, since it has purchased me the friendship and acquaintance of the person in the world whose character I admire.

Sir Jo. You are only pleased to say so. — But pray, if I may be so bold, what is that loss you mention ?

Sharp. O, term it no longer so, sir. In the scuffle, last night, I only dropped a bill of a hundred pounds, which, I confess, I came half despairing to recover, but thanks to my better fortune —

Sir Jo. You have found it, sir, then it seems ; I profess I'm heartily glad.

Sharp. Sir, your humble servant — I don't question but you are ; that you have so cheap an opportunity of expressing your gratitude and generosity ; since the paying so trivial a sum will wholly acquit you and doubly engage me.

Sir Jo. [Aside.] What, a dickens, does he mean by a trivial sum ? — [Aloud.] But ha'n't you found it, sir?

Sharp. No otherwise, I vow to'gad, but in my hopes in you, sir.

Sir Jo. Humph.

Sharp. But that's sufficient — 'twere injustice to doubt the honour of sir Joseph Wittol.

Sir Jo. O Lord, sir !

Sharp. You are above (I'm sure) a thought so low, to suffer me to lose what was ventured in your service ; nay 'twas, in a manner, paid down for your deliverance ; 'twas so much lent you ; and you scorn, I'll say that for you —

Sir Jo. Nay, I'll say that for myself, (with youi leave, sir,) I do scorn a dirty thing ; but, agad, I'm a little out of pocket at present.

Sharp. Pshaw ! you can't want a hundred pounds. Your word is sufficient anywhere ; 'tis but borrowing so much dirt, you have large acres and can soon repay it. Money is but dirt, sir Joseph, mere dirt.

Sir Jo. But I profess 'tis a dirt I have washed

Scene II. The Old Bachelor

my hands of at present ; I have laid it all out upon my back.

Sharp. Are you so extravagant in clothes, sir Joseph ?

Sir Jo. Ha ! ha ! ha ! a very good jest I profess, ha ! ha ! ha ! a very good jest, and I did not know that I had said it, and that's a better jest than t'other. 'Tis a sign you and I ha'n't been long acquainted ; you have lost a good jest for want of knowing me. I only mean a friend of mine whom I call my back ; he sticks as close to me, and follows me" through all dangers : he is indeed back, breast, and head-piece as it were to me. Agad, he's a brave fellow — pauh ! I am quite another thing when I am with him ; I don't fear the devil (bless us ! ) almost, if he be by. Ah, had he been with me last night —

Sharp. If he had, sir, what then ? he could have done no more, nor perhaps have suffered so much. Had he a hundred pounds to lose ? [Angrily.

Sir Jo. O Lord, sir, by no means ! — but I might have saved a hundred pounds — I meant innocently, as I hope to be saved, sir. — A damn'd hot fellow ! — Only, as I was saying, I let him have all my ready money to redeem his great sword from limbo. But, sir, I have a letter of credit to alderman Fondlewife, as far as two hundred pounds, and this afternoon you shall see I am a person, such a one as you would wish to have met with.

Sharp. [Aside.] That you are, I'll be sworn. — [Aloud.'] Why that's great, and like yourself.

SCENE II.

Sir Joseph Wrrroi,, Sharper, and Captain Bluffe.

Sir Jo. O, here a' comes. — Ah, my Hector of Troy, welcome my bully, my back ! agad, my heart has gone a pit-pat for thee.