The Canonization by John Donne

The Canonization

BY JOHN DONNE

For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout,

My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,

With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place,

Observe his honor, or his grace, Or the king’s real, or his stampèd face

Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?

What merchant’s ships have my sighs drowned?

Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?

When did my colds a forward spring remove? When did the heats which my veins fill Add one more to the plaguy bill?

Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move, Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love; Call her one, me another fly,

We’re tapers too, and at our own cost die,

And we in us find the eagle and the dove.

The phœnix riddle hath more wit By us; we two being one, are it.

So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.

We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse

Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;

And if no piece of chronicle we prove, We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms; As well a well-wrought urn becomes

The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,

And by these hymns, all shall approve Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: “You, whom reverend love Made one another’s hermitage;

You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;

Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes

(So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize)

She-Stoops-to-Conquer

She Stoops to Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith

She Stoops to Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith

“SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER” by OLIVER GOLDSMITH

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER;

OR,

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.

A COMEDY.

To SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

Dear Sir,–By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most

unaffected piety.

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a comedy not merely sentimental was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public;

and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful.

I am, dear Sir, your most sincere friend and admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

PROLOGUE,

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes.

Excuse me, sirs, I pray–I can’t yet speak– I’m crying now–and have been all the week.

“‘Tis not alone this mourning suit,” good masters: “I’ve that within”–for which there are no plasters! Pray, would you know the reason why I’m crying? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!

And if she goes, my tears will never stop;

For as a player, I can’t squeeze out one drop: I am undone, that’s all–shall lose my bread– I’d rather, but that’s nothing–lose my head.

When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed! Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents;

We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. We now and then take down a hearty cup.

What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us, They’ll turn us out, and no one else will take us. But why can’t I be moral?–Let me try–

My heart thus pressing–fixed my face and eye– With a sententious look, that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes)

Thus I begin: “All is not gold that glitters,

“Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters. “When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand:

“Learning is better far than house and land. “Let not your virtue trip; who trips may stumble, “And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble.”

I give it up–morals won’t do for me;

To make you laugh, I must play tragedy.

One hope remains–hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill.

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepar’d, presents a potion: A kind of magic charm–for be assur’d,

If you will swallow it, the maid is cur’d:

But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces!

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he gives. Should he succeed, you’ll give him his degree; If not, within he will receive no fee!

The College YOU, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

SIR CHARLES MARLOW Mr. Gardner.

YOUNG MARLOW (His Son) Mr. Lee Lewes. HARDCASTLE Mr. Shuter.

HASTINGS Mr. Dubellamy. TONY LUMPKIN Mr. Quick.

DIGGORY Mr. Saunders.

WOMEN.

MRS. HARDCASTLE Mrs. Green.

MISS HARDCASTLE Mrs. Bulkley. MISS NEVILLE Mrs. Kniveton.

MAID Miss Williams.

LANDLORD, SERVANTS, Etc. Etc.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE–A Chamber in an old-fashioned House.

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you’re very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? There’s the

two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month’s polishing every winter.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they

travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old

rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate’s wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery.

HARDCASTLE. And I love it. I love everything that’s old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and I believe,

Dorothy (taking her hand), you’ll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you’re for ever at your Dorothys and your old wifes. You may be a Darby, but I’ll be no Joan,

I promise you. I’m not so old as you’d make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that.

HARDCASTLE. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and seven.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. It’s false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was but twenty when I

was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband; and he’s not come to years of discretion yet.

HARDCASTLE. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don’t think a boy wants much

learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.

HARDCASTLE. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and mischief.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Humour, my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour.

HARDCASTLE. I’d sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footmen’s shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle’s face.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two’s Latin may do for

him?

HARDCASTLE. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he’ll ever go to.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan’t have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he’s consumptive.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. He coughs sometimes.

HARDCASTLE. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I’m actually afraid of his lungs.

HARDCASTLE. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet–(Tony hallooing behind the scenes)–O, there he goes–a very consumptive figure, truly.

Enter TONY, crossing the stage.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won’t you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee?

TONY. I’m in haste, mother; I cannot stay.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. You shan’t venture out this raw evening, my dear; you look most shockingly.

TONY. I can’t stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There’s some fun going forward.

HARDCASTLE. Ay; the alehouse, the old place: I thought so.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. A low, paltry set of fellows.

TONY. Not so low, neither. There’s Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse doctor, Little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least.

TONY. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I can’t abide to disappoint myself.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (detaining him.) You shan’t go.

TONY. I will, I tell you.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I say you shan’t.

TONY. We’ll see which is strongest, you or I. [Exit, hauling her out.]

HARDCASTLE. (solus.) Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors? There’s my pretty darling Kate! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Blessings on my pretty innocence! drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got

about thee, girl! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain.

MISS HARDCASTLE. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the

morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the evening I put on my housewife’s dress to please you.

HARDCASTLE. Well, remember, I insist on the terms of our agreement; and, by the bye, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I don’t comprehend your meaning.

HARDCASTLE. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father’s letter, in which he informs me his son is set out,

and that he intends to follow himself shortly after.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Indeed! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me, how shall I behave? It’s a thousand to one I shan’t like him; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem.

HARDCASTLE. Depend upon it, child, I’ll never control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he’s a man of an excellent understanding.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Is he?

HARDCASTLE. Very generous.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I believe I shall like him.

HARDCASTLE. Young and brave.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I’m sure I shall like him.

HARDCASTLE. And very handsome.

MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, say no more, (kissing his hand), he’s mine; I’ll have him.

HARDCASTLE. And, to crown all, Kate, he’s one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Eh! you have frozen me to death again. That word RESERVED has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband.

HARDCASTLE. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his

character that first struck me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so everything as you mention, I believe he’ll do still. I think I’ll have

him.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It’s more than an even wager he may not have you.

MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so?–Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I’ll only

break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer.

HARDCASTLE. Bravely resolved! In the mean time I’ll go prepare the servants for his reception: as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day’s muster. [Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Alone). Lud, this news of papa’s puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome: these he put last; but I put them foremost.

Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then reserved and sheepish; that’s much against him. Yet can’t he be cured of his

timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife? Yes, and can’t

I–But I vow I’m disposing of the husband before I have secured the lover.

Enter MISS NEVILLE.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I’m glad you’re come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is there anything whimsical about me? Is it one of my well-looking days, child? Am I in face

to-day?

MISS NEVILLE. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again–bless

me!–sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling? or has the last

novel been too moving?

MISS HARDCASTLE. No; nothing of all this. I have been threatened–I can scarce get it out–I have been threatened with a lover.

MISS NEVILLE. And his name–

MISS HARDCASTLE. Is Marlow.

MISS NEVILLE. Indeed!

MISS HARDCASTLE. The son of Sir Charles Marlow.

MISS NEVILLE. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Never.

MISS NEVILLE. He’s a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of another stamp: you understand me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust

to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual?

MISS NEVILLE. I have just come from one of our agreeable

tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks

him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I’m not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family.

MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another.

MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so.

MISS NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I’m sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt’s bell rings for our afternoon’s walk round the improvements. Allons!

Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical.

MISS HARDCASTLE. “Would it were bed-time, and all were well.” [Exeunt.]

SCENE–An Alehouse Room. Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the

rest, a mallet in his hand.

OMNES. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo!

FIRST FELLOW Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The ‘squire is going to knock himself down for a song.

OMNES. Ay, a song, a song!

TONY. Then I’ll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons.

SONG.

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

Gives GENUS a better discerning.

Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians,

Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They’re all but a parcel of Pigeons.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful,

I’ll wager the rascals a crown,

They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion,

I’ll leave it to all men of sense,

But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever,

Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here’s the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare,

Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the GAY birds in the air,

Here’s a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

OMNES. Bravo, bravo!

FIRST FELLOW. The ‘squire has got spunk in him.

SECOND FELLOW. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that’s low.

THIRD FELLOW. O damn anything that’s low, I cannot bear it.

FOURTH FELLOW. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time: if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.

THIRD FELLOW. I likes the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that.

May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes; “Water Parted,” or “The minuet in Ariadne.”

SECOND FELLOW. What a pity it is the ‘squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him.

TONY. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I’d then show what it was to keep choice of company.

SECOND FELLOW. O he takes after his own father for that. To be sure old ‘Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on.

For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county.

TONY. Ecod, and when I’m of age, I’ll be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller’s grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no

reckoning. Well, Stingo, what’s the matter?

Enter Landlord.

LANDLORD. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo’ the forest; and they are talking something

about Mr. Hardcastle.

TONY. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that’s coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners?

LANDLORD. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen.

TONY. Then desire them to step this way, and I’ll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn’t be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I’ll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob.]

TONY. (solus). Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I’m afraid–afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of THAT if he can.

Enter Landlord, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS.

MARLOW. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore.

HASTINGS. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way.

MARLOW. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer.

HASTINGS. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer.

TONY. No offence, gentlemen. But I’m told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in?

HASTINGS. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for information.

TONY. Nor the way you came?

HASTINGS. No, sir: but if you can inform us—-

TONY. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that–you have lost your way.

MARLOW. We wanted no ghost to tell us that.

TONY. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold so as to ask the place from whence you came?

MARLOW. That’s not necessary towards directing us where we are to go.

TONY. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained,

old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son?

HASTINGS. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention.

TONY. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond

of.

MARLOW. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother’s apron-string.

TONY. He-he-hem!–Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won’t reach Mr. Hardcastle’s house this night, I believe.

HASTINGS. Unfortunate!

TONY. It’s a damn’d long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle’s! (Winking upon the Landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle’s, of Quagmire Marsh, you understand me.

LANDLORD. Master Hardcastle’s! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you’re come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you

should have crossed down Squash Lane.

MARLOW. Cross down Squash Lane!

LANDLORD. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads.

MARLOW. Come to where four roads meet?

TONY. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them.

MARLOW. O, sir, you’re facetious.

TONY. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crackskull Common: there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain’s barn. Coming

to the farmer’s barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill–

MARLOW. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude!

HASTINGS. What’s to be done, Marlow?

MARLOW. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us.

LANDLORD. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house.

TONY. And to my knowledge, that’s taken up by three lodgers already. (After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it.

Don’t you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with three chairs and a bolster?

HASTINGS. I hate sleeping by the fire-side.

MARLOW. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster.

TONY. You do, do you? then, let me see–what if you go on a mile further, to the Buck’s Head; the old Buck’s Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county?

HASTINGS. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however.

LANDLORD. (apart to TONY). Sure, you ben’t sending them to your father’s as an inn, be you?

TONY. Mum, you fool you. Let THEM find that out. (To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road side. You’ll see a pair of large horns over the door. That’s the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you.

HASTINGS. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can’t miss the way?

TONY. No, no: but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he! he! he! He’ll be for giving you his company; and, ecod, if you mind him, he’ll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace.

LANDLORD. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country.

MARLOW. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no farther connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say?

TONY. No, no; straight forward. I’ll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. (To the Landlord.) Mum!

LANDLORD. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant–damn’d mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt.]

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE–An old-fashioned House.

Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward Servants.

HARDCASTLE. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home.

OMNES. Ay, ay.

HARDCASTLE. When company comes you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.

OMNES. No, no.

HARDCASTLE. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you’re not to stand

so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your

pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They’re a little too stiff, indeed, but that’s no

great matter.

DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this

way when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill—-

HARDCASTLE. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of

talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating.

DIGGORY. By the laws, your worship, that’s parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he’s always wishing for a mouthful himself.

HARDCASTLE. Blockhead! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour? Stay your stomach with that reflection.

DIGGORY. Ecod, I thank your worship, I’ll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.

HARDCASTLE. Diggory, you are too talkative.–Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out

a-laughing, as if you made part of the company.

DIGGORY. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room: I can’t help laughing at that–he! he!

he!–for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years–ha! ha! ha!

HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that–but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please (to DIGGORY).–Eh, why don’t you move?

DIGGORY. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo’ the table, and then I’m as bauld as a lion.

HARDCASTLE. What, will nobody move?

FIRST SERVANT. I’m not to leave this pleace.

SECOND SERVANT. I’m sure it’s no pleace of mine.

THIRD SERVANT. Nor mine, for sartain.

DIGGORY. Wauns, and I’m sure it canna be mine.

HARDCASTLE. You numskulls! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you dunces! I

find I must begin all over again But don’t I hear a coach drive into

the yard? To your posts, you blockheads. I’ll go in the mean time and give my old friend’s son a hearty reception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLE.]

DIGGORY. By the elevens, my pleace is gone quite out of my head.

ROGER. I know that my pleace is to be everywhere.

FIRST SERVANT. Where the devil is mine?

SECOND SERVANT. My pleace is to be nowhere at all; and so I’ze go about my business. [Exeunt Servants, running about as if frightened, different ways.]

Enter Servant with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS.

SERVANT. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! This way.

HASTINGS. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique but creditable.

MARLOW. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as

an inn.

HASTINGS. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble

chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly.

MARLOW. Travellers, George, must pay in all places: the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.

HASTINGS. You have lived very much among them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance.

MARLOW. The Englishman’s malady. But tell me, George, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life has been chiefly

spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don’t know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman–except my mother–But among females of another class, you know—-

HASTINGS. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all conscience.

MARLOW. They are of US, you know.

HASTINGS. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler; you look for all the world as if you wanted

an opportunity of stealing out of the room.

MARLOW. Why, man, that’s because I do want to steal out of the room.

Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don’t know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty; but I’ll be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence.

HASTINGS. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker—-

MARLOW. Why, George, I can’t say fine things to them; they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle; but, to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.

HASTINGS. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to marry?

MARLOW. Never; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were to

be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, Madam, will you marry me? No, no, that’s a strain much above me, I assure you.

HASTINGS. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father?

MARLOW. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low, answer yes or no to all her demands–But for the rest, I don’t think I shall venture

to look in her face till I see my father’s again.

HASTINGS. I’m surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover.

MARLOW. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss

Neville loves you, the family don’t know you; as my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest.

HASTINGS. My dear Marlow! But I’ll suppress the emotion. Were I a

wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville’s person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father’s consent, and her own inclination.

MARLOW. Happy man! You have talents and art to captivate any woman.

I’m doom’d to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner’s ‘prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane. Pshaw! this fellow here to interrupt us.

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It’s not my way, you see,

to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of.

MARLOW. (Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To HASTINGS.) I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

HARDCASTLE. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you’ll use no ceremony in this house.

HASTINGS. I fancy, Charles, you’re right: the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.

HARDCASTLE. Mr. Marlow–Mr. Hastings–gentlemen–pray be under no constraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do

just as you please here.

MARLOW. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the

embroidery to secure a retreat.

HARDCASTLE. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison—-

MARLOW. Don’t you think the ventre d’or waistcoat will do with the plain brown?

HARDCASTLE. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men—-

HASTINGS. I think not: brown and yellow mix but very poorly.

HARDCASTLE. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, be summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men—-

MARLOW. The girls like finery.

HARDCASTLE. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to

him–you must have heard of George Brooks–I’ll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So—-

MARLOW. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the mean time; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour.

HARDCASTLE. Punch, sir! (Aside.) This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with.

MARLOW. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you know.

HARDCASTLE. Here’s a cup, sir.

MARLOW. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let

us have just what he pleases.

HARDCASTLE. (Taking the cup.) I hope you’ll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you’ll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [Drinks.]

MARLOW. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this! but he’s a character, and I’ll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.]

HASTINGS. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he’s an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman.

MARLOW. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work,

now and then, at elections, I suppose.

HARDCASTLE. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there is no business “for us that sell ale.”

HASTINGS. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find.

HARDCASTLE. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding

myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about

Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croker. Sir, my service to you.

HASTINGS. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it.

HARDCASTLE. I do stir about a great deal, that’s certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour.

MARLOW. (After drinking.) And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-hall.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.

MARLOW. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper’s philosophy.

HASTINGS. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with

this. Here’s your health, my philosopher. [Drinks.]

HARDCASTLE. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear.

MARLOW. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it’s almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper?

HARDCASTLE. For supper, sir! (Aside.) Was ever such a request to a man in his own house?

MARLOW. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. (To him.) Why, really, sir, as for supper I can’t well tell. My

Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.

MARLOW. You do, do you?

HARDCASTLE. Entirely. By the bye, I believe they are in actual

consultation upon what’s for supper this moment in the kitchen.

MARLOW. Then I beg they’ll admit me as one of their privy council. It’s a way I have got. When I travel, I always chose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence I hope, sir.

HARDCASTLE. O no, sir, none in the least; yet I don’t know how; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house.

HASTINGS. Let’s see your list of the larder then. I ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.

MARLOW. (To HARDCASTLE, who looks at them with surprise.) Sir, he’s very right, and it’s my way too.

HARDCASTLE. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night’s supper: I believe it’s drawn

out–Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper

till he had eaten it.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) All upon the high rope! His uncle a colonel! we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let’s

hear the bill of fare.

MARLOW. (Perusing.) What’s here? For the first course; for the second course; for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you think we have

brought down a whole Joiners’ Company, or the corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do.

HASTINGS. But let’s hear it.

MARLOW. (Reading.) For the first course, at the top, a pig and prune sauce.

HASTINGS. Damn your pig, I say.

MARLOW. And damn your prune sauce, say I.

HARDCASTLE. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with prune sauce is very good eating.

MARLOW. At the bottom, a calf’s tongue and brains.

HASTINGS. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I don’t like them.

MARLOW. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. I do.

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. (To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen?

MARLOW. Item, a pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff–taff–taffety cream.

HASTINGS. Confound your made dishes; I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador’s table. I’m for plain eating.

HARDCASTLE. I’m sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but if there be anything you have a particular fancy to—-

MARLOW. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of.

HARDCASTLE. I entreat you’ll leave that to me. You shall not stir a step.

MARLOW. Leave that to you! I protest, sir, you must excuse me, I always look to these things myself.

HARDCASTLE. I must insist, sir, you’ll make yourself easy on that head.

MARLOW. You see I’m resolved on it. (Aside.) A very troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with.

HARDCASTLE. Well, sir, I’m resolved at least to attend you. (Aside.) This may be modem modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. [Exeunt MARLOW and HARDCASTLE.]

HASTINGS. (Alone.) So I find this fellow’s civilities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant to please him? Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that’s happy!

Enter MISS NEVILLE.

MISS NEVILLE. My dear Hastings! To what unexpected good fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting?

HASTINGS. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never have

hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn.

MISS NEVILLE. An inn! sure you mistake: my aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to think this house an inn?

HASTINGS. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us hither.

MISS NEVILLE. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin’s tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often; ha! ha! ha!

HASTINGS. He whom your aunt intends for you? he of whom I have such just apprehensions?

MISS NEVILLE. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You’d adore him, if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she has made a conquest.

HASTINGS. Thou dear dissembler! You must know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend’s visit here to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they’ll soon be refreshed; and then,

if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon

be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws of marriage are respected.

MISS NEVILLE. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The

greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I’m very near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours.

HASTINGS. Perish the baubles! Your person is all I desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for execution.

MISS NEVILLE. But how shall we keep him in the deception? Miss Hardcastle is just returned from walking; what if we still continue to deceive him?—-This, this way [They confer.]

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. The assiduities of these good people teaze me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he

claps not only himself, but his old-fashioned wife, on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gantlet through all the rest of the family.–What have we got here?

HASTINGS. My dear Charles! Let me congratulate you!–The most fortunate accident!–Who do you think is just alighted?

MARLOW. Cannot guess.

HASTINGS. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn’t it lucky?

eh!

MARLOW. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and here comes something to complete my embarrassment.

HASTINGS. Well, but wasn’t it the most fortunate thing in the world?

MARLOW. Oh! yes. Very fortunate–a most joyful encounter–But our dresses, George, you know are in disorder–What if we should postpone the happiness till to-morrow?–To-morrow at her own house–It will be every bit as convenient–and rather more respectful–To-morrow let it

be. [Offering to go.]

MISS NEVILLE. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your impatience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her.

MARLOW. O! the devil! how shall I support it? Hem! hem! Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it! I’ll take courage. Hem!

HASTINGS. Pshaw, man! it’s but the first plunge, and all’s over. She’s but a woman, you know.

MARLOW. And, of all women, she that I dread most to encounter.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking, a bonnet, etc.

HASTINGS. (Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. Marlow. I’m proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. (After a pause, in which he

appears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I’m glad of your safe arrival, sir. I’m told you had some accidents by the way.

MARLOW. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be sorry–madam–or rather glad of any

accidents–that are so agreeably concluded. Hem!

HASTINGS. (To him.) You never spoke better in your whole life. Keep it up, and I’ll insure you the victory.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I’m afraid you flatter, sir. You that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country.

MARLOW. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam; but I have kept very little company. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it.

MISS NEVILLE. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last.

HASTINGS. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever.

MARLOW. (To him.) Hem! Stand by me, then, and when I’m down, throw

in a word or two, to set me up again.

MISS HARDCASTLE. An observer, like you, upon life were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve.

MARLOW. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness.

HASTINGS. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going

to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass the interview.

MARLOW. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company of all things. (To him.) Zounds! George, sure you won’t go? how can you leave us?

HASTINGS. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we’ll retire to the next room. (To him.) You don’t consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. (after a pause). But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir: the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses.

MARLOW. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I–I–I–as yet have studied–only–to–deserve them.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them.

MARLOW. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex. But I’m afraid I grow tiresome.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Not at all, sir; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart.

MARLOW. It’s—-a disease of the mind, madam. In the variety of

tastes there must be some who, wanting a relish—-for—-um–a–um.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they

are incapable of tasting.

MARLOW. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can’t help observing—-a—-

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon some occasions? (To him.) You were going to observe, sir—-

MARLOW. I was observing, madam–I protest, madam, I forget what I was going to observe.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy–something about hypocrisy, sir.

MARLOW. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few who upon strict inquiry do not–a–a–a–

MISS HARDCASTLE. I understand you perfectly, sir.

MARLOW. (Aside.) Egad! and that’s more than I do myself.

MISS HARDCASTLE. You mean that in this hypocritical age there are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, and think

they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it.

MARLOW. True, madam; those who have most virtue in their mouths, have

least of it in their bosoms. But I’m sure I tire you, madam.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Not in the least, sir; there’s something so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force–pray, sir, go on.

MARLOW. Yes, madam. I was saying that there are some occasions,

when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the and puts

us—-upon a–a–a–

MISS HARDCASTLE. I agree with you entirely; a want of courage upon some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you’ll proceed.

MARLOW. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam–But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on.

MARLOW. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam,

shall I do myself the honour to attend you?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Well, then, I’ll follow.

MARLOW. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. [Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! Was there ever such a sober, sentimental interview? I’m certain he scarce looked in my face the

whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a

little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody?–That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit.]

Enter TONY and MISS NEVILLE, followed by MRS. HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS.

TONY. What do you follow me for, cousin Con? I wonder you’re not ashamed to be so very engaging.

MISS NEVILLE. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one’s own relations, and not be to blame.

TONY. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me, though; but it won’t do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won’t do; so I beg you’ll keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. [She follows, coquetting him to the back scene.]

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertaining. There’s nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself.

HASTINGS. Never there! You amaze me! From your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St.

James’s, or Tower Wharf.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. O! sir, you’re only pleased to say so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I’m in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places where the nobility chiefly resort? All I

can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane.

Pray how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings?

HASTINGS. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the Ladies’ Memorandum-book for the last year.

HASTINGS. Indeed! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a City Ball.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the crowd.

HASTINGS. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. (Bowing.)

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle: all I can say will

never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to

plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder.

HASTINGS. You are right, madam; for, as among the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are none old.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. But what do you think his answer was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig,

to convert it into a tete for my own wearing.

HASTINGS. Intolerable! At your age you may wear what you please, and

it must become you.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashionable age about town?

HASTINGS. Some time ago, forty was all the mode; but I’m told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion.

HASTINGS. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she’s past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere maker of samplers.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all.

HASTINGS. Your niece, is she? And that young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should presume?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other.

Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a day, as

if they were man and wife already. (To them.) Well, Tony, child, what

soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening?

TONY. I have been saying no soft things; but that it’s very hard to be followed about so. Ecod! I’ve not a place in the house now that’s left to myself, but the stable.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Never mind him, Con, my dear. He’s in another story behind your back.

MISS NEVILLE. There’s something generous in my cousin’s manner. He falls out before faces to be forgiven in private.

TONY. That’s a damned confounded–crack.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ah! he’s a sly one. Don’t you think they are like each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T.

They’re of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony.

TONY. You had as good not make me, I tell you. (Measuring.)

MISS NEVILLE. O lud! he has almost cracked my head.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. O, the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, and

behave so!

TONY. If I’m a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod! I’ll not be made a fool of no longer.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I’m to get for the pains I have taken in your education? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon! Did not I work that waistcoat to make you genteel? Did not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating?

TONY. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the Complete Huswife ten times over; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincy next spring. But, ecod! I tell you, I’ll not be made a fool of

no longer.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Wasn’t it all for your good, viper? Wasn’t it all for your good?

TONY. I wish you’d let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way when I’m in spirits. If I’m to have any good, let it come of itself;

not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. That’s false; I never see you when you’re in

spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse or kennel. I’m never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster!

TONY. Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was ever the like? But I see he wants to break my heart, I see he does.

HASTINGS. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a little. I’m certain I can persuade him to his duty.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation: was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy? [Exeunt MRS. HARDCASTLE and MISS NEVILLE.]

TONY. (Singing.) “There was a young man riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee.” Don’t mind her. Let her cry.

It’s the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together; and they said they liked the book the better the more it made them cry.

HASTINGS. Then you’re no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman?

TONY. That’s as I find ‘um.

HASTINGS. Not to her of your mother’s choosing, I dare answer? And yet she appears to me a pretty well-tempered girl.

TONY. That’s because you don’t know her as well as I. Ecod! I know every inch about her; and there’s not a more bitter cantankerous toad in all Christendom.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover!

TONY. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day’s breaking.

HASTINGS. To me she appears sensible and silent.

TONY. Ay, before company. But when she’s with her playmate, she’s as loud as a hog in a gate.

HASTINGS. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me.

TONY. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you’re flung in a ditch.

HASTINGS. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty.–Yes, you must allow her some beauty.

TONY. Bandbox! She’s all a made-up thing, mun. Ah! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she

has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She’d make two of she.

HASTINGS. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bitter bargain off your hands?

TONY. Anon.

HASTINGS. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy?

TONY. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would take her?

HASTINGS. I am he. If you but assist me, I’ll engage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her.

TONY. Assist you! Ecod I will, to the last drop of my blood. I’ll clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a

twinkling, and may be get you a part of her fortin beside, in jewels, that you little dream of.

HASTINGS. My dear ‘squire, this looks like a lad of spirit.

TONY. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you have done with me.

(Singing.)

“We are the boys That fears no noise

Where the thundering cannons roar.” [Exeunt.]

ACT THE THIRD.

Enter HARDCASTLE, alone.

HARDCASTLE. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took off his

boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I’m desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shocked at it.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed.

HARDCASTLE. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bade you; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety.

HARDCASTLE. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day.

MISS HARDCASTLE. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description.

HARDCASTLE. I was never so surprised in my life! He has quite confounded all my faculties!

MISS HARDCASTLE. I never saw anything like it: and a man of the world too!

HARDCASTLE. Ay, he learned it all abroad–what a fool was I, to think

a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade.

MISS HARDCASTLE. It seems all natural to him.

HARDCASTLE. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French dancing-master.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sure you mistake, papa! A French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look–that awkward address–that bashful manner–

HARDCASTLE. Whose look? whose manner, child?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Mr. Marlow’s: his mauvaise honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight.

HARDCASTLE. Then your first sight deceived you; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sure, sir, you rally! I never saw any one so modest.

HARDCASTLE. And can you be serious? I never saw such a bouncing,

swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Surprising! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground.

HARDCASTLE. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again.

MISS HARDCASTLE. He treated me with diffidence and respect; censured the manners of the age; admired the prudence of girls that never

laughed; tired me with apologies for being tiresome; then left the room with a bow, and “Madam, I would not for the world detain you.”

HARDCASTLE. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer; interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun; and when I was in my best story of

the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a

maker of punch!

MISS HARDCASTLE. One of us must certainly be mistaken.

HARDCASTLE. If he be what he has shown himself, I’m determined he shall never have my consent.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine.

HARDCASTLE. In one thing then we are agreed–to reject him.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes: but upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming–if you find him more respectful,

and I more importunate–I don’t know–the fellow is well enough for a man–Certainly, we don’t meet many such at a horse-race in the country.

HARDCASTLE. If we should find him so But that’s impossible. The

first appearance has done my business. I’m seldom deceived in that.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow’s outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my good sense, won’t end with a sneer at my understanding?

HARDCASTLE. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to make further discoveries?

HARDCASTLE. Agreed. But depend on’t I’m in the right.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And depend on’t I’m not much in the wrong. [Exeunt.]

Enter Tony, running in with a casket.

TONY. Ecod! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con’s necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan’t cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O! my genus, is that you?

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing to be reconciled at last? Our horses will be refreshed

in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off.

TONY. And here’s something to bear your charges by the way (giving the casket); your sweetheart’s jewels. Keep them: and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them.

HASTINGS. But how have you procured them from your mother?

TONY. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother’s

bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do? An honest man may rob himself of his own at any time.

HASTINGS. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you; Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of obtaining them.

TONY. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough; she’d as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head.

HASTINGS. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost them.

TONY. Never you mind her resentment, leave ME to manage that. I

don’t value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds! here they are. Morrice! Prance! [Exit HASTINGS.]

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MISS NEVILLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years

hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs.

MISS NEVILLE. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don’t you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back.

MISS NEVILLE. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? does your cousin Con. want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty?

TONY. That’s as thereafter may be.

MISS NEVILLE. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things.

They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe, I can’t readily come at them. They may be missing, for aught I know to the contrary.

TONY. (Apart to MRS. HARDCASTLE.) Then why don’t you tell her so at once, as she’s so longing for them? Tell her they’re lost. It’s the

only way to quiet her. Say they’re lost, and call me to bear witness.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Apart to TONY.) You know, my dear, I’m only keeping them for you. So if I say they’re gone, you’ll bear me witness, will you? He! he! he!

TONY. Never fear me. Ecod! I’ll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes.

MISS NEVILLE. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them you should have them. They’re missing, I assure you. Lost,

for aught I know; but we must have patience wherever they are.

MISS NEVILLE. I’ll not believe it! this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss–

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Don’t be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to

be found.

TONY. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found; I’ll take my oath on’t.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. You must learn resignation, my dear; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how

calm I am.

MISS NEVILLE. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a

thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them; and in the mean time you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found.

MISS NEVILLE. I detest garnets.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. The most becoming things in the world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You SHALL have them. [Exit.]

MISS NEVILLE. I dislike them of all things. You shan’t stir.–Was

ever anything so provoking, to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her trumpery?

TONY. Don’t be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he’ll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her.

MISS NEVILLE. My dear cousin!

TONY. Vanish. She’s here, and has missed them already. [Exit MISS NEVILLE.] Zounds! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel.

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Confusion! thieves! robbers! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone.

TONY. What’s the matter, what’s the matter, mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I’m undone.

TONY. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the laws, I never saw it acted better in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! ha! ha!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Why, boy, I AM ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away.

TONY. Stick to that: ha! ha! ha! stick to that. I’ll bear witness, you know; call me to bear witness.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I tell you, Tony, by all that’s precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever.

TONY. Sure I know they’re gone, and I’m to say so.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They’re gone, I say.

TONY. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha! ha! I know who took them well enough, ha! ha! ha!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can’t tell the difference between jest and earnest? I tell you I’m not in jest,

booby.

TONY. That’s right, that’s right; you must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I’ll bear witness that they are gone.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won’t hear me? Can you bear witness that you’re no better than a fool? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other?

TONY. I can bear witness to that.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I’ll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her?

Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress?

TONY. I can bear witness to that.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Do you insult me, monster? I’ll teach you to vex your mother, I will.

TONY. I can bear witness to that. [He runs off, she follows him.]

Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and Maid.

MISS HARDCASTLE. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at

his impudence.

MAID. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the bar-maid, madam.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Did he? Then as I live, I’m resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress? Don’t

you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem?

MAID. It’s the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but

when she visits or receives company.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person?

MAID. Certain of it.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I vow, I thought so; for, though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me.

MAID. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake?

MISS HARDCASTLE. In the first place I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that’s no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is, to take my gentleman off his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant’s force before I offer to combat.

MAID. But you are sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant–Did your honour call?–Attend the Lion there–Pipes and tobacco for the Angel.–The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour.

MAID. It will do, madam. But he’s here. [Exit MAID.]

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. What a bawling in every part of the house! I have scarce a moment’s repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and

his story: if I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her curtsey down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollection. [Walks and muses.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. Did you call, sir? Did your honour call?

MARLOW. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she’s too grave and sentimental for me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Did your honour call? (She still places herself before him, he turning away.)

MARLOW. No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the glimpse I had of her,

I think she squints.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I’m sure, sir, I heard the bell ring.

MARLOW. No, no. (Musing.) I have pleased my father, however, by coming down, and I’ll to-morrow please myself by returning. [Taking out his tablets, and perusing.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir?

MARLOW. I tell you, no.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a parcel of servants!

MARLOW. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full in her face.) Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted–I wanted–I vow, child, you are vastly handsome.

MISS HARDCASTLE. O la, sir, you’ll make one ashamed.

MARLOW. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear,

I did call. Have you got any of your–a–what d’ye call it in the house?

MISS HARDCASTLE. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days.

MARLOW. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of a trial, of the nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Nectar! nectar! That’s a liquor there’s no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We sell no French wines here, sir.

MARLOW. Of true English growth, I assure you.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then it’s odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years.

MARLOW. Eighteen years! Why, one would think, child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you?

MISS HARDCASTLE. O! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated.

MARLOW. To guess at this distance, you can’t be much above forty (approaching). Yet, nearer, I don’t think so much (approaching). By

coming close to some women they look younger still; but when we come very close indeed–(attempting to kiss her).

MISS HARDCASTLE. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one’s age, as they do horses, by mark of mouth.

MARLOW. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted?

MISS HARDCASTLE. And who wants to be acquainted with you? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I’m sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle,

that was here awhile ago, in this obstropalous manner. I’ll warrant

me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a justice of peace.

MARLOW. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough! (To her.) In awe of her, child? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward squinting thing; no, no. I find you don’t know me. I laughed and rallied her a little; but

I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me!

MISS HARDCASTLE. O! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies?

MARLOW. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet hang me, I don’t see

what they find in me to follow. At the Ladies’ Club in town I’m called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one

I’m known by. My name is Solomons; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. (Offering to salute her.)

MISS HARDCASTLE. Hold, sir; you are introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you’re so great a favourite there, you say?

MARLOW. Yes, my dear. There’s Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then it’s a very merry place, I suppose?

MARLOW. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women can make us.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! ha! ha!

MARLOW. (Aside.) Egad! I don’t quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child?

MISS HARDCASTLE. I can’t but laugh, to think what time they all have for minding their work or their family.

MARLOW. (Aside.) All’s well; she don’t laugh at me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure. There’s not a screen or quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that.

MARLOW. Odso! then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you

must apply to me. (Seizing her hand.)

MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, but the colours do not look well by candlelight. You shall see all in the morning. (Struggling.)

MARLOW. And why not now, my angel? Such beauty fires beyond the power of resistance.–Pshaw! the father here! My old luck: I never nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace three times following.

[Exit MARLOW.]

Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise.

HARDCASTLE. So, madam. So, I find THIS is your MODEST lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive

your father so?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Never trust me, dear papa, but he’s still the modest man I first took him for; you’ll be convinced of it as well as I.

HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious! Didn’t I see him seize your hand? Didn’t I see him haul you about like a milkmaid? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth!

MISS HARDCASTLE. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that

will improve with age, I hope you’ll forgive him.

HARDCASTLE. The girl would actually make one run mad! I tell you, I’ll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce been three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it modesty; but my son-in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you.

HARDCASTLE. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy you.

HARDCASTLE. Well, an hour let it be then. But I’ll have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt.]

ACT THE FOURTH.

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.

HASTINGS. You surprise me; Sir Charles Marlow expected here this night! Where have you had your information?

MISS NEVILLE. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few hours after his son.

HASTINGS. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He knows me; and should he find me here, would discover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family.

MISS NEVILLE. The jewels, I hope, are safe?

HASTINGS. Yes, yes, I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, I’ll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had the ‘squire’s promise of a fresh pair of horses;

and if I should not see him again, will write him further directions. [Exit.]

MISS NEVILLE. Well! success attend you. In the mean time I’ll go and amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit.]

Enter MARLOW, followed by a Servant.

MARLOW. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the only place I have

is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you? Have you put it into her own hands?

SERVANT. Yes, your honour.

MARLOW. She said she’d keep it safe, did she?

SERVANT. Yes, she said she’d keep it safe enough; she asked me how I came by it; and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. [Exit Servant.]

MARLOW. Ha! ha! ha! They’re safe, however. What an unaccountable set of beings have we got amongst! This little bar-maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of

the family. She’s mine, she must be mine, or I’m greatly mistaken.

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. Bless me! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too!

MARLOW. Give me joy, George! Crown me, shadow me with laurels! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don’t want for success among the women.

HASTINGS. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour’s modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent upon us?

MARLOW. Didn’t you see the tempting, brisk, lovely little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle?

HASTINGS. Well, and what then?

MARLOW. She’s mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips; but, egad! she would not let me kiss them though.

HASTINGS. But are you so sure, so very sure of her?

MARLOW. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and I am to improve the pattern.

HASTINGS. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honour?

MARLOW. Pshaw! pshaw! We all know the honour of the bar-maid of an inn. I don’t intend to rob her, take my word for it; there’s nothing

in this house I shan’t honestly pay for.

HASTINGS. I believe the girl has virtue.

MARLOW. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it.

HASTINGS. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up? Is it in safety?

MARLOW. Yes, yes. It’s safe enough. I have taken care of it. But

how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety? Ah! numskull! I have taken better precautions for you than you did for yourself—-I have—-

HASTINGS. What?

MARLOW. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you.

HASTINGS. To the landlady!

MARLOW. The landlady.

HASTINGS. You did?

MARLOW. I did. She’s to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know.

HASTINGS. Yes, she’ll bring it forth with a witness.

MARLOW. Wasn’t I right? I believe you’ll allow that I acted

prudently upon this occasion.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness.

MARLOW. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nothing has happened?

HASTINGS. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge.

MARLOW. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! ha!

HASTINGS. He! he! he! They’re safe, however.

MARLOW. As a guinea in a miser’s purse.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him.) Well, Charles, I’ll leave you to

your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he! he! he! may you be as successful for yourself, as you have been for me! [Exit.]

MARLOW. Thank ye, George: I ask no more. Ha! ha! ha!

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. I no longer know my own house. It’s turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I’ll bear it no longer; and yet, from my respect for his father, I’ll be calm. (To him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I’m your very humble servant. (Bowing low.)

MARLOW. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) What’s to be the wonder now?

HARDCASTLE. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your father’s son, sir. I hope you think so?

MARLOW. I do from my soul, sir. I don’t want much entreaty. I generally make my father’s son welcome wherever he goes.

HARDCASTLE. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable.

Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you.

MARLOW. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault of mine. If they don’t drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. (To the side scene.) Here,

let one of my servants come up. (To him.) My positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiencies below.

HARDCASTLE. Then they had your orders for what they do? I’m satisfied!

MARLOW. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves.

Enter Servant, drunk.

MARLOW. You, Jeremy! Come forward, sirrah! What were my orders? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit,

for the good of the house?

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience.

JEREMY. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever! Though I’m but a servant, I’m as good as another man. I’ll drink for

no man before supper, sir, damme! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon—-hiccup on my

conscience, sir.

MARLOW. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don’t know what you’d have more, unless you’d have the poor devil soused in a beer-barrel.

HARDCASTLE. Zounds! he’ll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow–Sir; I have submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I’m

now resolved to be master here, sir; and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly.

MARLOW. Leave your house! Sure you jest, my good friend! What?

when I’m doing what I can to please you.

HARDCASTLE. I tell you, sir, you don’t please me; so I desire you’ll leave my house.

MARLOW. Sure you cannot be serious? At this time o’ night, and such a night? You only mean to banter me.

HARDCASTLE. I tell you, sir, I’m serious! and now that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, sir; this house is mine, and I

command you to leave it directly.

MARLOW. Ha! ha! ha! A puddle in a storm. I shan’t stir a step, I assure you. (In a serious tone.) This your house, fellow! It’s my house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me leave this house, sir? I never met with such impudence, curse me; never in my whole life before.

HARDCASTLE. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the

family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, “This house is mine, sir.” By all that’s impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, sir (bantering), as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture? There’s a pair of silver candlesticks, and there’s a fire-screen, and here’s a pair of

brazen-nosed bellows; perhaps you may take a fancy to them?

MARLOW. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your bill, and let’s make no more words about it.

HARDCASTLE. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the Rake’s Progress, for your own apartment?

MARLOW. Bring me your bill, I say; and I’ll leave you and your infernal house directly.

HARDCASTLE. Then there’s a mahogany table that you may see your own face in.

MARLOW. My bill, I say.

HARDCASTLE. I had forgot the great chair for your own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal.

MARLOW. Zounds! bring me my bill, I say, and let’s hear no more on’t.

HARDCASTLE. Young man, young man, from your father’s letter to me, I was taught to expect a well-bred modest man as a visitor here, but now

I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. [Exit.]

MARLOW. How’s this? Sure I have not mistaken the house. Everything looks like an inn. The servants cry, coming; the attendance is awkward; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she’s here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child? A word with you.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Let it be short, then. I’m in a hurry. (Aside.) I

believe be begins to find out his mistake. But it’s too soon quite to undeceive him.

MARLOW. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may your business in this house be?

MISS HARDCASTLE. A relation of the family, sir.

MARLOW. What, a poor relation.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir. A poor relation, appointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them.

MARLOW. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Inn! O law what brought that in your head? One

of the best families in the country keep an inn–Ha! ha! ha! old Mr. Hardcastle’s house an inn!

MARLOW. Mr. Hardcastle’s house! Is this Mr. Hardcastle’s house, child?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure! Whose else should it be?

MARLOW. So then, all’s out, and I have been damnably imposed on. O, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The DULLISSIMO MACCARONI. To mistake this house of all others for an inn, and my father’s old friend for an innkeeper! What a swaggering puppy must he take me for! What a silly puppy do I find myself! There again, may I

be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for the bar-maid.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Dear me! dear me! I’m sure there’s nothing in my BEHAVIOUR to put me on a level with one of that stamp.

MARLOW. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of

blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. But it’s over. This house I no more

show MY face in.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. I’m sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I’m sure I should be

sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account. I’m sure I should be sorry if people said anything amiss, since I have no fortune but my character.

MARLOW. (Aside.) By Heaven! she weeps. This is the first mark of

tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. (To her.) Excuse me, my lovely girl; you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, makes an honourable connexion impossible; and I can never harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Generous man! I now begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle’s; and though I’m poor, that’s no great misfortune to a contented mind; and,

until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune.

MARLOW. And why now, my pretty simplicity?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Because it puts me at a distance from one that, if I had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to.

MARLOW. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay, I’m undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. (To her.) Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly: and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a

father; so that–I can scarcely speak it–it affects me. Farewell. [Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to detain him. I’ll still preserve the

character in which I STOOPED TO CONQUER; but will undeceive my papa, who perhaps may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit.]

Enter Tony and MISS NEVILLE.

TONY. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that’s a sure thing; but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants.

MISS NEVILLE. But, my dear cousin, sure you won’t forsake us in this distress? If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree’s, which is ten times worse.

TONY. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad things. But what can I do? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like

Whistle-jacket; and I’m sure you can’t say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two more, for fear she should suspect us. [They retire, and seem to fondle.]

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan’t be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do I see? fondling together, as I’m alive. I never

saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah! have I caught you, my pretty doves? What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken murmurs? Ah!

TONY. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then, to be sure. But there’s no love lost between us.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter.

MISS NEVILLE. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan’t leave us any more. It won’t leave us, cousin Tony, will it?

TONY. O! it’s a pretty creature. No, I’d sooner leave my horse in a

pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming.

MISS NEVILLE. Agreeable cousin! Who can help admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless (patting his cheek)–ah! it’s a bold face.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pretty innocence!

TONY. I’m sure I always loved cousin Con.’s hazle eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ah! he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr.

Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con., shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. Isn’t he a sweet boy, my dear? You shall be married to-morrow, and we’ll put off the rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy’s sermons, to a fitter opportunity.

Enter DIGGORY.

DIGGORY. Where’s the ‘squire? I have got a letter for your worship.

TONY. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first.

DIGGORY. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands.

TONY. Who does it come from?

DIGGORY. Your worship mun ask that o’ the letter itself.

TONY. I could wish to know though (turning the letter, and gazing on it).

MISS NEVILLE. (Aside.) Undone! undone! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I’ll keep her employed a little if I can. (To MRS.

HARDCASTLE.) But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin’s smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed.–You must know, madam.–This way a little, for he must not hear us. [They confer.]

TONY. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here are

such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the tail.–“To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire.” It’s very odd, I can

read the outside of my letters, where my own name is, well enough; but when I come to open it, it’s all buzz. That’s hard, very hard; for

the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher.

MISS NEVILLE. Yes, madam; but you must hear the rest, madam. A

little more this way, or he may hear us. You’ll hear how he puzzled him again.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks.

TONY. (Still gazing.) A damned up and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor.–(Reading.) Dear Sir,–ay, that’s that. Then

there’s an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. What’s that, my dear? Can I give you any assistance?

MISS NEVILLE. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand better than I. (Twitching the letter from him.) Do you know who it is from?

TONY. Can’t tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder.

MISS NEVILLE. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to read.) Dear ‘Squire, hoping that you’re in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen

of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds–um–odd battle–um–long fighting–um–here, here,

it’s all about cocks and fighting; it’s of no consequence; here, put it up, put it up. (Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.)

TONY. But I tell you, miss, it’s of all the consequence in the world.

I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you

make it out. Of no consequence! (Giving MRS. HARDCASTLE the letter.)

MRS. HARDCASTLE. How’s this?–(Reads.) “Dear ‘Squire, I’m now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you’ll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the HAG (ay, the hag), your mother, will otherwise suspect us! Yours, Hastings.” Grant me patience. I shall run distracted! My rage chokes me.

MISS NEVILLE. I hope, madam, you’ll suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design,

that belongs to another.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Curtseying very low.) Fine spoken, madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of

courtesy and circumspection, madam. (Changing her tone.) And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut: were you, too, joined against me? But I’ll defeat all your plots

in a moment. As for you, madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off with ME. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I’ll

warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory! I’ll show you, that I wish you better than you do yourselves. [Exit.]

MISS NEVILLE. So now I’m completely ruined.

TONY. Ay, that’s a sure thing.

MISS NEVILLE. What better could be expected from being connected with such a stupid fool,–and after all the nods and signs I made him?

TONY. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you could never be making believe.

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman?

TONY. Here’s another. Ask miss there, who betrayed you. Ecod, it was her doing, not mine.

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. So I have been finely used here among you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at.

TONY. Here’s another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose presently.

MISS NEVILLE. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation.

MARLOW. What can I say to him, a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection?

HASTINGS. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction.

MISS NEVILLE. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself merry with all our embarrassments.

HASTINGS. An insensible cub.

MARLOW. Replete with tricks and mischief.

TONY. Baw! damme, but I’ll fight you both, one after the other with baskets.

MARLOW. As for him, he’s below resentment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me.

HASTINGS. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this a time for explanations? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow.

MARLOW. But, sir—-

MISS NEVILLE. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake till it was too late to undeceive you.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. My mistress desires you’ll get ready immediately, madam. The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We

are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant.]

MISS NEVILLE. Well, well: I’ll come presently.

MARLOW. (To HASTINGS.) Was it well done, sir, to assist in rendering me ridiculous? To hang me out for the scorn of all my acquaintance?

Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation.

HASTINGS. Was it well done, sir, if you’re upon that subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care of another sir?

MISS NEVILLE. Mr. Hastings! Mr. Marlow! Why will you increase my distress by this groundless dispute? I implore, I entreat you—-

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient. [Exit Servant.]

MISS NEVILLE. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waiting.

MISS NEVILLE. O, Mr. Marlow! if you knew what a scene of constraint

and ill-nature lies before me, I’m sure it would convert your resentment into pity.

MARLOW. I’m so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don’t

know what I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it.

HASTINGS. The torture of my situation is my only excuse.

MISS NEVILLE. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years

will but increase the happiness of our future connexion. If—-

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Within.) Miss Neville. Constance, why Constance, I say.

MISS NEVILLE. I’m coming. Well, constancy, remember, constancy is the word. [Exit.]

HASTINGS. My heart! how can I support this? To be so near happiness, and such happiness!

MARLOW. (To Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your folly. What might be amusement to you, is here disappointment, and

even distress.

TONY. (From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it. It’s here. Your

hands. Yours and yours, my poor Sulky!–My boots there, ho!–Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden; and if you don’t find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I’ll give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho! [Exeunt.]

ACT THE FIFTH.

(SCENE continued.)

Enter HASTINGS and Servant.

HASTINGS. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say?

SERVANT. Yes, your honour. They went off in a post-coach, and the young ‘squire went on horseback. They’re thirty miles off by this time.

HASTINGS. Then all my hopes are over.

SERVANT. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles has arrived. He and the old

gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow’s mistake this half hour. They are coming this way.

HASTINGS. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. [Exit.]

Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his sublime commands!

SIR CHARLES. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your advances.

HARDCASTLE. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common innkeeper, too.

SIR CHARLES. Yes, Dick, but be mistook you for an uncommon innkeeper, ha! ha! ha!

HARDCASTLE. Well, I’m in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships hereditary; and though my daughter’s fortune is

but small–

SIR CHARLES. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to ME? My son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they

like each other, as you say they do–

HARDCASTLE. IF, man! I tell you they DO like each other. My daughter as good as told me so.

SIR CHARLES. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know.

HARDCASTLE. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself; and here he comes to put you out of your IFS, I warrant him.

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion.

HARDCASTLE. Tut, boy, a trifle! You take it too gravely. An hour or two’s laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She’ll never like you the worse for it.

MARLOW. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation.

HARDCASTLE. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow; if I am not deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me?

MARLOW. Really, sir, I have not that happiness.

HARDCASTLE. Come, boy, I’m an old fellow, and know what’s what as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between you; but mum.

MARLOW. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You don’t think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest

of the family.

HARDCASTLE. Impudence! No, I don’t say that–not quite impudence–though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you.

MARLOW. I never gave her the slightest cause.

HARDCASTLE. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father

and I will like you all the better for it.

MARLOW. May I die, sir, if I ever—-

HARDCASTLE. I tell you, she don’t dislike you; and as I’m sure you like her—-

MARLOW. Dear sir–I protest, sir—-

HARDCASTLE. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you.

MARLOW. But hear me, sir–

HARDCASTLE. Your father approves the match, I admire it; every moment’s delay will be doing mischief. So–

MARLOW. But why won’t you hear me? By all that’s just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting.

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) This fellow’s formal modest impudence is beyond bearing.

SIR CHARLES. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations?

MARLOW. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you’ll exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor

prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifications. [Exit.]

SIR CHARLES. I’m astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted.

HARDCASTLE. And I’m astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his assurance.

SIR CHARLES. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth.

HARDCASTLE. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her veracity.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and

without reserve: has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection?

MISS HARDCASTLE. The question is very abrupt, sir. But since you require unreserved sincerity, I think he has.

HARDCASTLE. (To SIR CHARLES.) You see.

SIR CHARLES. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one interview?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, several.

HARDCASTLE. (To SIR CHARLES.) You see.

SIR CHARLES. But did be profess any attachment?

MISS HARDCASTLE. A lasting one.

SIR CHARLES. Did he talk of love?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Much, sir.

SIR CHARLES. Amazing! And all this formally?

MISS HARDCASTLE. Formally.

HARDCASTLE. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied.

SIR CHARLES. And how did he behave, madam?

MISS HARDCASTLE. As most profest admirers do: said some civil things of my face, talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of

mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture.

SIR CHARLES. Now I’m perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his conversation among women to be modest and submissive: this forward canting ranting manner by no means describes him; and, I am confident, he never sat for the picture.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then, what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my sincerity? If you and my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in person.

SIR CHARLES. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my

happiness in him must have an end. [Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. And if you don’t find him what I describe–I fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt.]

SCENE changes to the back of the Garden.

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I’ll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he! and perhaps with

news of my Constance.

Enter Tony, booted and spattered.

HASTINGS. My honest ‘squire! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friendship.

TONY. Ay, I’m your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the bye, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach.

HASTINGS. But how? where did you leave your fellow-travellers? Are

they in safety? Are they housed?

TONY. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it: rabbit me, but I’d rather ride forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment.

HASTINGS. Well, but where have you left the ladies? I die with impatience.

TONY. Left them! Why where should I leave them but where I found them?

HASTINGS. This is a riddle.

TONY. Riddle me this then. What’s that goes round the house, and round the house, and never touches the house?

HASTINGS. I’m still astray.

TONY. Why, that’s it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo,

there’s not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste of.

HASTINGS. Ha! ha! ha! I understand: you took them in a round, while

they supposed themselves going forward, and so you have at last brought them home again.

TONY. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath; and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden.

HASTINGS. But no accident, I hope?

TONY. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She’s sick of the journey; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I’ll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you.

HASTINGS. My dear friend, how can I be grateful?

TONY. Ay, now it’s dear friend, noble ‘squire. Just now, it was all

idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn YOUR way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman.

HASTINGS. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville: if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. [Exit HASTINGS.]

TONY. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. She’s got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid.

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Oh, Tony, I’m killed! Shook! Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the

quickset hedge, has done my business.

TONY. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose

our way. Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony?

TONY. By my guess we should come upon Crackskull Common, about forty miles from home.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. O lud! O lud! The most notorious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on’t.

TONY. Don’t be afraid, mamma, don’t be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don’t be afraid.–Is that a man that’s galloping behind us? No; it’s only a tree.–Don’t be afraid.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. The fright will certainly kill me.

TONY. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the thicket?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Oh, death!

TONY. No; it’s only a cow. Don’t be afraid, mamma; don’t he afraid.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. As I’m alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah! I’m sure on’t. If he perceives us, we are undone.

TONY. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that’s unlucky, come to take one of his night walks. (To her.) Ah, it’s a highwayman with pistols as long as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Good Heaven defend us! He approaches.

TONY. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I’ll cough, and cry hem. When I cough,

be sure to keep close. (MRS. HARDCASTLE hides behind a tree in the back scene.)

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. I’m mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. Oh, Tony! is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and her charge in safety?

TONY. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree’s. Hem.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (From behind.) Ah, death! I find there’s danger.

HARDCASTLE. Forty miles in three hours; sure that’s too much, my youngster.

TONY. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (From behind.) Sure he’ll do the dear boy no harm.

HARDCASTLE. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know from whence it came.

TONY. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We’ll go in,

if you please. Hem.

HARDCASTLE. But if you talked to yourself you did not answer yourself. I’m certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (From behind.) Oh! he’s coming to find me out. Oh!

TONY. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? Hem. I’ll lay down my life for the truth–hem–I’ll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him.]

HARDCASTLE. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It’s in vain to expect I’ll believe you.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Running forward from behind.) O lud! he’ll murder my poor boy, my darling! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman; spare my child,

if you have any mercy.

HARDCASTLE. My wife, as I’m a Christian. From whence can she come? or what does she mean?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice; indeed we won’t, good Mr.

Highwayman.

HARDCASTLE. I believe the woman’s out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don’t you know ME?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mr. Hardcastle, as I’m alive! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far from home? What has brought you to follow us?

HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits? So far from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door! (To him.)

This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her.)

Don’t you know the gate, and the mulberry-tree; and don’t you remember the horse-pond, my dear?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I live; I have caught my death in it. (To TONY.) And it is to you, you

graceless varlet, I owe all this? I’ll teach you to abuse your mother, I will.

TONY. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on’t.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I’ll spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the stage. Exit.]

HARDCASTLE. There’s morality, however, in his reply. [Exit.]

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.

HASTINGS. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus? If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution,

and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity.

MISS NEVILLE. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years’ patience will at last crown us with happiness.

HASTINGS. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune! Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a

monarch’s revenue. Let me prevail!

MISS NEVILLE. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion fortune

may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I’m resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle’s compassion and justice for redress.

HASTINGS. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve you.

MISS NEVILLE. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely.

HASTINGS. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt.]

SCENE changes.

Enter SIR CHARLES and MISS HARDCASTLE.

SIR CHARLES. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I am proud of your approbation, and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he comes.

SIR CHARLES. I’ll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. [Exit SIR CHARLES.]

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (In her own natural manner.) I believe sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret.

MARLOW. (Aside.) This girl every moment improves upon me. (To her.) It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart.

My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight; and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then go, sir: I’ll urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence? I must remain contented with the slight approbation

of imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune.

Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES from behind.

SIR CHARLES. Here, behind this screen.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, ay; make no noise. I’ll engage my Kate covers him with confusion at last.

MARLOW. By heavens, madam! fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue.

SIR CHARLES. What can it mean? He amazes me!

HARDCASTLE. I told you how it would be. Hush!

MARLOW. I am now determined to stay, madam; and I have too good an opinion of my father’s discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation.

MISS HARDCASTLE. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest

room for repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion, to load you with confusion? Do you think I could

ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours?

MARLOW. By all that’s good, I can have no happiness but what’s in your power to grant me! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I must entreat you’ll desist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear

mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer?

MARLOW. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security? Does this look

like confidence? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue—-

SIR CHARLES. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting

conversation?

HARDCASTLE. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What have you to say now?

MARLOW. That I’m all amazement! What can it mean?

HARDCASTLE. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure: that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public: that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter.

MARLOW. Daughter!–This lady your daughter?

HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, my only daughter; my Kate; whose else should she be?

MARLOW. Oh, the devil!

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtseying); she that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the Ladies’ Club. Ha! ha! ha!

MARLOW. Zounds! there’s no bearing this; it’s worse than death!

MISS HARDCASTLE. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning? Ha! ha! ha!

MARLOW. O, curse on my noisy head. I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone.

HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I

tell you. I know she’ll forgive you. Won’t you forgive him, Kate? We’ll all forgive you. Take courage, man. (They retire, she tormenting him, to the back scene.)

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and Tony.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. So, so, they’re gone off. Let them go, I care not.

HARDCASTLE. Who gone?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here.

SIR CHARLES. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.

HARDCASTLE. Then, by the hand of my body, I’m proud of the connexion.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune; that remains in this family to console us for her loss.

HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary?

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, that’s my affair, not yours.

HARDCASTLE. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, but he’s not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal.

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) What, returned so soon! I begin not to like it.

HASTINGS. (To HARDCASTLE.) For my late attempt to fly off with your niece let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father’s consent,

I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty.

MISS NEVILLE. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready

to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer connexion.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a modern novel.

HARDCASTLE. Be it what it will, I’m glad they’re come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady’s hand whom I now offer you?

TONY. What signifies my refusing? You know I can’t refuse her till I’m of age, father.

HARDCASTLE. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother’s desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must

now declare you have been of age these three months.

TONY. Of age! Am I of age, father?

HARDCASTLE. Above three months.

TONY. Then you’ll see the first use I’ll make of my liberty. (Taking MISS NEVILLE’s hand.) Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So

Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again.

SIR CHARLES. O brave ‘squire!

HASTINGS. My worthy friend!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My undutiful offspring!

MARLOW. Joy, my dear George! I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be

the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.

HASTINGS. (To MISS HARDCASTLE.) Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I’m

sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.

HARDCASTLE. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don’t believe you’ll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her;

and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt Omnes.]

Tradition and the Individual Talent by T. S. Eliot _ Poetry Foundation

E S SAY O N P O E T I C T H E O RY

Tradition and the Individual Talent

BY T. S. ELIOT

Introduction

Often hailed as the successor to poet-critics such as John Dryden, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Matthew Arnold, T.S. Eliot’s literary criticism informs his poetry just as his experiences as a poet shape his critical work. Though famous for insisting on “objectivity” in art, Eliot’s essays actually map a highly personal set of preoccupations, responses and ideas about specific authors and works of art, as well as formulate more general theories on the connections between poetry, culture and society. Perhaps his best-known essay, “Tradition and the Individual Talent” was first published in 1919 and soon after included in The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (1920). Eliot attempts to do two things in this essay: he first redefines “tradition” by emphasizing the importance of history to writing and understanding poetry, and he then argues that poetry should be essentially “impersonal,” that is separate and distinct from the personality of its writer. Eliot’s idea of tradition is complex and unusual, involving something he describes as “the historical sense” which is a perception of “the pastness of the past” but also of its “presence.” For Eliot, past works of art form an order or “tradition”; however, that order is always being altered by a new work which modifies the “tradition” to make room for itself. This view, in which “the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past,” requires that a poet be familiar with almost all literary history—not just the immediate past but the distant past and not just the literature of his or her own country but the whole “mind of Europe.”

Eliot’s second point is one of his most famous and contentious. A poet, Eliot maintains, must “self-sacrifice” to this special awareness of the past; once this awareness is achieved, it will erase any trace of personality from the poetry because the poet has become a mere medium for expression. Using the analogy of a chemical

reaction, Eliot explains that a “mature” poet’s mind works by being a passive “receptacle” of images, phrases and feelings which are combined, under immense concentration, into a new “art emotion.” For Eliot, true art has nothing to do with the personal life of the artist but is merely the result of a greater ability to synthesize and combine, an ability which comes from deep study and comprehensive knowledge. Though Eliot’s belief that “Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality” sprang from what he viewed as the excesses of Romanticism, many scholars have noted how continuous Eliot’s thought—and the whole of Modernism

—is with that of the Romantics’; his “impersonal poet” even has links with John Keats, who proposed a similar figure in “the chameleon poet.” But Eliot’s belief that critical study should be “diverted” from the poet to the poetry shaped the study of poetry for half a century, and while “Tradition and the Individual Talent” has had many detractors, especially those who question Eliot’s insistence on canonical works as standards of greatness, it is difficult to overemphasize the essay’s influence. It has shaped generations of poets, critics and theorists and is a key text in modern literary criticism.

In English writing we seldom speak of tradition, though we occasionally apply its name in deploring its absence. We cannot refer to “the tradition” or to “a tradition”; at most, we employ the adjective in saying that the poetry of So-and-so is “traditional” or even “too traditional.” Seldom, perhaps, does the word appear except in a phrase of censure. If otherwise, it is vaguely approbative, with the implication, as to the work approved, of some pleasing archaeological reconstruction. You can hardly make the word agreeable to English ears without this comfortable reference to the reassuring science of archaeology.

Certainly the word is not likely to appear in our appreciations of living or dead writers. Every nation, every race, has not only its own creative, but its own critical turn of mind; and is even more oblivious of the shortcomings and limitations of its critical habits than of those of its creative genius. We know, or think we know, from the enormous mass of critical writing that has appeared in the French language the critical method or habit of the French; we only conclude (we are such unconscious people) that the French are “more critical” than we, and sometimes even plume ourselves a little with the fact, as if the French were the less spontaneous. Perhaps they are; but we might remind ourselves that criticism is as inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none the worse for articulating what passes in our minds when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, for criticizing our own minds in their work of criticism. One of the facts that might

come to light in this process is our tendency to insist, when we praise a poet, upon those aspects of his work in which he least resembles any one else. In these aspects or parts of his work we pretend to find what is individual, what is the peculiar essence of the man. We dwell with satisfaction upon the poet’s difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavour to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity.

Yet if the only form of tradition, of handing down, consisted in following the ways of the immediate generation before us in a blind or timid adherence to its successes, “tradition” should positively be discouraged. We have seen many such simple currents soon lost in the sand; and novelty is better than repetition. Tradition is a matter of much wider significance. It cannot be inherited, and if you want it you must obtain it by great labour. It involves, in the first place, the historical sense, which we may call nearly indispensable to any one who would continue to be a poet beyond his twenty-fifth year; and the historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it is at the same time what makes a writer most acutely conscious of his place in time, of his own contemporaneity.

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. I mean this as a principle of aesthetic, not merely historical, criticism. The necessity that he shall conform, that he shall cohere, is not onesided; what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it. The existing monuments form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new (the really new) work of art among them. The existing order is complete before the new work arrives; for order to persist after the

supervention of novelty, the whole existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered; and so the relations, proportions, values of each work of art toward the whole are readjusted; and this is conformity between the old and the new. Whoever has approved this idea of order, of the form of European, of English literature will not find it preposterous that the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past. And the poet who is aware of this will be aware of great difficulties and responsibilities.

In a peculiar sense he will be aware also that he must inevitably be judged by the standards of the past. I say judged, not amputated, by them; not judged to be as good as, or worse or better than, the dead; and certainly not judged by the canons of dead critics. It is a judgment, a comparison, in which two things are measured by each other. To conform merely would be for the new work not really to conform at all; it would not be new, and would therefore not be a work of art. And we do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value—a test, it is true, which can only be slowly and cautiously applied, for we are none of us infallible judges of conformity. We say: it appears to conform, and is perhaps individual, or it appears individual, and many conform; but we are hardly likely to find that it is one and not the other.

To proceed to a more intelligible exposition of the relation of the poet to the past: he can neither take the past as a lump, an indiscriminate bolus, nor can he form himself wholly on one or two private admirations, nor can he form himself wholly upon one preferred period. The first course is inadmissible, the second is an important experience of youth, and the third is a pleasant and highly desirable supplement. The poet must be very conscious of the main current, which does not at all flow invariably through the most distinguished reputations. He must be quite aware of the obvious fact that art never improves, but that the material of art is never quite the same. He must be aware that the mind of Europe—the mind of his own country—a mind which he learns in time to be much more important than his own private mind—is a mind which changes, and that this change is a development which abandons nothing en route, which does not superannuate either Shakespeare, or Homer, or the rock drawing of the Magdalenian draughtsmen. That this development, refinement perhaps, complication certainly, is not, from the point of view of the artist, any improvement. Perhaps not even an improvement from the point of view of the psychologist or not to the extent which we imagine; perhaps only in the end based upon a complication in economics and machinery. But

the difference between the present and the past is that the conscious present is an awareness of the past in a way and to an extent which the past’s awareness of itself cannot show.

Some one said: “The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.” Precisely, and they are that which we know.

I am alive to a usual objection to what is clearly part of my programme for the métier of poetry. The objection is that the doctrine requires a ridiculous amount of erudition (pedantry), a claim which can be rejected by appeal to the lives of poets in any pantheon. It will even be affirmed that much learning deadens or perverts poetic sensibility. While, however, we persist in believing that a poet ought to know as much as will not encroach upon his necessary receptivity and necessary laziness, it is not desirable to confine knowledge to whatever can be put into a useful shape for examinations, drawing-rooms, or the still more pretentious modes of publicity. Some can absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it. Shakespeare acquired more essential history from Plutarch than most men could from the whole British Museum. What is to be insisted upon is that the poet must develop or procure the consciousness of the past and that he should continue to develop this consciousness throughout his career.

What happens is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.

There remains to define this process of depersonalization and its relation to the sense of tradition. It is in this depersonalization that art may be said to approach the condition of science. I, therefore, invite you to consider, as a suggestive analogy, the action which takes place when a bit of finely filiated platinum is introduced into a chamber containing oxygen and sulphur dioxide.

II

Honest criticism and sensitive appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry. If we attend to the confused cries of the newspaper critics and the susurrus of popular repetition that follows, we shall hear the names of poets in great numbers; if we seek not Blue-book knowledge but the enjoyment of poetry, and ask for a poem, we shall

seldom find it. I have tried to point out the importance of the relation of the poem to other poems by other authors, and suggested the conception of poetry as a living whole of all the poetry that has ever been written. The other aspect of this Impersonal theory of poetry is the relation of the poem to its author. And I hinted, by an analogy, that the mind of the mature poet differs from that of the immature one not precisely in any valuation of “personality,” not being necessarily more interesting, or having “more to say,” but rather by being a more finely perfected medium in which special, or very varied, feelings are at liberty to enter into new combinations.

The analogy was that of the catalyst. When the two gases previously mentioned are mixed in the presence of a filament of platinum, they form sulphurous acid. This combination takes place only if the platinum is present; nevertheless the newly formed acid contains no trace of platinum, and the platinum itself is apparently unaffected; has remained inert, neutral, and unchanged. The mind of the poet is the shred of platinum. It may partly or exclusively operate upon the experience of the man himself; but, the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates; the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions which are its material.

The experience, you will notice, the elements which enter the presence of the transforming catalyst, are of two kinds: emotions and feelings. The effect of a work of art upon the person who enjoys it is an experience different in kind from any experience not of art. It may be formed out of one emotion, or may be a combination of several; and various feelings, inhering for the writer in particular words or phrases or images, may be added to compose the final result. Or great poetry may be made without the direct use of any emotion whatever: composed out of feelings solely. Canto XV of the Inferno (Brunetto Latini) is a working up of the emotion evident in the situation; but the effect, though single as that of any work of art, is obtained by considerable complexity of detail. The last quatrain gives an image, a feeling attaching to an image, which “came,” which did not develop simply out of what precedes, but which was probably in suspension in the poet’s mind until the proper combination arrived for it to add itself to. The poet’s mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.

If you compare several representative passages of the greatest poetry you see how great is the variety of types of combination, and also how completely any semi-ethical criterion of “sublimity” misses the mark. For it is not the “greatness,” the intensity, of the emotions, the components, but the intensity of the artistic process, the pressure, so to speak, under which the fusion takes place, that counts. The episode of Paolo and Francesca employs a definite emotion, but the intensity of the poetry is something quite different from whatever intensity in the supposed experience it may give the impression of. It is no more intense, furthermore, than Canto XXVI, the voyage of Ulysses, which has not the direct dependence upon an emotion. Great variety is possible in the process of transmutation of emotion: the murder of Agamemnon, or the agony of Othello, gives an artistic effect apparently closer to a possible original than the scenes from Dante. In the Agamemnon, the artistic emotion approximates to the emotion of an actual spectator; in Othello to the emotion of the protagonist himself. But the difference between art and the event is always absolute; the combination which is the murder of Agamemnon is probably as complex as that which is the voyage of Ulysses. In either case there has been a fusion of elements. The ode of Keats contains a number of feelings which have nothing particular to do with the nightingale, but which the nightingale, partly, perhaps, because of its attractive name, and partly because of its reputation, served to bring together.

The point of view which I am struggling to attack is perhaps related to the metaphysical theory of the substantial unity of the soul: for my meaning is, that the poet has, not a “personality” to express, but a particular medium, which is only a medium and not a personality, in which impressions and experiences combine in peculiar and unexpected ways. Impressions and experiences which are important for the man may take no place in the poetry, and those which become important in the poetry may play quite a negligible part in the man, the personality.

I will quote a passage which is unfamiliar enough to be regarded with fresh attention in the light—or darkness—of these observations:

And now methinks I could e’en chide myself For doating on her beauty, though her death Shall be revenged after no common action. Does the silkworm expend her yellow labours For thee? For thee does she undo herself?

Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships

For the poor benefit of a bewildering minute? Why does yon fellow falsify highways,

And put his life between the judge’s lips,

To refine such a thing—keeps horse and men To beat their valours for her? . . .

In this passage (as is evident if it is taken in its context) there is a combination of positive and negative emotions: an intensely strong attraction toward beauty and an equally intense fascination by the ugliness which is contrasted with it and which destroys it. This balance of contrasted emotion is in the dramatic situation to which the speech is pertinent, but that situation alone is inadequate to it. This is, so to speak, the structural emotion, provided by the drama. But the whole effect, the dominant tone, is due to the fact that a number of floating feelings, having an affinity to this emotion by no means superficially evident, have combined with it to give us a new art emotion.

It is not in his personal emotions, the emotions provoked by particular events in his life, that the poet is in any way remarkable or interesting. His particular emotions may be simple, or crude, or flat. The emotion in his poetry will be a very complex thing, but not with the complexity of the emotions of people who have very complex or unusual emotions in life. One error, in fact, of eccentricity in poetry is to seek for new human emotions to express; and in this search for novelty in the wrong place it discovers the perverse. The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. And emotions which he has never experienced will serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. Consequently, we must believe that “emotion recollected in tranquillity” is an inexact formula. For it is neither emotion, nor recollection, nor, without distortion of meaning, tranquillity. It is a concentration, and a new thing resulting from the concentration, of a very great number of experiences which to the practical and active person would not seem to be experiences at all; it is a concentration which does not happen consciously or of deliberation. These experiences are not “recollected,” and they finally unite in an atmosphere which is “tranquil” only in that it is a passive attending upon the event. Of course this is not quite the whole story. There is a great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him “personal.” Poetry is not a

turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

III

δ δε νους ισως Θειοτερον τι και απαθες εστιν

This essay proposes to halt at the frontier of metaphysics or mysticism, and confine itself to such practical conclusions as can be applied by the responsible person interested in poetry. To divert interest from the poet to the poetry is a laudable aim: for it would conduce to a juster estimation of actual poetry, good and bad. There are many people who appreciate the expression of sincere emotion in verse, and there is a smaller number of people who can appreciate technical excellence. But very few know when there is an expression of significant emotion, emotion which has its life in the poem and not in the history of the poet. The emotion of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done. And he is not likely to know what is to be done unless he lives in what is not merely the present, but the present moment of the past, unless he is conscious, not of what is dead, but of what is already living.

Originally Published: October 13th, 2009

T.S. Eliot, the 1948 winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, is one of the giants of modern literature, highly distinguished as a poet, literary critic, dramatist, and editor and publisher. In 1910 and 1911, while still a college student, he wrote “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and…

The Wreck of the Deutschland by Gerard Manley… _ Poetry Foundation

The Wreck of the Deutschland

BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

To the happy memory of five Franciscan Nuns, exiles by the Falk Laws, drowned between midnight and morning of Dec. 7th, 1875

I

Thou mastering me

God! giver of breath and bread; World’s strand, sway of the sea; Lord of living and dead;

Thou hast bound bones & veins in me, fastened me flesh, And after it almost unmade, what with dread,

Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh? Over again I feel thy finger and find thee.

I did say yes

O at lightning and lashed rod;

Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess Thy terror, O Christ, O God;

Thou knowest the walls, altar and hour and night:

The swoon of a heart that the sweep and the hurl of thee trod Hard down with a horror of height:

And the midriff astrain with leaning of, laced with fire of stress.

The frown of his face Before me, the hurtle of hell

Behind, where, where was a, where was a place? I whirled out wings that spell

And fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host. My heart, but you were dovewinged, I can tell,

Carrier-witted, I am bold to boast,

To flash from the flame to the flame then, tower from the grace to the grace.

I am soft sift

In an hourglass—at the wall

Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift, And it crowds and it combs to the fall;

I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,

But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein

Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ’s gift.

I kiss my hand

To the stars, lovely-asunder Starlight, wafting him out of it; and Glow, glory in thunder;

Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:

Since, tho’ he is under the world’s splendour and wonder, His mystery must be instressed, stressed;

For I greet him the days I meet him, and bless when I understand.

Not out of his bliss Springs the stress felt

Nor first from heaven (and few know this) Swings the stroke dealt—

Stroke and a stress that stars and storms deliver,

That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by and melt—

But it rides time like riding a river

(And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable and miss).

It dates from day

Of his going in Galilee;

Warm-laid grave of a womb-life grey; Manger, maiden’s knee;

The dense and the driven Passion, and frightful sweat; Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be, Though felt before, though in high flood yet—

What none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,

Is out with it! Oh,

We lash with the best or worst

Word last! How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,

Gush!—flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet, Brim, in a flash, full!—Hither then, last or first,

To hero of Calvary, Christ,’s feet—

Never ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it—men go.

Be adored among men, God, three-numberéd form;

Wring thy rebel, dogged in den,

Man’s malice, with wrecking and storm.

Beyond saying sweet, past telling of tongue,

Thou art lightning and love, I found it, a winter and warm; Father and fondler of heart thou hast wrung:

Hast thy dark descending and most art merciful then.

With an anvil-ding

And with fire in him forge thy will

Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring Through him, melt him but master him still:

Whether at once, as once at a crash Paul, Or as Austin, a lingering-out swéet skíll, Make mercy in all of us, out of us all

Mastery, but be adored, but be adored King. II

“Some find me a sword; some The flange and the rail; flame,

Fang, or flood” goes Death on drum, And storms bugle his fame.

But wé dréam we are rooted in earth—Dust!

Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same, Wave with the meadow, forget that there must

The sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come.

On Saturday sailed from Bremen, American-outward-bound,

Take settler and seamen, tell men with women, Two hundred souls in the round—

O Father, not under thy feathers nor ever as guessing

The goal was a shoal, of a fourth the doom to be drowned; Yet did the dark side of the bay of thy blessing

Not vault them, the million of rounds of thy mercy not reeve even them in?

Into the snows she sweeps, Hurling the haven behind,

The Deutschland, on Sunday; and so the sky keeps, For the infinite air is unkind,

And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow, Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind;

Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivellèd snow

Spins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps.

She drove in the dark to leeward, She struck—not a reef or a rock

But the combs of a smother of sand: night drew her Dead to the Kentish Knock;

And she beat the bank down with her bows and the ride of her keel: The breakers rolled on her beam with ruinous shock;

And canvass and compass, the whorl and the wheel

Idle for ever to waft her or wind her with, these she endured.

Hope had grown grey hairs, Hope had mourning on,

Trenched with tears, carved with cares, Hope was twelve hours gone;

And frightful a nightfall folded rueful a day Nor rescue, only rocket and lightship, shone, And lives at last were washing away:

To the shrouds they took,—they shook in the hurling and horrible airs.

One stirred from the rigging to save The wild woman-kind below,

With a rope’s end round the man, handy and brave— He was pitched to his death at a blow,

For all his dreadnought breast and braids of thew: They could tell him for hours, dandled the to and fro Through the cobbled foam-fleece, what could he do

With the burl of the fountains of air, buck and the flood of the wave?

They fought with God’s cold—

And they could not and fell to the deck

(Crushed them) or water (and drowned them) or rolled With the sea-romp over the wreck.

Night roared, with the heart-break hearing a heart-broke rabble, The woman’s wailing, the crying of child without check—

Till a lioness arose breasting the babble,

A prophetess towered in the tumult, a virginal tongue told.

Ah, touched in your bower of bone Are you! turned for an exquisite smart,

Have you! make words break from me here all alone, Do you!—mother of being in me, heart.

O unteachably after evil, but uttering truth,

Why, tears! is it? tears; such a melting, a madrigal start! Never-eldering revel and river of youth,

What can it be, this glee? the good you have there of your own?

Sister, a sister calling

A master, her master and mine!—

And the inboard seas run swirling and hawling; The rash smart sloggering brine

Blinds her; but she that weather sees one thing, one; Has one fetch in her: she rears herself to divine Ears, and the call of the tall nun

To the men in the tops and the tackle rode over the storm’s brawling.

She was first of a five and came Of a coifèd sisterhood.

(O Deutschland, double a desperate name! O world wide of its good!

But Gertrude, lily, and Luther, are two of a town, Christ’s lily and beast of the waste wood:

From life’s dawn it is drawn down,

Abel is Cain’s brother and breasts they have sucked the same.)

Loathed for a love men knew in them, Banned by the land of their birth,

Rhine refused them, Thames would ruin them; Surf, snow, river and earth

Gnashed: but thou art above, thou Orion of light;

Thy unchancelling poising palms were weighing the worth, Thou martyr-master: in thy sight

Storm flakes were scroll-leaved flowers, lily showers—sweet heaven was astrew in them.

Five! the finding and sake

And cipher of suffering Christ. Mark, the mark is of man’s make And the word of it Sacrificed.

But he scores it in scarlet himself on his own bespoken, Before-time-taken, dearest prizèd and priced— Stigma, signal, cinquefoil token

For lettering of the lamb’s fleece, ruddying of the rose-flake.

Joy fall to thee, father Francis, Drawn to the Life that died;

With the gnarls of the nails in thee, niche of the lance, his Lovescape crucified

And seal of his seraph-arrival! and these thy daughters And five-livèd and leavèd favour and pride,

Are sisterly sealed in wild waters,

To bathe in his fall-gold mercies, to breathe in his all-fire glances.

Away in the loveable west,

On a pastoral forehead of Wales,

I was under a roof here, I was at rest, And they the prey of the gales;

She to the black-about air, to the breaker, the thickly Falling flakes, to the throng that catches and quails Was calling “O Christ, Christ, come quickly”:

The cross to her she calls Christ to her, christens her wildworst Best.

The majesty! what did she mean? Breathe, arch and original Breath.

Is it love in her of the being as her lover had been? Breathe, body of lovely Death.

They were else-minded then, altogether, the men

Woke thee with a we are perishing in the weather of Gennesareth. Or ís it that she cried for the crown then,

The keener to come at the comfort for feeling the combating keen?

For how to the heart’s cheering

The down-dugged ground-hugged grey Hovers off, the jay-blue heavens appearing Of pied and peeled May!

Blue-beating and hoary-glow height; or night, still higher, With belled fire and the moth-soft Milky way,

What by your measure is the heaven of desire,

The treasure never eyesight got, nor was ever guessed what for the hearing?

No, but it was not these.

The jading and jar of the cart,

Time’s tasking, it is fathers that asking for ease Of the sodden-with-its-sorrowing heart,

Not danger, electrical horror; then further it finds

The appealing of the Passion is tenderer in prayer apart:

Other, I gather, in measure her mind’s

Burden, in wind’s burly and beat of endragonèd seas.

But how shall I . . . make me room there:

Reach me a … Fancy, come faster—

Strike you the sight of it? look at it loom there, Thing that she … there then! the Master,

Ipse, the only one, Christ, King, Head:

He was to cure the extremity where he had cast her; Do, deal, lord it with living and dead;

Let him ride, her pride, in his triumph, despatch and have done with his doom there.

Ah! there was a heart right There was single eye!

Read the unshapeable shock night And knew the who and the why;

Wording it how but by him that present and past, Heaven and earth are word of, worded by?—

The Simon Peter of a soul! to the blast Tarpeian-fast, but a blown beacon of light.

Jesu, heart’s light, Jesu, maid’s son,

What was the feast followed the night Thou hadst glory of this nun?—

Feast of the one woman without stain.

For so conceivèd, so to conceive thee is done; But here was heart-throe, birth of a brain,

Word, that heard and kept thee and uttered thee outright.

Well, she has thee for the pain, for the Patience; but pity of the rest of them! Heart, go and bleed at a bitterer vein for the Comfortless unconfessed of them—

No not uncomforted: lovely-felicitous Providence

Finger of a tender of, O of a feathery delicacy, the breast of the Maiden could obey so, be a bell to, ring of it, and

Startle the poor sheep back! is the shipwrack then a harvest, does tempest carry the grain for thee?

I admire thee, master of the tides, Of the Yore-flood, of the year’s fall;

The recurb and the recovery of the gulf’s sides, The girth of it and the wharf of it and the wall;

Staunching, quenching ocean of a motionable mind; Ground of being, and granite of it: past all

Grasp God, throned behind

Death with a sovereignty that heeds but hides, bodes but abides;

With a mercy that outrides The all of water, an ark

For the listener; for the lingerer with a love glides Lower than death and the dark;

A vein for the visiting of the past-prayer, pent in prison, The-last-breath penitent spirits—the uttermost mark Our passion-plungèd giant risen,

The Christ of the Father compassionate, fetched in the storm of his strides.

Now burn, new born to the world, Doubled-naturèd name,

The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled Miracle-in-Mary-of-flame,

Mid-numbered he in three of the thunder-throne!

Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark as he came; Kind, but royally reclaiming his own;

A released shower, let flash to the shire, not a lightning of fíre hard-hurled.

Dame, at our door

Drowned, and among our shoals,

Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the Reward: Our Kíng back, Oh, upon énglish sóuls!

Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east, More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls,

Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest,

Our hearts’ charity’s hearth’s fire, our thoughts’ chivalry’s throng’s Lord.

Source: Poets of the English Language (Viking Press, 1950)

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

The text of THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL in this edition is taken, by Mr. Fraser Rae’s generous permission, from his SHERIDAN’S PLAYS NOW PRINTED AS HE WROTE THEM. In his Prefatory Notes (xxxvii), Mr. Rae writes: ”The manuscript of it [THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL] in Sheridan’s own handwriting is preserved at Frampton Court and

is now printed in this volume. This version differs in many respects from that which is generally known, and I think it is even better than that which has hitherto been read and acted.

As I have endeavoured to reproduce the works of Sheridan as he wrote them, I may be told that he was a bad hand at punctuating and very bad at spelling. But Sheridan’s shortcomings as a

speller have been exaggerated.” Lest ”Sheridan’s shortcomings” either in spelling or in punctuation should obscure the text,

I have, in this edition, inserted in brackets some explanatory suggestions. It has seemed best, also, to adopt a uniform method for indicating stage-directions and abbreviations of the names of characters. There can be no gain to the reader in reproducing, for example, Sheridan’s different indications for the part of

Lady Sneerwell–LADY SNEERWELL, LADY SNEER., LADY SN., and LADY S.–

or his varying use of EXIT and EX., or his inconsistencies in the use of italics in the stage-directions. Since, however,

Sheridan’s biographers, from Moore to Fraser Rae, have shown that

no authorised or correct edition of THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL was published in Sheridan’s lifetime, there seems unusual justification

for reproducing the text of the play itself with absolute fidelity

to the original manuscript. Mr. Ridgway, who repeatedly sought to obtain a copy corrected by the author, according to Moore’s account (LIFE OF SHERIDAN, I. p. 260), ”was told by Mr. Sheridan, as an excuse for keeping it back, that he had been nineteen years endeavouring to satisfy himself with the style of The School for Scandal, but had not yet succeeded.” Mr. Rae (SHERIDAN, I. p. 332) recorded his discovery of the manuscript of ”two acts of The School

for Scandal prepared by Sheridan for publication,” and hoped, before his death, to publish this partial revision. Numberless unauthorized changes in the play have been made for histrionic purposes, from

the first undated Dublin edition to that of Mr. Augustin Daly. Current texts may usually be traced, directly or indirectly,

to the two-volume Murray edition of Sheridan’s plays, in 1821.

∗PDF created by pdfbooks.co.za

Some of the changes from the original manuscript, such as the blending of the parts of Miss Verjuice and Snake, are doubtless effective for reasons of dramatic economy, but many of the ”cuts” are to be regretted from the reader’s standpoint. The student

of English drama will prefer Sheridan’s own text to editorial emendations, however clever or effective for dramatic ends.

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL A COMEDY

A PORTRAIT¡1¿

ADDRESSED TO MRS. CREWE,

WITH THE COMEDY OF THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.

Tell me, ye prim adepts in Scandal’s school, Who rail by precept, and detract by rule,

Lives there no character, so tried, so known, So deck’d with grace, and so unlike your own, That even you assist her fame to raise, Approve by envy, and by silence praise!– Attend!–a model shall attract your view– Daughters of calumny, I summon you!

You shall decide if this a portrait prove, Or fond creation of the Muse and Love.– Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage, Ye matron censors of this childish age,

Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare A fixt antipathy to young and fair;

By cunning, cautious; or by nature, cold, In maiden madness, virulently bold!– Attend! ye skilled to coin the precious tale, Creating proof, where innuendos fail!

Whose practised memories, cruelly exact, Omit no circumstance, except the fact!– Attend, all ye who boast,–or old or young,– The living libel of a slanderous tongue!

So shall my theme as far contrasted be, As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny.

Come, gentle Amoret (for ’neath that name, In worthier verse is sung thy beauty’s fame);

Come–for but thee who seeks the Muse? and while Celestial blushes check thy conscious smile,

With timid grace, and hesitating eye,

The perfect model, which I boast, supply:–

Vain Muse! couldst thou the humblest sketch create Of her, or slightest charm couldst imitate–

Could thy blest strain in kindred colours trace The faintest wonder of her form and face– Poets would study the immortal line,

And REYNOLDS own HIS art subdued by thine; That art, which well might added lustre give

To Nature’s best and Heaven’s superlative:

On GRANBY’S cheek might bid new glories rise, Or point a purer beam from DEVON’S eyes!

Hard is the task to shape that beauty’s praise, Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays! But praising Amoret we cannot err,

No tongue o’ervalues Heaven, or flatters her! Yet she, by Fate’s perverseness–she alone

Would doubt our truth, nor deem such praise her own! Adorning Fashion, unadorn’d by dress,

Simple from taste, and not from carelessness; Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,

Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild: No state has AMORET! no studied mien;

She frowns no GODDESS, and she moves no QUEEN. The softer charm that in her manner lies

Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise; It justly suits th’ expression of her face,–

’Tis less than dignity, and more than grace! On her pure cheek the native hue is such,

That, form’d by Heav’n to be admired so much, The hand divine, with a less partial care,

Might well have fix’d a fainter crimson there, And bade the gentle inmate of her breast,– Inshrined Modesty!–supply the rest.

But who the peril of her lips shall paint?

Strip them of smiles–still, still all words are faint! But moving Love himself appears to teach

Their action, though denied to rule her speech; And thou who seest her speak and dost not hear, Mourn not her distant accents ’scape thine ear; Viewing those lips, thou still may’st make pretence To judge of what she says, and swear ’tis sense:

Cloth’d with such grace, with such expression fraught, They move in meaning, and they pause in thought!

But dost thou farther watch, with charm’d surprise, The mild irresolution of her eyes,

Curious to mark how frequent they repose, In brief eclipse and momentary close–

Ah! seest thou not an ambush’d Cupid there, Too tim’rous of his charge, with jealous care Veils and unveils those beams of heav’nly light, Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight?

Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet, In pard’ning dimples hope a safe retreat.

What though her peaceful breast should ne’er allow Subduing frowns to arm her altered brow,

By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles, More fatal still the mercy of her smiles! Thus lovely, thus adorn’d, possessing all Of bright or fair that can to woman fall,

The height of vanity might well be thought Prerogative in her, and Nature’s fault.

Yet gentle AMORET, in mind supreme

As well as charms, rejects the vainer theme; And, half mistrustful of her beauty’s store,

She barbs with wit those darts too keen before:– Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach,

Though GREVILLE, or the MUSE, should deign to teach, Fond to improve, nor tim’rous to discern

How far it is a woman’s grace to learn;

In MILLAR’S dialect she would not prove Apollo’s priestess, but Apollo’s love,

Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,

The timid blush, and mild submitted tone: Whate’er she says, though sense appear throughout, Displays the tender hue of female doubt;

Deck’d with that charm, how lovely wit appears, How graceful SCIENCE, when that robe she wears! Such too her talents, and her bent of mind,

As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined: A taste for mirth, by contemplation school’d, A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled,

A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide;

An awe of talent, which she owns with pride! Peace, idle Muse! no more thy strain prolong, But yield a theme thy warmest praises wrong; Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise Thy feeble verse, behold th’ acknowledged praise Has spread conviction through the envious train, And cast a fatal gloom o’er Scandal’s reign!

And lo! each pallid hag, with blister’d tongue, Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung–

Owns all the colours just–the outline true; Thee my inspirer, and my MODEL–CREWE!

DRAMATIS PERSONAE¡2¿ SIR PETER TEAZLE Mr. King

SIR OLIVER SURFACE Mr. Yates

YOUNG SURFACE Mr. Palmer

CHARLES (his Brother) Mr. Smith CRABTREE Mr. Parsons

SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE Mr. Dodd

ROWLEY Mr. Aikin SPUNGE

MOSES SNAKE

CARELESS–and other companions to CHARLES

LADY TEAZLE MARIA

LADY SNEERWELL MRS. CANDOUR MISS VERJUICE

PROLOGUE

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK

A school for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you, Needs there a school this modish art to teach you? No need of lessons now, the knowing think;

We might as well be taught to eat and drink. Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours Distress our fair ones–let them read the papers; Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit;

Crave what you will–there’s quantum sufficit. ”Lord!” cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle, And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),

Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing Strong tea and scandal–”Bless me, how refreshing! Give me the papers, Lisp–how bold and free! [Sips.]

LAST NIGHT LORD L. [Sips] WAS CAUGHT WITH LADY D.

For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.] IF MRS. B. WILL STILL CONTINUE FLIRTING,

WE HOPE SHE’LL draw, OR WE’LL undraw THE CURTAIN.

Fine satire, poz–in public all abuse it,

But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can’t refuse it. Now, Lisp, read you–there, at that dash and star:”

”Yes, ma’am–A CERTAIN LORD HAD BEST BEWARE,

WHO LIVES NOT TWENTY MILES FROM GROSVENOR SQUARE; FOR, SHOULD HE LADY W. FIND WILLING,

WORMWOOD IS BITTER”—-”Oh! that’s me! the villain! Throw it behind the fire, and never more

Let that vile paper come within my door.” Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart; To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. Is our young bard so young, to think that he Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny?

Knows he the world so little, and its trade? Alas! the devil’s sooner raised than laid.

So strong, so swift, the monster there’s no gagging: Cut Scandal’s head off, still the tongue is wagging.

Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow’d, Again our young Don Quixote takes the road; To show his gratitude he draws his pen,

And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den.

For your applause all perils he would through– He’ll fight–that’s write–a cavalliero true,

Till every drop of blood–that’s ink–is spilt for you.

ACT I

SCENE I.–LADY SNEERWELL’S House

LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET; MISS VERJUICE drinking chocolate

LADY SNEERWELL. The Paragraphs you say were all inserted: VERJUICE. They were Madam–and as I copied them myself in a feigned

Hand there can be no suspicion whence they came.

LADY SNEERWELL. Did you circulate the Report of Lady Brittle’s Intrigue with Captain Boastall?

VERJUICE. Madam by this Time Lady Brittle is the Talk of half the Town–and I doubt not in a week the Men will toast her as a Demirep.

LADY SNEERWELL. What have you done as to the insinuation as to a certain Baronet’s Lady and a certain Cook.

VERJUICE. That is in as fine a Train as your Ladyship could wish.

I told the story yesterday to my own maid with directions to communicate it directly to my Hairdresser. He I am informed has a Brother who courts a Milliners’ Prentice in Pallmall whose mistress has a first cousin whose sister is Feme [Femme]

de Chambre to Mrs. Clackit–so that in the common course of Things it must reach Mrs. Clackit’s Ears within four-and-twenty hours

and then you know the Business is as good as done.

LADY SNEERWELL. Why truly Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty Talent– a great deal of industry–yet–yes–been tolerably successful

in her way–To my knowledge she has been the cause of breaking off six matches[,] of three sons being disinherited and four Daughters being turned out of Doors. Of three several Elopements, as many close confinements–nine separate maintenances and two Divorces.– nay I have more than once traced her causing a Tete-a-Tete in the

Town and Country Magazine–when the Parties perhaps had never seen each other’s Faces before in the course of their Lives.

VERJUICE. She certainly has Talents.

LADY SNEERWELL. But her manner is gross.

VERJUICE. ’Tis very true. She generally designs well[,] has a free tongue and a bold invention–but her colouring is too dark and her outline often extravagant–She wants that delicacy of Tint–and mellowness of sneer–which distinguish your Ladyship’s Scandal.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ah you are Partial Verjuice.

VERJUICE. Not in the least–everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or a Look than many can with the most laboured Detail even when they happen to have a little truth

on their side to support it.

LADY SNEERWELL. Yes my dear Verjuice. I am no Hypocrite to deny the satisfaction I reap from the Success of my Efforts. Wounded

myself, in the early part of my Life by the envenomed Tongue of Slander I confess I have since known no Pleasure equal to the reducing others to the Level of my own injured Reputation.

VERJUICE. Nothing can be more natural–But my dear Lady Sneerwell There is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein,

I confess I am at a Loss to guess your motives.

LADY SNEERWELL. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbour,

Sir Peter Teazle, and his Family–Lappet.–And has my conduct in this matter really appeared to you so mysterious?

[Exit MAID.]

VERJUICE. Entirely so.

LADY SNEERWELL. [VERJUICE.?] An old Batchelor as Sir Peter was[,] having taken a young wife from out of the Country–as Lady Teazle

is–are certainly fair subjects for a little mischievous raillery–

but here are two young men–to whom Sir Peter has acted as a kind of Guardian since their Father’s death, the eldest possessing

the most amiable Character and universally well spoken of[,] the youngest the most dissipated and extravagant young Fellow in the Kingdom, without Friends or caracter–the former one

an avowed admirer of yours and apparently your Favourite[,] the latter attached to Maria Sir Peter’s ward–and confessedly beloved by her. Now on the face of these circumstances it is

utterly unaccountable to me why you a young Widow with no great jointure–should not close with the passion of a man of such character and expectations as Mr. Surface–and more so why you should be so uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual Attachment subsisting between his Brother Charles and Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. Then at once to unravel this mistery–I must

inform you that Love has no share whatever in the intercourse between Mr. Surface and me.

VERJUICE. No!

LADY SNEERWELL. His real attachment is to Maria or her Fortune– but finding in his Brother a favoured Rival, He has been obliged

to mask his Pretensions–and profit by my Assistance.

VERJUICE. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest yourself in his success.

LADY SNEERWELL. Heavens! how dull you are! cannot you surmise the weakness which I hitherto, thro’ shame have concealed even

from you–must I confess that Charles–that Libertine, that extravagant, that Bankrupt in Fortune and Reputation–that He

it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious and to gain whom I would sacrifice–everything—-

VERJUICE. Now indeed–your conduct appears consistent and I no longer wonder at your enmity to Maria, but how came you and Surface so confidential?

LADY SNEERWELL. For our mutual interest–but I have found out him a long time since[,] altho’ He has contrived to deceive

everybody beside–I know him to be artful selfish and malicious– while with Sir Peter, and indeed with all his acquaintance,

He passes for a youthful Miracle of Prudence–good sense and Benevolence.

VERJUICE. Yes yes–I know Sir Peter vows He has not his equal

in England; and, above all, He praises him as a MAN OF SENTIMENT.

LADY SNEERWELL. True and with the assistance of his sentiments and hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests

with respect to Maria and is now I believe attempting to flatter Lady Teazle into the same good opinion towards him–while poor Charles has no Friend in the House–though I fear he has a powerful one in Maria’s Heart, against whom we must direct our schemes.

SERVANT. Mr. Surface.

LADY SNEERWELL. Shew him up. He generally calls about this Time.

I don’t wonder at People’s giving him to me for a Lover.

Enter SURFACE

SURFACE. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day–your most obedient.

LADY SNEERWELL. Miss Verjuice has just been arraigning me on our mutual attachment now; but I have informed her of our real views

and the Purposes for which our Geniuses at present co-operate.

You know how useful she has been to us–and believe me the confidence is not ill-placed.

SURFACE. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect that a Lady of Miss Verjuice’s sensibility and discernment—-

LADY SNEERWELL. Well–well–no compliments now–but tell me when you saw your mistress or what is more material to me your Brother.

SURFACE. I have not seen either since I saw you–but I can inform you that they are at present at Variance–some of your stories have taken good effect on Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ah! my dear Verjuice the merit of this belongs to you. But do your Brother’s Distresses encrease?

SURFACE. Every hour. I am told He had another execution in his house yesterday–in short his Dissipation and extravagance exceed anything I have ever heard of.

LADY SNEERWELL. Poor Charles!

SURFACE. True Madam–notwithstanding his Vices one can’t help feeling for him–ah poor Charles! I’m sure I wish it was in

my Power to be of any essential Service to him–for the man who does not share in the Distresses of a Brother–even though merited by his own misconduct–deserves—-

LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud you are going to be moral, and forget that you are among Friends.

SURFACE. Egad, that’s true–I’ll keep that sentiment till I see Sir Peter. However it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria from such a Libertine who–if He is to be reclaim’d, can be so only by a

Person of your Ladyship’s superior accomplishments and understanding.

VERJUICE. ’Twould be a Hazardous experiment.

SURFACE. But–Madam–let me caution you to place no more confidence in our Friend Snake the Libeller–I have lately detected him

in frequent conference with old Rowland [Rowley] who was formerly my Father’s Steward and has never been a friend of mine.

LADY SNEERWELL. I’m not disappointed in Snake, I never suspected the fellow to have virtue enough to be faithful even to his own

Villany.

Enter MARIA

Maria my dear–how do you do–what’s the matter?

MARIA. O here is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just call’d at my guardian’s with his odious

Uncle Crabtree–so I slipt out and ran hither to avoid them.

LADY SNEERWELL. Is that all?

VERJUICE. Lady Sneerwell–I’ll go and write the Letter I mention’d to you.

SURFACE. If my Brother Charles had been of the Party, madam, perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay now–you are severe for I dare swear the Truth of the matter is Maria heard YOU were here–but my dear–what has

Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so—-

MARIA. Oh He has done nothing–but his conversation is a perpetual Libel on all his Acquaintance.

SURFACE. Aye and the worst of it is there is no advantage in not knowing Them, for He’ll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best Friend–and Crabtree is as bad.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay but we should make allowance[–]Sir Benjamin is a wit and a poet.

MARIA. For my Part–I own madam–wit loses its respect with me, when I see it in company with malice.–What do you think,

Mr. Surface?

SURFACE. Certainly, Madam, to smile at the jest which plants

a Thorn on another’s Breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

LADY SNEERWELL. Pshaw–there’s no possibility of being witty without a little [ill] nature–the malice of a good thing

is the Barb that makes it stick.–What’s your opinion, Mr. Surface?

SURFACE. Certainly madam–that conversation where the Spirit of Raillery is suppressed will ever appear tedious and insipid–

MARIA. Well I’ll not debate how far Scandal may be allowable– but in a man I am sure it is always contemtable.–We have Pride, envy, Rivalship, and a Thousand motives to depreciate each other– but the male-slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman before He can traduce one.

LADY SNEERWELL. I wish my Cousin Verjuice hadn’t left us–she should embrace you.

SURFACE. Ah! she’s an old maid and is privileged of course. Enter SERVANT

Madam Mrs. Candour is below and if your Ladyship’s at leisure will leave her carriage.

LADY SNEERWELL. Beg her to walk in. Now, Maria[,] however here is a Character to your Taste, for tho’ Mrs. Candour is a little

talkative everybody allows her to be the best-natured and best sort of woman.

MARIA. Yes with a very gross affectation of good Nature and Benevolence–she does more mischief than the Direct malice of

old Crabtree.

SURFACE. Efaith ’tis very true Lady Sneerwell–Whenever I hear the current running again the characters of my Friends, I never

think them in such Danger as when Candour undertakes their Defence.

LADY SNEERWELL. Hush here she is—- Enter MRS. CANDOUR

MRS. CANDOUR. My dear Lady Sneerwell how have you been this Cen- tury.

I have never seen you tho’ I have heard of you very often.–

Mr. Surface–the World says scandalous things of you–but indeed it is no matter what the world says, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal.

SURFACE. Just so, indeed, Ma’am.

MRS. CANDOUR. Ah Maria Child–what[!] is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance; I presume–The Town talks of nothing else—-

MARIA. I am very sorry, Ma’am, the Town has so little to do.

MRS. CANDOUR. True, true, Child; but there’s no stopping people’s Tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it–as I indeed was to learn

from the same quarter that your guardian, Sir Peter[,] and Lady Teazle have not agreed lately so well as could be wish’d.

MARIA. ’Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.

MRS. CANDOUR. Very true, Child; but what’s to be done? People will talk–there’s no preventing it.–why it was but yesterday I was told

that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, Lord! there is no minding what one hears; tho’ to be sure I had this from very good authority.

MARIA. Such reports are highly scandalous.

MRS. CANDOUR. So they are Child–shameful! shameful! but the world is so censorious no character escapes. Lord, now! who would have

suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion Yet such is the ill-nature of people, that they say her unkle stopped her last week just as she was stepping into a Postchaise with her Dancing-master.

MARIA. I’ll answer for’t there are no grounds for the Report. MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, no foundation in the world I dare swear[;]

no more probably than for the story circulated last month,

of Mrs. Festino’s affair with Colonel Cassino–tho’ to be sure that matter was never rightly clear’d up.

SURFACE. The license of invention some people take is monstrous indeed.

MARIA. ’Tis so but in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.

MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure they are[;] Tale Bearers are as bad as the Tale makers–’tis an old observation and a very true one–but

what’s to be done as I said before–how will you prevent People from talking–to-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife–like [the rest of their] acquaintance–she likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of her Dropsy and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner–at the same [time] Miss Tattle, who was by affirm’d, that Lord Boffalo had discover’d his Lady at a house of

no extraordinary Fame–and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar Provocation. but–Lord! do you think I would report these Things–No, no[!] Tale Bearers as I said before are just as bad as the talemakers.

SURFACE. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your Forbearance and good nature–

MRS. CANDOUR. I confess Mr. Surface I cannot bear to hear People traduced behind their Backs[;] and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintances I own I always love to think the best–by

the bye I hope ’tis not true that your Brother is absolutely ruin’d–

SURFACE. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, Ma’am–

MRS. CANDOUR. Ah! I heard so–but you must tell him to keep up his Spirits–everybody almost is in the same way–Lord Spindle,

Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit–all up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone, He’ll find half his Acquaintance ruin’d too, and that, you know, is a consolation–

SURFACE. Doubtless, Ma’am–a very great one. Enter SERVANT

SERVANT. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

LADY SNEERWELL. Soh! Maria, you see your lover pursues you– Positively you shan’t escape.

Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE

CRABTREE. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour I don’t believe you are acquainted with my Nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite– Egad, Ma’am, He has a pretty wit–and is a pretty Poet too isn’t He

Lady Sneerwell?

SIR BENJAMIN. O fie, Uncle!

CRABTREE. Nay egad it’s true–I back him at a Rebus or a Charade against the best Rhymer in the Kingdom–has your Ladyship heard

the Epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle’s Feather catching Fire–Do Benjamin repeat it–or the Charade you made last Night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie’s conversazione–Come now your first is the Name of a Fish, your second a great naval commander–and

SIR BENJAMIN. Dear Uncle–now–prithee—-

CRABTREE. Efaith, Ma’am–’twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at all these Things.

LADY SNEERWELL. I wonder Sir Benjamin you never publish anything.

SIR BENJAMIN. To say truth, Ma’am, ’tis very vulgar to Print and as my little Productions are mostly Satires and Lampoons I find

they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the Friends of the Parties–however I have some love-Elegies, which, when favoured with this lady’s smile I mean to give to the Public. [Pointing to MARIA.]

CRABTREE. ’Fore Heaven, ma’am, they’ll immortalize you–you’ll be handed down to Posterity, like Petrarch’s Laura, or Waller’s

Sacharissa.

SIR BENJAMIN. Yes Madam I think you will like them–when you shall see in a beautiful Quarto Page how a neat rivulet of Text shall

meander thro’ a meadow of margin–’fore Gad, they will be the most elegant Things of their kind–

CRABTREE. But Ladies, have you heard the news?

MRS. CANDOUR. What, Sir, do you mean the Report of—-

CRABTREE. No ma’am that’s not it.–Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own Footman.

MRS. CANDOUR. Impossible! CRABTREE. Ask Sir Benjamin.

SIR BENJAMIN. ’Tis very true, Ma’am–everything is fixed and the wedding Livery bespoke.

CRABTREE. Yes and they say there were pressing reasons for’t.

MRS. CANDOUR. It cannot be–and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a Lady as Miss Nicely.

SIR BENJAMIN. O Lud! ma’am, that’s the very reason ’twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that

everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

LADY SNEERWELL. Yes a Tale of Scandal is as fatal to the Reputation of a prudent Lady of her stamp as a Fever is generally to those

of the strongest Constitutions, but there is a sort of puny sickly Reputation, that is always ailing yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred Prudes.

SIR BENJAMIN. True Madam there are Valetudinarians in Reputation as well as constitution–who being conscious of their weak Part,

avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of Stamina by care and circumspection–

MRS. CANDOUR. Well but this may be all mistake–You know,

Sir Benjamin very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious Tales.

CRABTREE. That they do I’ll be sworn Ma’am–did you ever hear how Miss Shepherd came to lose her Lover and her Character

last summer at Tunbridge–Sir Benjamin you remember it–

SIR BENJAMIN. O to be sure the most whimsical circumstance– LADY SNEERWELL. How was it Pray–

CRABTREE. Why one evening at Mrs. Ponto’s Assembly–the conversation happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia Sheep

in this country–says a young Lady in company[, ”]I have known instances of it[–]for Miss Letitia Shepherd, a first cousin of mine,

had a Nova-Scotia Sheep that produced her Twins.[”–”]What![”] cries the old Dowager Lady Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a Post), [”]has Miss Letitia Shepherd had twins[”]–This Mistake–as you may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of Laughing–However ’twas the next morning everywhere reported and in a few Days believed by the whole Town, that Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been brought to Bed of a fine Boy and Girl–and in less than a week

there were People who could name the Father, and the Farm House where the Babies were put out to Nurse.

LADY SNEERWELL. Strange indeed!

CRABTREE. Matter of Fact, I assure you–O Lud! Mr. Surface pray is it true that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming home–

SURFACE. Not that I know of indeed Sir.

CRABTREE. He has been in the East Indies a long time–you can scarcely remember him–I believe–sad comfort on his arrival

to hear how your Brother has gone on!

SURFACE. Charles has been imprudent Sir to be sure[;] but I hope no Busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him–

He may reform–

SIR BENJAMIN. To be sure He may–for my Part I never believed him to be so utterly void of Principle as People say–and tho’

he has lost all his Friends I am told nobody is better spoken of– by the Jews.

CRABTREE. That’s true egad nephew–if the Old Jewry was a Ward I believe Charles would be an alderman–no man more popular there, ’fore Gad I hear He pays as many annuities as the Irish Tontine

and that whenever He’s sick they have Prayers for the recovery of his Health in the synagogue–

SIR BENJAMIN. Yet no man lives in greater Splendour:–they tell me when He entertains his Friends–He can sit down to dinner with

a dozen of his own Securities, have a score Tradesmen waiting in the Anti-Chamber, and an officer behind every guest’s Chair.

SURFACE. This may be entertainment to you Gentlemen but you pay

very little regard to the Feelings of a Brother.

MARIA. Their malice is intolerable–Lady Sneerwell I must wish you a good morning–I’m not very well.

[Exit MARIA.]

MRS. CANDOUR. O dear she chang’d colour very much!

LADY SNEERWELL. Do Mrs. Candour follow her–she may want assistance. MRS. CANDOUR. That I will with all my soul ma’am.–Poor dear Girl–

who knows–what her situation may be! [Exit MRS. CANDOUR.]

LADY SNEERWELL. ’Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on notwithstanding their difference.

SIR BENJAMIN. The young Lady’s Penchant is obvious. CRABTREE. But Benjamin–you mustn’t give up the Pursuit for that–

follow her and put her into good humour–repeat her some of your

verses–come, I’ll assist you–

SIR BENJAMIN. Mr. Surface I did not mean to hurt you–but depend on’t your Brother is utterly undone–

[Going.]

CRABTREE. O Lud! aye–undone–as ever man was–can’t raise a guinea. SIR BENJAMIN. And everything sold–I’m told–that was movable–

[Going.]

CRABTREE. I was at his house–not a thing left but some empty Bottles that were overlooked and the Family Pictures, which

I believe are framed in the Wainscot. [Going.]

SIR BENJAMIN. And I’m very sorry to hear also some bad stories against him.

[Going.]

CRABTREE. O He has done many mean things–that’s certain! SIR BENJAMIN. But however as He is your Brother—-

[Going.]

CRABTREE. We’ll tell you all another opportunity. [Exeunt.]

LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! ’tis very hard for them to leave a subject they have not quite run down.

SURFACE. And I believe the Abuse was no more acceptable to your Ladyship than Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. I doubt her Affections are farther engaged than we imagin’d but the Family are to be here this Evening so you may

as well dine where you are and we shall have an opportunity of observing farther–in the meantime, I’ll go and plot Mischief and you shall study Sentiments.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.–SIR PETER’S House

Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. When an old Bachelor takes a young Wife–what is He to expect–’Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men–and I have been the most miserable Dog ever since that ever committed wedlock. We tift a little going to church–and came to

a Quarrel before the Bells had done ringing–I was more than once nearly chok’d with gall during the Honeymoon–and had lost all comfort in Life before my Friends had done wishing me Joy–yet I chose with caution–a girl bred wholly in the country–who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown–nor dissipation above the annual Gala of a

Race-Ball–Yet she now plays her Part in all the extravagant Fopperies of the Fashion and the Town, with as ready a Grace as if she had never seen a Bush nor a grass Plot out of Grosvenor-Square! I am sneered at by my old acquaintance–paragraphed–in the news Papers–

She dissipates my Fortune, and contradicts all my Humours– yet the worst of it is I doubt I love her or I should never bear all this. However I’ll never be weak enough to own it.

Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. Sir Peter, your servant:–how is ’t with you Sir–

SIR PETER. Very bad–Master Rowley–very bad[.] I meet with nothing but crosses and vexations–

ROWLEY. What can have happened to trouble you since yesterday? SIR PETER. A good–question to a married man–

ROWLEY. Nay I’m sure your Lady Sir Peter can’t be the cause of your uneasiness.

SIR PETER. Why has anybody told you she was dead[?]

ROWLEY. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding your tempers do not exactly agree.

SIR PETER. But the Fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley–I am myself, the sweetest temper’d man alive, and hate a teasing temper; and so I tell her a hundred Times a day–

ROWLEY. Indeed!

SIR PETER. Aye and what is very extraordinary in all our disputes she is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell, and the Set she meets at her House, encourage the perverseness of her Disposition–then

to complete my vexations–Maria–my Ward–whom I ought to have the Power of a Father over, is determined to turn Rebel too and absolutely refuses the man whom I have long resolved on for her husband–meaning I suppose, to bestow herself on his profligate Brother.

ROWLEY. You know Sir Peter I have always taken the Liberty to differ with you on the subject of these two young Gentlemen–I only wish

you may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder. For Charles, my life on’t! He will retrieve his errors yet–their worthy Father, once my honour’d master, was at his years nearly as wild a spark.

SIR PETER. You are wrong, Master Rowley–on their Father’s Death you know I acted as a kind of Guardian to them both–till their uncle

Sir Oliver’s Eastern Bounty gave them an early independence. Of course no person could have more opportunities of judging of their Hearts–and I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is indeed a model for the young men of the Age–He is a man of Sentiment–and acts up to the Sentiments he professes–but for the other[,] take my word

for’t [if] he had any grain of Virtue by descent–he has dissipated it with the rest of his inheritance. Ah! my old Friend, Sir Oliver will be deeply mortified when he finds how Part of his Bounty has been misapplied.

ROWLEY. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young man because this may be the most critical Period of his Fortune.

I came hither with news that will surprise you.

SIR PETER. What! let me hear–

ROWLEY. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this moment in Town.

SIR PETER. How!–you astonish me–I thought you did not expect him this month!–

ROWLEY. I did not–but his Passage has been remarkably quick. SIR PETER. Egad I shall rejoice to see my old Friend–’Tis sixteen

years since we met–We have had many a Day together–but does he still enjoin us not to inform his Nephews of his Arrival?

ROWLEY. Most strictly–He means, before He makes it known to make some trial of their Dispositions and we have already planned something

for the purpose.

SIR PETER. Ah there needs no art to discover their merits–however he shall have his way–but pray does he know I am married!

ROWLEY. Yes and will soon wish you joy.

SIR PETER. You may tell him ’tis too late–ah Oliver will laugh at me–we used to rail at matrimony together–but He has been steady to his Text–well He must be at my house tho’–I’ll instantly give orders for his Reception–but Master Rowley–don’t drop a word that Lady Teazle and I ever disagree.

ROWLEY. By no means.

SIR PETER. For I should never be able to stand Noll’s jokes; so I’d have him think that we are a very happy couple.

ROWLEY. I understand you–but then you must be very careful not to differ while He’s in the House with you.

SIR PETER. Egad–and so we must–that’s impossible. Ah! Master Rowley when an old Batchelor marries a young wife–He deserves–

no the crime carries the Punishment along with it. [Exeunt.]

END OF THE FIRST ACT ACT II

SCENE I.–SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE

SIR PETER. Lady Teazle–Lady Teazle I’ll not bear it.

LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter–Sir Peter you–may scold or smile, according to your Humour[,] but I ought to have my own way in everything,

and what’s more I will too–what! tho’ I was educated in the country I know very well that women of Fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are married.

SIR PETER. Very well! ma’am very well! so a husband is to have no influence, no authority?

LADY TEAZLE. Authority! no, to be sure–if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me and not married me[:] I am sure

you were old enough.

SIR PETER. Old enough–aye there it is–well–well–Lady Teazle, tho’ my life may be made unhappy by your Temper–I’ll not be ruined by your extravagance–

LADY TEAZLE. My extravagance! I’m sure I’m not more extravagant than a woman of Fashion ought to be.

SIR PETER. No no Madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning Luxury–’Slife to spend as much to furnish your Dressing

Room with Flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a Greenhouse, and give a Fete Champetre at Christmas.

LADY TEAZLE. Lord! Sir Peter am I to blame because Flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the Climate, and not

with me. For my Part I’m sure I wish it was spring all the year round–and that Roses grew under one’s Feet!

SIR PETER. Oons! Madam–if you had been born to those Fopperies I shouldn’t wonder at your talking thus;–but you forget what your situation was when I married you–

LADY TEAZLE. No, no, I don’t–’twas a very disagreeable one or I should never nave married you.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler Style–the daughter of a plain country Squire. Recollect Lady Teazle when I saw you first–sitting at your tambour in a pretty figured

linen gown–with a Bunch of Keys at your side, and your apartment hung round with Fruits in worsted, of your own working–

LADY TEAZLE. O horrible!–horrible!–don’t put me in mind of it!

SIR PETER. Yes, yes Madam and your daily occupation to inspect the Dairy, superintend the Poultry, make extracts from the Family Receipt-book, and comb your aunt Deborah’s Lap Dog.

LADY TEAZLE. Abominable!

SIR PETER. Yes Madam–and what were your evening amusements? to draw Patterns for Ruffles, which you hadn’t the materials to make– play Pope Joan with the Curate–to read a sermon to your Aunt–

or be stuck down to an old Spinet to strum your father to sleep after a Fox Chase.

LADY TEAZLE. Scandalous–Sir Peter not a word of it true–

SIR PETER. Yes, Madam–These were the recreations I took you from– and now–no one more extravagantly in the Fashion–Every Fopery

adopted–a head-dress to o’er top Lady Pagoda with feathers pendant horizontal and perpendicular–you forget[,] Lady Teazle–when a little wired gauze with a few Beads made you a fly Cap not much bigger than a blew-bottle, and your Hair was comb’d smooth over a Roll–

LADY TEAZLE. Shocking! horrible Roll!!

SIR PETER. But now–you must have your coach–Vis-a-vis, and three powder’d Footmen before your Chair–and in the summer a pair of

white cobs to draw you to Kensington Gardens–no recollection when y ou were content to ride double, behind the Butler, on a docked

Coach-Horse?

LADY TEAZLE. Horrid!–I swear I never did.

SIR PETER. This, madam, was your situation–and what have I not done for you? I have made you woman of Fashion of Fortune of Rank–

in short I have made you my wife.

LADY TEAZLE. Well then and there is but one thing more you can make me to add to the obligation.

SIR PETER. What’s that pray? LADY TEAZLE. Your widow.–

SIR PETER. Thank you Madam–but don’t flatter yourself for though your ill-conduct may disturb my Peace it shall never break my Heart

I promise you–however I am equally obliged to you for the Hint.

LADY TEAZLE. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so disagreeable to me–and thwart me in every little elegant expense.

SIR PETER. ’Slife–Madam I pray, had you any of these elegant expenses when you married me?

LADY TEAZLE. Lud Sir Peter would you have me be out of the Fashion?

SIR PETER. The Fashion indeed!–what had you to do with the Fashion before you married me?

LADY TEAZLE. For my Part–I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of Taste–

SIR PETER. Aye there again–Taste! Zounds Madam you had no Taste when you married me–

LADY TEAZLE. That’s very true indeed Sir Peter! after having married you I should never pretend to Taste again I allow.

SIR PETER. So–so then–Madam–if these are your Sentiments pray how came I to be honour’d with your Hand?

LADY TEAZLE. Shall I tell you the Truth? SIR PETER. If it’s not too great a Favour.

LADY TEAZLE. Why the Fact is I was tired of all those agreeable Recreations which you have so good naturally [naturedly] Described– and having a Spirit to spend and enjoy a Fortune–I determined

to marry the first rich man that would have me.

SIR PETER. A very honest confession–truly–but pray madam was there no one else you might have tried to ensnare but me.

LADY TEAZLE. O lud–I drew my net at several but you were the only one I could catch.

SIR PETER. This is plain dealing indeed–

LADY TEAZLE. But now Sir Peter if we have finish’d our daily Jangle I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell’s?

SIR PETER. Aye–there’s another Precious circumstance–a charming set of acquaintance–you have made there!

LADY TEAZLE. Nay Sir Peter they are People of Rank and Fortune– and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

SIR PETER. Yes egad they are tenacious of Reputation with

a vengeance, for they don’t chuse anybody should have a Character but themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on hurdles who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged Tales, coiners of Scandal, and clippers of Reputation.

LADY TEAZLE. What would you restrain the freedom of speech?

SIR PETER. Aye they have made you just as bad [as] any one of the Society.

LADY TEAZLE. Why–I believe I do bear a Part with a tolerable Grace–

But I vow I bear no malice against the People I abuse, when I say an ill-natured thing, ’tis out of pure Good Humour–and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me,

but Sir Peter you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell’s too.

SIR PETER. Well well I’ll call in, just to look after my own character.

LADY TEAZLE. Then, indeed, you must make Haste after me, or you’ll be too late–so good bye to ye.

SIR PETER. So–I have gain’d much by my intended expostulation– yet with what a charming air she contradicts every thing I say–

and how pleasingly she shows her contempt of my authority–Well tho’ I can’t make her love me, there is certainly a great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think she never appears to such

advantage as when she is doing everything in her Power to plague me. [Exit.]

SCENE II.–At LADY SNEERWELL’S

LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE,

and SURFACE

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay, positively, we will hear it. SURFACE. Yes–yes the Epigram by all means.

SiR BENJAMIN. O plague on’t unkle–’tis mere nonsense– CRABTREE. No no; ’fore gad very clever for an extempore!

SIR BENJAMIN. But ladies you should be acquainted with the circumstances. You must know that one day last week

as Lady Betty Curricle was taking the Dust in High Park, in a sort of duodecimo Phaeton–she desired me to write

some verses on her Ponies–upon which I took out my Pocket-Book– and in one moment produced–the following:–

’Sure never were seen two such beautiful Ponies; Other Horses are Clowns–and these macaronies, Nay to give ’em this Title, I’m sure isn’t wrong, Their Legs are so slim–and their Tails are so long.

CRABTREE. There Ladies–done in the smack of a whip and on Horseback too.

SURFACE. A very Phoebus, mounted–indeed Sir Benjamin. SIR BENJAMIN. Oh dear Sir–Trifles–Trifles.

Enter LADY TEAZLE and MARIA MRS. CANDOUR. I must have a Copy–

LADY SNEERWELL. Lady Teazle–I hope we shall see Sir Peter?

LADY TEAZLE. I believe He’ll wait on your Ladyship presently.

LADY SNEERWELL. Maria my love you look grave. Come, you sit down to Piquet with Mr. Surface.

MARIA. I take very little Pleasure in cards–however, I’ll do as you Please.

LADY TEAZLE. I am surprised Mr. Surface should sit down her–

I thought He would have embraced this opportunity of speaking to me before Sir Peter came–[Aside.]

MRS. CANDOUR. Now, I’ll die but you are so scandalous I’ll forswear your society.

LADY TEAZLE. What’s the matter, Mrs. Candour?

MRS. CANDOUR. They’ll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome.

LADY SNEERWELL. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman. . . .

[CRABTREE.] I am very glad you think so ma’am. MRS. CANDOUR. She has a charming fresh Colour. CRABTREE. Yes when it is fresh put on–

LADY TEAZLE. O fie! I’ll swear her colour is natural–I have seen it come and go–

CRABTREE. I dare swear you have, ma’am: it goes of a Night, and comes again in the morning.

SIR BENJAMIN. True, uncle, it not only comes and goes but what’s more egad her maid can fetch and carry it–

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so!

But surely, now, her Sister, is or was very handsome.

CRABTREE. Who? Mrs. Stucco? O lud! she’s six-and-fifty if she’s an hour!

MRS. CANDOUR. Now positively you wrong her[;] fifty-two, or fifty-three is the utmost–and I don’t think she looks more.

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! there’s no judging by her looks, unless one was to see her Face.

LADY SNEERWELL. Well–well–if she does take some pains to repair the ravages of Time–you must allow she effects it with great ingenuity–and surely that’s better than the careless manner

in which the widow Ocre chaulks her wrinkles.

SIR BENJAMIN. Nay now–you are severe upon the widow–come–come, it isn’t that she paints so ill–but when she has finished her Face

she joins it on so badly to her Neck, that she looks like a mended Statue, in which the Connoisseur sees at once that the Head’s modern tho’ the Trunk’s antique—-

CRABTREE. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Nephew!

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh but I vow I hate you for it–what do you think of Miss Simper?

SIR BENJAMIN. Why, she has very pretty Teeth.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes and on that account, when she is neither speaking nor laughing (which very seldom happens)–she never absolutely shuts

her mouth, but leaves it always on a-Jar, as it were—- MRS. CANDOUR. How can you be so ill-natured!

LADY TEAZLE. Nay, I allow even that’s better than the Pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in Front–she draws her mouth till

it resembles the aperture of a Poor’s-Box, and all her words appear to slide out edgewise.

LADY SNEERWELL. Very well Lady Teazle I see you can be a little severe.

LADY TEAZLE. In defence of a Friend it is but justice, but here comes Sir Peter to spoil our Pleasantry.

Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Ladies, your obedient–Mercy on me–here is the whole set! a character’s dead at every word, I suppose.

MRS. CANDOUR. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter–they have been so censorious and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.

SIR PETER. That must be very distressing to you, Mrs. Candour I dare swear.

MRS. CANDOUR. O they will allow good Qualities to nobody–not even good nature to our Friend Mrs. Pursy.

LADY TEAZLE. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Codrille’s [Quadrille’s] last Night?

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay–her bulk is her misfortune and when she takes such Pains to get rid of it you ought not to reflect on her.

MRS. CANDOUR. ’Tis very true, indeed.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey– laces herself by pulleys and often in the hottest noon of summer

you may see her on a little squat Pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a Drummer’s and puffing round the Ring on a full trot.

MRS. CANDOUR. I thank you Lady Teazle for defending her. SIR PETER. Yes, a good Defence, truly!

MRS. CANDOUR. But for Sir Benjamin, He is as censorious as Miss Sallow.

CRABTREE. Yes and she is a curious Being to pretend to be censorious–an awkward Gawky, without any one good Point under Heaven!

LADY SNEERWELL. Positively you shall not be so very severe.

Miss Sallow is a Relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her Person great allowance is to be made–for, let me tell you

a woman labours under many disadvantages who tries to pass for a girl at six-and-thirty.

MRS. CANDOUR. Tho’, surely she is handsome still–and for the weakness in her eyes considering how much she reads by candle-light it is not to be wonder’d at.

LADY SNEERWELL. True and then as to her manner–upon my word I think it is particularly graceful considering she never had the

least Education[:] for you know her Mother was a Welch milliner, and her Father a sugar-Baker at Bristow.–

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! you are both of you too good-natured! SIR PETER. Yes, damned good-natured! Her own relation!

mercy on me! [Aside.]

MRS. CANDOUR. For my Part I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill-spoken of?

SIR PETER. No, to be sure!

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah you are of a moral turn Mrs. Candour and can sit for an hour to hear Lady Stucco talk sentiments.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the Dessert after Dinner for she’s just like the Spanish Fruit one cracks

for mottoes–made up of Paint and Proverb.

MRS. CANDOUR. Well, I never will join in ridiculing a Friend– and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle–and you all know what pretensions she has to be critical in Beauty.

LADY TEAZLE. O to be sure she has herself the oddest countenance that ever was seen–’tis a collection of Features from all the

different Countries of the globe.

SIR BENJAMIN. So she has indeed–an Irish Front—- CRABTREE. Caledonian Locks—-

SIR BENJAMIN. Dutch Nose—- CRABTREE. Austrian Lips—-

SIR BENJAMIN. Complexion of a Spaniard—- CRABTREE. And Teeth a la Chinoise—-

SIR BENJAMIN. In short, her Face resembles a table d’hote at Spa– where no two guests are of a nation—-

CRABTREE. Or a Congress at the close of a general War–wherein all the members even to her eyes appear to have a different interest

and her Nose and Chin are the only Parties likely to join issue.

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Mercy on my Life[!] a Person they dine with twice a week! [Aside.]

LADY SNEERWELL. Go–go–you are a couple of provoking Toads. MRS. CANDOUR. Nay but I vow you shall not carry the Laugh off so–

for give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle—-

SIR PETER. Madam–madam–I beg your Pardon–there’s no stopping these good Gentlemen’s Tongues–but when I tell you Mrs. Candour

that the Lady they are abusing is a particular Friend of mine, I hope you’ll not take her Part.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter–but you are a cruel creature–too Phlegmatic yourself for a jest and too peevish

to allow wit in others.

SIR PETER. Ah Madam true wit is more nearly allow’d [allied?] to good Nature than your Ladyship is aware of.

LADY SNEERWELL. True Sir Peter–I believe they are so near akin that they can never be united.

SIR BENJAMIN. O rather Madam suppose them man and wife because one seldom sees them together.

LADY TEAZLE. But Sir Peter is such an Enemy to Scandal I believe He would have it put down by Parliament.

SIR PETER. ’Fore heaven! Madam, if they were to consider the Sporting with Reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors– and pass an Act for the Preservation of Fame–there are many would thank them for the Bill.

LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud! Sir Peter would you deprive us of our Privileges–

SIR PETER. Aye Madam–and then no person should be permitted to kill characters or run down reputations, but qualified old Maids and

disappointed Widows.–

LADY SNEERWELL. Go, you monster–

MRS. CANDOUR. But sure you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear?

SIR PETER. Yes Madam, I would have Law Merchant for that too– and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the Drawer of the Lie

was not to be found, the injured Party should have a right to come on any of the indorsers.

CRABTREE. Well for my Part I believe there never was a Scandalous Tale without some foundation.¡3¿

LADY SNEERWELL. Come Ladies shall we sit down to Cards in the next Room?

Enter SERVANT, whispers SIR PETER SIR PETER. I’ll be with them directly.–

[Exit SERVANT.]

I’ll get away unperceived.

LADY SNEERWELL. Sir Peter you are not leaving us?

SIR PETER. Your Ladyship must excuse me–I’m called away by particular Business–but I leave my Character behind me–

[Exit.]

SIR BENJAMIN. Well certainly Lady Teazle that lord of yours is a strange being–I could tell you some stories of him would make you laugh heartily if He wern’t your Husband.

LADY TEAZLE. O pray don’t mind that–come do let’s hear ’em. [join the rest of the Company going into the Next Room.]

SURFACE. Maria I see you have no satisfaction in this society.

MARIA. How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the province of wit or Humour, Heaven grant me a double Portion of Dullness–

SURFACE. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are–they have no malice at heart–

MARIA. Then is their conduct still more contemptible[;] for in my opinion–nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues

but a natural and ungovernable bitterness of Mind.

SURFACE. Undoubtedly Madam–and it has always been a sentiment of mine–that to propagate a malicious Truth wantonly–is more despicable than to falsify from Revenge, but can you Maria feel

thus [f]or others and be unkind to me alone–nay is hope to be denied the tenderest Passion.–

MARIA. Why will you distress me by renewing this subject–

SURFACE. Ah! Maria! you would not treat me thus and oppose your guardian’s Sir Peter’s wishes–but that I see that my Profligate

Brother is still a favour’d Rival.

MARIA. Ungenerously urged–but whatever my sentiments of that unfortunate young man are, be assured I shall not feel more bound

to give him up because his Distresses have sunk him so low as to deprive him of the regard even of a Brother.

SURFACE. Nay but Maria do not leave me with a Frown–by all that’s honest, I swear—-Gad’s Life here’s Lady Teazle–you must not–

no you shall–for tho’ I have the greatest Regard for Lady Teazle—- MARIA. Lady Teazle!

SURFACE. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect—- [Enter LADY TEAZLE, and comes forward]

LADY TEAZLE. What’s this, Pray–do you take her for me!–Child you are wanted in the next Room.–What’s all this, pray–

SURFACE. O the most unlucky circumstance in Nature. Maria has somehow suspected the tender concern I have for your happiness,

and threaten’d to acquaint Sir Peter with her suspicions–and I was just endeavouring to reason with her when you came.

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed but you seem’d to adopt–a very tender mode of reasoning–do you usually argue on your knees?

SURFACE. O she’s a Child–and I thought a little Bombast—-

but Lady Teazle when are you to give me your judgment on my Library as you promised—-

LADY TEAZLE. No–no I begin to think it would be imprudent– and you know I admit you as a Lover no farther than Fashion requires.

SURFACE. True–a mere Platonic Cicisbeo, what every London wife is entitled to.

LADY TEAZLE. Certainly one must not be out of the Fashion–however,

I have so much of my country Prejudices left–that–though Sir Peter’s ill humour may vex me ever so, it never shall provoke me to—-

SURFACE. The only revenge in your Power–well I applaud your moderation.

LADY TEAZLE. Go–you are an insinuating Hypocrite–but we shall be miss’d–let us join the company.

SURFACE. True, but we had best not return together.

LADY TEAZLE. Well don’t stay–for Maria shan’t come to hear any more of your Reasoning, I promise you–

[Exit.]

SURFACE. A curious Dilemma truly my Politics have run me into.

I wanted at first only to ingratiate myself with Lady Teazle that she might not be my enemy with Maria–and I have I don’t know how– become her serious Lover, so that I stand a chance of Committing

a Crime I never meditated–and probably of losing Maria by the Pursuit!–Sincerely I begin to wish I had never made such a Point of gaining so very good a character, for it has led me into so many curst Rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at last.

[Exit.]

SCENE III.–At SIR PETER’S

–ROWLEY and SIR OLIVER–

SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! ha! and so my old Friend is married, hey?– a young wife out of the country!–ha! ha! that he should have stood Bluff to old Bachelor so long and sink into a Husband at last!

ROWLEY. But you must not rally him on the subject Sir Oliver–’tis a tender Point I assure you though He has been married only seven months.

SIR OLIVER. Ah then he has been just half a year on the stool of Repentance–Poor Peter! But you say he has entirely given up Charles–never sees him, hey?

ROWLEY. His Prejudice against him is astonishing–and I am sure greatly increased by a jealousy of him with Lady Teazle–which

he has been industriously led into by a scandalous Society–

in the neighbourhood–who have contributed not a little to Charles’s ill name. Whereas the truth is[,] I believe[,] if the lady

is partial to either of them his Brother is the Favourite.

SIR OLIVER. Aye–I know–there are a set of malicious prating prudent Gossips both male and Female, who murder characters to kill time, and will rob a young Fellow of his good name before He has years to know the value of it. . . but I am not to be prejudiced against

my nephew by such I promise you! No! no–if Charles has done nothing false or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance.

ROWLEY. Then my life on’t, you will reclaim him. Ah, Sir, it gives me new vigour to find that your heart is not turned against him–

and that the son of my good old master has one friend however left–

SIR OLIVER. What! shall I forget Master Rowley–when I was at his house myself–egad my Brother and I were neither of us very prudent youths–and yet I believe you have not seen many better men than your old master was[.]

ROWLEY. ’Tis this Reflection gives me assurance that Charles may yet be a credit to his Family–but here comes Sir Peter—-

SIR OLIVER. Egad so He does–mercy on me–He’s greatly altered– and seems to have a settled married look–one may read Husband

in his Face at this Distance.– Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Ha! Sir Oliver–my old Friend–welcome to England– a thousand Times!

SIR OLIVER. Thank you–thank you–Sir Peter–and Efaith I am as glad to find you well[,] believe me–

SIR PETER. Ah! ’tis a long time since we met–sixteen year I doubt Sir Oliver–and many a cross accident in the Time–

SIR OLIVER. Aye I have had my share–but, what[!] I find you are married–hey my old Boy–well–well it can’t be help’d–and so I wish you joy with all my heart–

SIR PETER. Thank you–thanks Sir Oliver.–Yes, I have entered into the happy state but we’ll not talk of that now.

SIR OLIVER. True true Sir Peter old Friends shouldn’t begin on grievances at first meeting. No, no–

ROWLEY. Take care pray Sir—-

SIR OLIVER. Well–so one of my nephews I find is a wild Rogue–hey?

SIR PETER. Wild!–oh! my old Friend–I grieve for your disappointment there–He’s a lost young man indeed–however his Brother will make you amends; Joseph is indeed what a youth should be–everybody in the

world speaks well of him–

SIR OLIVER. I am sorry to hear it–he has too good a character to be an honest Fellow. Everybody speaks well of him! Psha! then He has bow’d as low to Knaves and Fools as to the honest dignity of Virtue.

SIR PETER. What Sir Oliver do you blame him for not making Enemies? SIR OLIVER. Yes–if He has merit enough to deserve them.

SIR PETER. Well–well–you’ll be convinced when you know him–’tis edification to hear him converse–he professes the noblest Sentiments.

SIR OLIVER. Ah plague on his Sentiments–if he salutes me with a scrap sentence of morality in his mouth I shall be sick directly– but however don’t mistake me Sir Peter I don’t mean to defend Charles’s Errors–but before I form my judgment of either of them,

I intend to make a trial of their Hearts–and my Friend Rowley and I have planned something for the Purpose.

ROWLEY. And Sir Peter shall own he has been for once mistaken. SIR PETER. My life on Joseph’s Honour—-

SIR OLIVER. Well come give us a bottle of good wine–and we’ll drink the Lads’ Healths and tell you our scheme.

SIR PETER. Alons [Allons], then—-

SIR OLIVER. But don’t Sir Peter be so severe against your old Friend’s son.

SIR PETER. ’Tis his Vices and Follies have made me his Enemy.–

ROWLEY. Come–come–Sir Peter consider how early He was left to his own guidance.

SIR OLIVER. Odds my Life–I am not sorry that He has run out of the course a little–for my Part, I hate to see dry Prudence clinging to the green juices of youth–’tis like ivy round

a sapling and spoils the growth of the Tree.

END OF THE SECOND ACT ACT III

SCENE I.–At SIR PETER’S

SIR PETER, SIR OLIVER, and ROWLEY

SIR PETER. Well, then, we will see the Fellows first and have our wine afterwards.–but how is this, Master Rowley–I don’t see

the Jet of your scheme.

ROWLEY. Why Sir–this Mr. Stanley whom I was speaking of, is nearly related to them by their mother. He was once a merchant in Dublin–

but has been ruined by a series of undeserved misfortunes–and now lately coming over to solicit the assistance of his friends here–

has been flyng [flung] into prison by some of his Creditors– where he is now with two helpless Boys.–

SIR OLIVER. Aye and a worthy Fellow too I remember him. But what is this to lead to–?

ROWLEY. You shall hear–He has applied by letter both to Mr. Surface and Charles–from the former he has received nothing but evasive

promises of future service, while Charles has done all that his extravagance has left him power to do–and He is at this time endeavouring to raise a sum of money–part of which, in the midst of his own distresses, I know He intends for the service of poor Stanley.

SIR OLIVER. Ah! he is my Brother’s Son.

SIR PETER. Well, but how is Sir Oliver personally to—-

ROWLEY. Why Sir I will inform Charles and his Brother that Stanley has obtain’d permission to apply in person to his Friends–and as they have neither of them ever seen him[,] let Sir Oliver assume his character–and he will have a fair opportunity of judging at least

of the Benevolence of their Dispositions.

SIR PETER. Pshaw! this will prove nothing–I make no doubt Charles is Coxcomb and thoughtless enough to give money to poor relations

if he had it–

SIR OLIVER. Then He shall never want it–. I have brought

a few Rupees home with me Sir Peter–and I only want to be sure of bestowing them rightly.–

ROWLEY. Then Sir believe me you will find in the youngest Brother one who in the midst of Folly and dissipation–has still, as our

immortal Bard expresses it,–

”a Tear for Pity and a Hand open as the day for melting Charity.”

SIR PETER. Pish! What signifies his having an open Hand or Purse either when He has nothing left to give!–but if you talk of humane Sentiments–Joseph is the man–Well, well, make the trial, if you

please. But where is the fellow whom you brought for Sir Oliver to examine, relative to Charles’s affairs?

ROWLEY. Below waiting his commands, and no one can give him better intelligence–This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who to do him

justice, has done everything in his power to bring your nephew to a proper sense of his extravagance.

SIR PETER. Pray let us have him in. ROWLEY. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs. [Calls to SERVANT.]

SIR PETER. But Pray why should you suppose he will speak the truth?

ROWLEY. Oh, I have convinced him that he has no chance of recovering certain Sums advanced to Charles but through the bounty of Sir Oliver,

who He knows is arrived; so that you may depend on his Fidelity to his interest. I have also another evidence in my Power, one Snake, whom

I shall shortly produce to remove some of YOUR Prejudices[,] Sir Peter[,] relative to Charles and Lady Teazle.

SIR PETER. I have heard too much on that subject.

ROWLEY. Here comes the honest Israelite. Enter MOSES

–This is Sir Oliver.

SIR OLIVER. Sir–I understand you have lately had great dealings with my Nephew Charles.

MOSES. Yes Sir Oliver–I have done all I could for him, but He was ruined before He came to me for Assistance.

SIR OLIVER. That was unlucky truly–for you have had no opportunity of showing your Talents.

MOSES. None at all–I hadn’t the Pleasure of knowing his Distresses till he was some thousands worse than nothing, till it was impossible

to add to them.

SIR OLIVER. Unfortunate indeed! but I suppose you have done all in your Power for him honest Moses?

MOSES. Yes he knows that–This very evening I was to have brought him a gentleman from the city who does not know him and will

I believe advance some money.

SIR PETER. What[!] one Charles has never had money from before? MOSES. Yes[–]Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars.

SIR PETER. Egad, Sir Oliver a Thought strikes me!–Charles you say does’nt know Mr. Premium?

MOSES. Not at all.

SIR PETER. Now then Sir Oliver you may have a better opportunity of satisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale of a poor Relation–

go with my friend Moses and represent Mr. Premium and then I’ll answer for’t you’ll see your Nephew in all his glory.

SIR OLIVER. Egad I like this Idea better than the other, and I may visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley.

SIR PETER. True so you may.

ROWLEY. Well this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage, to be sure–however Moses–you understand Sir Peter and will be faithful—-

MOSES. You may depend upon me–and this is near the Time I was to have gone.

SIR OLIVER. I’ll accompany you as soon as you please, Moses—- but hold–I have forgot one thing–how the plague shall I be able

to pass for a Jew?

MOSES. There’s no need–the Principal is Christian.

SIR OLIVER. Is He–I’m very sorry to hear it–but then again– an’t I rather too smartly dressed to look like a money-Lender?

SIR PETER. Not at all; ’twould not be out of character, if you went in your own carriage–would it, Moses!

MOSES. Not in the least.

SIR OLIVER. Well–but–how must I talk[?] there’s certainly some cant of usury and mode of treating that I ought to know.

SIR PETER. Oh, there’s not much to learn–the great point as I take it is to be exorbitant enough in your Demands hey Moses?

MOSES. Yes that’s very great Point.

SIR OLIVER. I’ll answer for’t I’ll not be wanting in that–I’ll ask him eight or ten per cent. on the loan–at least.

MOSES. You’ll be found out directly–if you ask him no more than that, you’ll be discovered immediately.

SIR OLIVER. Hey!–what the Plague!–how much then?

MOSES. That depends upon the Circumstances–if he appears not very anxious for the supply, you should require only forty or

fifty per cent.–but if you find him in great Distress, and want the monies very bad–you may ask double.

SIR PETER. A good–[h]onest Trade you’re learning, Sir Oliver– SIR OLIVER. Truly, I think so–and not unprofitable–

MOSES. Then you know–you haven’t the monies yourself, but are forced to borrow them for him of a Friend.

SIR OLIVER. O I borrow it of a Friend do I?

MOSES. And your friend is an unconscion’d Dog–but you can’t help it. SIR OLIVER. My Friend’s an unconscionable Dog, is he?

MOSES. Yes–and He himself hasn’t the monies by him–but is forced to sell stock–at a great loss–

SIR OLIVER. He is forced to sell stock is he–at a great loss, is he–well that’s very kind of him–

SIR PETER. Efaith, Sir Oliver–Mr. Premium I mean–you’ll soon be master of the Trade–but, Moses would have him inquire if the borrower is a minor–

MOSES. O yes–

SIR PETER. And in that case his Conscience will direct him– MOSES. To have the Bond in another Name to be sure.

SIR OLIVER. Well–well I shall be perfect–

SIR PETER. But hearkee wouldn’t you have him also run out a little against the annuity Bill–that would be in character I should think–

MOSES. Very much–

ROWLEY. And lament that a young man now must be at years of discretion before He is suffered to ruin himself!

MOSES. Aye, great Pity!

SIR PETER. And abuse the Public for allowing merit to an act whose only object is to snatch misfortune and imprudence from the rapacious Relief of usury! and give the minor a chance of

inheriting his estate without being undone by coming into Possession.

SIR OLIVER. So–so–Moses shall give me further instructions as we go together.

SIR PETER. You will not have much time[,] for your Nephew lives hard bye–

SIR OLIVER. Oh Never–fear[:] my Tutor appears so able that tho’

Charles lived in the next street it must be my own Fault if I am not a compleat Rogue before I turn the Corner–

[Exeunt SIR OLIVER and MOSES.]

SIR PETER. So–now I think Sir Oliver will be convinced–you shan’t follow them Rowley. You are partial and would have prepared Charles for ’tother plot.

ROWLEY. No upon my word Sir Peter–

SIR PETER. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I’ll hear what he has to say presently. I see Maria, and want to speak with her.–

[Exit ROWLEY.]

I should be glad to be convinced my suspicions of Lady Teazle and Charles were unjust–I have never yet opened my mind on this subject to my Friend Joseph. . . . I am determined. I will do it–He will

give me his opinion sincerely.– Enter MARIA

So Child–has Mr. Surface returned with you– MARIA. No Sir–He was engaged.

SIR PETER. Well–Maria–do you not reflect[,] the more you converse with that amiable young man[,] what return his Partiality for you deserves?

MARIA. Indeed Sir Peter–your frequent importunity on this subject distresses me extremely–you compell me to Declare that I know no man who has ever paid me a particular Attention whom I would not prefer to Mr. Surface–

SIR PETER. Soh! Here’s Perverseness–no–no–Maria, ’tis Charles only whom you would prefer–’tis evident his Vices and Follies have won your Heart.

MARIA. This is unkind Sir–You know I have obey’d you in neither seeing nor corresponding with him–I have heard enough to convince me that He is unworthy my regard–Yet I cannot think it culpable–

if while my understanding severely condemns his Vices, my Heart suggests some Pity for his Distresses.

SIR PETER. Well well pity him as much as you please, but give your Heart and Hand to a worthier object.

MARIA. Never to his Brother!

SIR PETER. Go–perverse and obstinate! but take care, Madam– you have never yet known what the authority of a Guardian is– don’t compel me to inform you of it.–

MARIA. I can only say, you shall not have just Reason–’tis true, by my Father’s will I am for a short period bound to regard you

as his substitute, but I must cease to think you so when you would compel me to be miserable.

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Was ever man so crossed as I am[?] everything conspiring to fret me! I had not been involved in matrimony a fortnight[,]

before her Father–a hale and hearty man, died on purpose, I believe– for the Pleasure of plaguing me with the care of his Daughter . . . but here comes my Helpmate!–She appears in great good humour—- how happy I should be if I could teaze her into loving me tho’

but a little—-

Enter LADY TEAZLE

LADY TEAZLE. Lud! Sir Peter I hope you haven’t been quarrelling with Maria? It isn’t using me well to be ill humour’d when I am not bye–!

SIR PETER. Ah! Lady Teazle you might have the Power to make me good humour’d at all times–

LADY TEAZLE. I am sure–I wish I had–for I want you to be in a charming sweet temper at this moment–do be good humour’d now– and let me have two hundred Pounds will you?

SIR PETER. Two hundred Pounds! what an’t I to be in a good humour without paying for it–but speak to me thus–and Efaith there’s

nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it–but seal me a bond for the repayment.

LADY TEAZLE. O no–there–my Note of Hand will do as well–

SIR PETER. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you an independent settlement–I shall shortly surprise you–and you’ll

not call me ungenerous–but shall we always live thus–hey?

LADY TEAZLE. If you–please–I’m sure I don’t care how soon we leave off quarrelling provided you’ll own you were tired first–

SIR PETER. Well–then let our future contest be who shall be most obliging.

LADY TEAZLE. I assure you Sir Peter Good Nature becomes you– you look now as you did before we were married–when you used

to walk with me under the Elms, and tell me stories of what

a Gallant you were in your youth–and chuck me under the chin you would–and ask me if I thought I could love an old Fellow who would deny me nothing–didn’t you?

SIR PETER. Yes–yes–and you were as kind and attentive—-

LADY TEAZLE. Aye so I was–and would always take your Part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you and turn you into ridicule–

SIR PETER. Indeed!

LADY TEAZLE. Aye–and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff peevish old batchelor and laugh’d at me for thinking of marrying one

who might be my Father–I have always defended you–and said I didn’t think you so ugly by any means, and that you’d make a very good sort of a husband–

SIR PETER. And you prophesied right–and we shall certainly now be the happiest couple—-

LADY TEAZLE. And never differ again.

SIR PETER. No never–tho’ at the same time indeed–my dear Lady Teazle–you must watch your Temper very narrowly–for in all our

little Quarrels–my dear–if you recollect my Love you always began first–

LADY TEAZLE. I beg your Pardon–my dear Sir Peter–indeed– you always gave the provocation.

SIR PETER. Now–see, my Love take care–contradicting isn’t the way to keep Friends.

LADY TEAZLE. Then don’t you begin it my Love!

SIR PETER. There now–you are going on–you don’t perceive[,] my Life, that you are just doing the very thing my Love which

you know always makes me angry.

LADY TEAZLE. Nay–you know if you will be angry without any reason– my Dear—-

SIR PETER. There now you want to quarrel again.

LADY TEAZLE. No–I am sure I don’t–but if you will be so peevish—- SIR PETER. There–now who begins first?

LADY TEAZLE. Why you to be sure–I said nothing[–]but there’s no bearing your Temper.

SIR PETER. No–no–my dear–the fault’s in your own temper.

LADY TEAZLE. Aye you are just what my Cousin Sophy said you would be–

SIR PETER. Your Cousin Sophy–is a forward impertinent Gipsey– LADY TEAZLE. Go you great Bear–how dare you abuse my Relations–

SIR PETER. Now may all the Plagues of marriage be doubled on me, if ever I try to be Friends with you any more—-

LADY TEAZLE. So much the Better.

SIR PETER. No–no Madam ’tis evident you never cared a pin for me– I was a madman to marry you–

LADY TEAZLE. And I am sure I was a Fooll to marry you–an old dangling Batchelor, who was single of [at] fifty–only because

He never could meet with any one who would have him.

SIR PETER. Aye–aye–Madam–but you were pleased enough to listen to me–you never had such an offer before–

LADY TEAZLE. No–didn’t I refuse Sir Jeremy Terrier–who everybody said would have been a better Match–for his estate is just as good

as yours–and he has broke his Neck since we have been married!

SIR PETER. I have done with you Madam! You are an unfeeling– ungrateful–but there’s an end of everything–I believe you capable

of anything that’s bad–Yes, Madam–I now believe the Reports

relative to you and Charles–Madam–yes–Madam–you and Charles are– not without grounds—-

LADY TEAZLE. Take–care Sir Peter–you had better not insinuate any such thing! I’ll not be suspected without cause I promise you—-

SIR PETER. Very–well–Madam–very well! a separate maintenance– as soon as you Please. Yes Madam or a Divorce–I’ll make an example of myself for the Benefit of all old Batchelors–Let us separate,

Madam.

LADY TEAZLE. Agreed–agreed–and now–my dear Sir Peter we are of a mind again, we may be the happiest couple–and never differ

again, you know–ha! ha!–Well you are going to be in a Passion I see–and I shall only interrupt you–so, bye! bye! hey–

young Jockey try’d and countered. [Exit.]

SIR PETER. Plagues and tortures! She pretends to keep her temper, can’t I make her angry neither! O! I am the miserable fellow!

But I’ll not bear her presuming to keep her Temper–No she may break my Heart–but she shan’t keep her Temper.

[Exit.]

SCENE II.–At CHARLES’s House Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER

TRIP. Here Master Moses–if you’ll stay a moment–I’ll try whether Mr.—-what’s the Gentleman’s Name?

SIR OLIVER. Mr.—-Moses–what IS my name—- MOSES. Mr. Premium—-

TRIP. Premium–very well. [Exit TRIP–taking snuff.]

SIR OLIVER. To judge by the Servants–one wouldn’t believe the master was ruin’d–but what–sure this was my Brother’s House—-

MOSES. Yes Sir Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph with the Furniture, Pictures, &c.–just as the old Gentleman left it–

Sir Peter thought it a great peice of extravagance in him.

SIR OLIVER. In my mind the other’s economy in selling it to him was more reprehensible by half.—-

Enter TRIP

TRIP. My Master[,] Gentlemen[,] says you must wait, he has company, and can’t speak with you yet.

SIR OLIVER. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps he wouldn’t have sent such a Message.

TRIP. Yes–yes–Sir–He knows you are here–I didn’t forget little Premium–no–no—-

SIR OLIVER. Very well–and pray Sir what may be your Name? TRIP. Trip Sir–my Name is Trip, at your Service.

SIR OLIVER. Well then Mr. Trip–I presume your master is seldom without company—-

TRIP. Very seldom Sir–the world says ill-natured things of him but ’tis all malice–no man was ever better beloved–Sir he seldom sits down to dinner without a dozen particular Friends—-

SIR OLIVER. He’s very happy indeed–you have a pleasant sort of Place here I guess?

TRIP. Why yes–here are three or four of us pass our time agreeably enough–but then our wages are sometimes a little in arrear–and not very great either–but fifty Pounds a year and find our own Bags and Bouquets—-

SIR OLIVER. Bags and Bouquets!–Halters and Bastinadoes! [Aside.] TRIP. But a propos Moses–have you been able to get me that little

Bill discounted?

SIR OLIVER. Wants to raise money too!–mercy on me! has his distresses, I warrant[,] like a Lord–and affects Creditors and Duns! [Aside.]

MOSES. ’Twas not be done, indeed—-

TRIP. Good lack–you surprise me–My Friend Brush has indorsed it and I thought when he put his name at the Back of a Bill ’twas

as good as cash.

MOSES. No ’twouldn’t do.

TRIP. A small sum–but twenty Pound–harkee, Moses do you think you could get it me by way of annuity?

SIR OLIVER. An annuity! ha! ha! a Footman raise money by annuity– Well done Luxury egad! [Aside.]

MOSES. Who would you get to join with you?

TRIP. You know my Lord Applice–you have seen him however—- MOSES. Yes—-

TRIP. You must have observed what an appearance he makes–nobody dresses better, nobody throws off faster–very well this Gentleman

will stand my security.

MOSES. Well–but you must insure your Place.

TRIP. O with all my Heart–I’ll insure my Place, and my Life too, if you please.

SIR OLIVER. It’s more than I would your neck—- MOSES. But is there nothing you could deposit?

TRIP. Why nothing capital of my master’s wardrobe has drop’d lately–but I could give you a mortgage on some of his winter Cloaths with equity of redemption before November or–you shall have the reversion–of the French velvet, or a post obit on the

Blue and Silver–these I should think Moses–with a few Pair of Point Ruffles as a collateral security–hey, my little Fellow?

MOSES. Well well–we’ll talk presently–we detain the Gentlemen—- SIR OLIVER. O pray don’t let me interrupt Mr. Trip’s Negotiation.

TRIP. Harkee–I heard the Bell–I believe, Gentlemen I can now introduce you–don’t forget the annuity little Moses.

SIR OLIVER. If the man be a shadow of his Master this is the Temple of Dissipation indeed!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.–CHARLES, CARELESS, etc., etc.

At Table with Wine

CHARLES. ’Fore Heaven, ’tis true!–there is the great Degeneracy of the age–many of our acquaintance have Taste–Spirit, and Politeness–but plague on’t they won’t drink—-

CARELESS. It is so indeed–Charles–they give into all the substantial Luxuries of the Table–and abstain from nothing but wine and wit–Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably–

for now instead of the social spirit of Raillery that used

to mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy their conversation is become just like the Spa water they drink which has all the

Pertness and flatulence of champaine without its spirit or Flavour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. But what are they to do who love Play better than wine—-

CARELESS. True–there’s Harry diets himself–for gaming and is now under a hazard Regimen.

CHARLES. Then He’ll have the worst of it–what you wouldn’t train a horse for the course by keeping him from corn–For my Part egad

I am never so successful as when I’m a little–merry–let me throw on a Bottle of Champaine and I never lose–at least I never feel my losses which is exactly the same thing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Aye that may be–but it is as impossible to follow wine and play as to unite Love and Politics.

CHARLES. Pshaw–you may do both–Caesar made Love and Laws in a Breath–and was liked by the Senate as well as the Ladies–

but no man can pretend to be a Believer in Love, who is an abjurer of wine–’tis the Test by which a Lover knows his own Heart–

fill a dozen Bumpers to a dozen Beauties, and she that floats atop is the maid that has bewitched you.

CARELESS. Now then Charles–be honest and give us yours—- CHARLES. Why I have withheld her only in compassion to you–

if I toast her you should give a round of her Peers, which

is impossible! on earth!

CARELESS. O, then we’ll find some canonized Vestals or heathen Goddesses that will do I warrant—-

CHARLES. Here then–Bumpers–you Rogues–Bumpers! Maria–Maria—- FIRST GENTLEMAN. Maria who?

CHARLES. Oh, damn the Surname ’tis too formal to be register’d in Love’s calendar–but now Careless beware–beware–we must have Beauty’s superlative.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nay Never study[,] Careless–we’ll stand to the Toast–tho’ your mistress should want an eye–and you know you have

a song will excuse you—-

CARELESS. Egad so I have–and I’ll give him the song instead of the Lady.—-

SONG.–AND CHORUS–¡4¿

Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here’s to the widow of fifty;

Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass,–

Drink to the lass,

I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for a glass.

Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize; Now to the maid who has none, sir;

Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow: Now to her that’s as brown as a berry: Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that’s merry.

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather;

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,

And let us e’en toast them together. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

[Enter TRIP whispers CHARLES]

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Bravo Careless–Ther’s Toast and Sentiment too. FIRST GENTLEMAN. E’ faith there’s infinite charity in that song.—- CHARLES. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little.–Careless,

take the Chair, will you?

CARELESS. Nay prithee, Charles–what now–this is one of your Peerless Beauties I suppose–has dropped in by chance?

CHARLES. No–Faith–to tell you the Truth ’tis a Jew and a Broker who are come by appointment.

CARELESS. O dam it let’s have the Jew in.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Aye and the Broker too by all means—- SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes yes the Jew and the Broker.

CHARLES. Egad with all my Heart–Trip–bid the Gentlemen walk in– tho’ there’s one of them a Stranger I can tell you—-

TRIP. What Sir–would you chuse Mr. Premium to come up with—- FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes–yes Mr. Premium certainly.

CARELESS. To be sure–Mr. Premium–by all means Charles, let us give them some generous Burgundy, and perhaps they’ll grow conscientious—-

CHARLES. O, Hang ’em–no–wine does but draw forth a man’s natural qualities; and to make them drink would only be to whet their Knavery.

Enter TRIP, SIR OLIVER, and MOSES

CHARLES. So–honest Moses–walk in–walk in pray Mr. Premium– that’s the Gentleman’s name isn’t it Moses.

MOSES. Yes Sir.

CHARLES. Set chairs–Trim.–Sit down, Mr Premium.–Glasses Trim.– sit down Moses.–Come, Mr. Premium I’ll give you a sentiment–

Here’s Success to Usury–Moses fill the Gentleman a bumper.

MOSES. Success to Usury!

CARELESS. Right Moses–Usury is Prudence and industry and deserves to succeed—-

SIR OLIVER. Then Here is–all the success it deserves! [Drinks.]

CHARLES. Mr. Premium you and I are but strangers yet–but I hope we shall be better acquainted by and bye—-

SIR OLIVER. Yes Sir hope we shall–more intimately perhaps than you’ll wish. [Aside.¡5¿]

CARELESS. No, no, that won’t do! Mr. Premium, you have demurred at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. A pint bumper, at least.

MOSES. Oh, pray, sir, consider–Mr. Premium’s a gentleman. CARELESS. And therefore loves good wine.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Give Moses a quart glass–this is mutiny, and a high contempt for the chair.

CARELESS. Here, now for’t! I’ll see justice done, to the last drop of my bottle.

SIR OLIVER. Nay, pray, gentlemen–I did not expect this usage. CHARLES. No, hang it, you shan’t; Mr. Premium’s a stranger.

SIR OLIVER. Odd! I wish I was well out of their company. [Aside.]

CARELESS. Plague on ’em then! if they won’t drink, we’ll not sit down with them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next room.–Charles,

you’ll join us when you have finished your business with the gentlemen?

CHARLES. I will! I will!–

[Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER and GENTLEMEN; CARELESS following.] Careless.

CARELESS. [Returning.] Well! CHARLES. Perhaps I may want you.

CARELESS. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or bond, ’tis all the same to me.

[Exit.]

MOSES. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictest honour and secrecy; and always performs what he undertakes.

Mr. Premium, this is—-

CHARLES. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a very honest fellow, but a little slow at expression: he’ll be an hour giving

us our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is this:

I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to borrow money; you I take to be a prudent old fellow, who have got money to lend. I am blockhead enough to give fifty per cent. sooner than not have it!

and you, I presume, are rogue enough to take a hundred if you can get it. Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and may proceed to business without further ceremony.

SIR OLIVER. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you are not a man of many compliments.

CHARLES. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in business I always think best.

SIR OLIVER. Sir, I like you the better for it. However, You are mistaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believe

I could procure some of a friend; but then he’s an unconscionable dog. Isn’t he, Moses? And must sell stock to accommodate you. Mustn’t he, Moses!

MOSES. Yes, indeed! You know I always speak the truth, and scorn to tell a lie!

CHARLES. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But these are trifles, Mr. Premium. What! I know money isn’t to be bought without paying for’t!

SIR OLIVER. Well, but what security could you give? You have no land, I suppose?

CHARLES. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what’s in the bough pots out of the window!

SIR OLIVER. Nor any stock, I presume?

CHARLES. Nothing but live stock–and that’s only a few pointers and ponies. But pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted at all

with any of my connections?

SIR OLIVER. Why, to say the truth, I am.

CHARLES. Then you must know that I have a devilish rich uncle in the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have the greatest

expectations?

SIR OLIVER. That you have a wealthy uncle, I have heard; but how your expectations will turn out is more, I believe, than you can tell.

CHARLES. Oh, no!–there can be no doubt. They tell me I’m a prodigious favourite, and that he talks of leaving me everything.

SIR OLIVER. Indeed! this is the first I’ve heard of it.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, ’tis just so. Moses knows ’tis true; don’t you, Moses?

MOSES. Oh, yes! I’ll swear to’t.

SIR OLIVER. Egad, they’ll persuade me presently I’m at Bengal. [Aside.]

CHARLES. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it’s agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver’s life: though at the same time the old fellow has been so liberal to me, that I give you my word, I should

be very sorry to hear that anything had happened to him.

SIR OLIVER. Not more than I should, I assure you. But the bond you mention happens to be just the worst security you could offer me–

for I might live to a hundred and never see the principal.

CHARLES. Oh, yes, you would! the moment Sir Oliver dies, you know, you would come on me for the money.

SIR OLIVER. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome dun you ever had in your life.

CHARLES. What! I suppose you’re afraid that Sir Oliver is too good a life?

SIR OLIVER. No, indeed I am not; though I have heard he is as hale and healthy as any man of his years in Christendom.

CHARLES. There again, now, you are misinformed. No, no, the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver.

Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I’m told–and is so much altered lately that his nearest relations would not know him.

SIR OLIVER. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much altered lately that his nearest relations would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! egad–ha! ha! ha!

CHARLES. Ha! ha!–you’re glad to hear that, little Premium?

SIR OLIVER. No, no, I’m not.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, you are–ha! ha! ha!–you know that mends your chance.

SIR OLIVER. But I’m told Sir Oliver is coming over; nay, some say he is actually arrived.

CHARLES. Psha! sure I must know better than you whether he’s come or not. No, no, rely on’t he’s at this moment at Calcutta. Isn’t he,

Moses?

MOSES. Oh, yes, certainly.

SIR OLIVER. Very true, as you say, you must know better than I, though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven’t I, Moses?

MOSES. Yes, most undoubted!

SIR OLIVER. But, Sir, as I understand you want a few hundreds immediately, is there nothing you could dispose of?

CHARLES. How do you mean?

SIR OLIVER. For instance, now, I have heard that your father left behind him a great quantity of massy old plate.

CHARLES. O Lud! that’s gone long ago. Moses can tell you how better than I can.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Good lack! all the family race-cups and corporation-bowls!–[Aloud.] Then it was also supposed that his library was one of the most valuable and compact.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, so it was–vastly too much so for a private gentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative disposition, so I thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to myself.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Mercy upon me! learning that had run in the family like an heir-loom!–[Aloud.] Pray, what has become of the

books?

CHARLES. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master Premium, for I don’t believe even Moses can direct you.

MOSES. I know nothing of books.

SIR OLIVER. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I suppose?

CHARLES. Not much, indeed; unless you have a mind to the family pictures. I have got a room full of ancestors above: and if you

have a taste for old paintings, egad, you shall have ’em a bargain!

SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn’t sell your forefathers, would you?

CHARLES. Every man of them, to the best bidder. SIR OLIVER. What! your great-uncles and aunts?

CHARLES. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Now I give him up!–[Aloud.] What the plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred? Odd’s life! do you take me

for Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of me on your own flesh and blood?

CHARLES. Nay, my little broker, don’t be angry: what need you care, if you have your money’s worth?

SIR OLIVER. Well, I’ll be the purchaser: I think I can dispose of the family canvas.–[Aside.] Oh, I’ll never forgive him this! never!

Re-enter CARELESS

CARELESS. Come, Charles, what keeps you?

CHARLES. I can’t come yet. I’faith, we are going to have a sale above stairs; here’s little Premium will buy all my ancestors!

CARELESS. Oh, burn your ancestors!

CHARLES. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneer–so come along with us.

CARELESS. Oh, have with you, if that’s the case. I can handle a hammer as well as a dice box! Going! going!

SIR OLIVER. Oh, the profligates! [Aside.]

CHARLES. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we want one.

Gad’s life, little Premium, you don’t seem to like the business?

SIR OLIVER. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I think it a rare joke to sell one’s family by auction–ha! ha!–[Aside.]

Oh, the prodigal!

CHARLES. To be sure! when a man wants money, where the plague should he get assistance, if he can’t make free with his own relations?

[Exeunt.]

SIR OLIVER. I’ll never forgive him; never! never! END OF THE THIRD ACT

ACT IV

SCENE I.–A Picture Room in CHARLES SURFACE’S House Enter CHARLES, SIR OLIVER, MOSES, and CARELESS

CHARLES. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in;–here they are, the family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.

SIR OLIVER. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection. CHARLES. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of portrait-

painting; no volontiere grace or expression. Not like the works

of your modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest resemblance, yet contrive to make your portrait independent of you; so that

you may sink the original and not hurt the picture. No, no; the merit of these is the inveterate likeness–all stiff and

awkward as the originals, and like nothing in human nature besides. SIR OLIVER. Ah! we shall never see such figures of men again.

CHARLES. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what a domestic character I am; here I sit of an evening surrounded by my family. But

come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here’s an old gouty chair of my grandfather’s will answer the purpose.

CARELESS. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven’t a hammer; and what’s an auctioneer without his hammer?

CHARLES. Egad, that’s true. What parchment have we here? Oh, our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.] Here, Careless,

you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here’s the family tree for you, you rogue! This shall be your hammer, and now you may knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree.

SIR OLIVER. What an unnatural rogue!–an ex post facto parricide! [Aside.]

CARELESS. Yes, yes, here’s a list of your generation indeed;– faith, Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could have found for the business, for ’twill not only serve as a hammer,

but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin–A-going, a-going,

a-going!

CHARLES. Bravo, Careless! Well, here’s my great uncle, Sir Richard Ravelin, a marvellous good general in his day, I assure you.

He served in all the Duke of Marlborough’s wars, and got that cut

over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you, Mr. Premium? look at him–there’s a hero! not cut out of his feathers, as your

modern clipped captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals, as a general should be. What do you bid?

SIR OLIVER. [Aside to Moses.] Bid him speak. MOSES. Mr. Premium would have you speak.

CHARLES. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds, and I’m sure that’s not dear for a staff-officer.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me! his famous uncle Richard for ten pounds!–[Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him at that.

CHARLES. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard.–Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by Kneller, in his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable likeness.

There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding her flock. You shall have her for five pounds ten–the sheep are worth the money.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Ah! poor Deborah! a woman who set such a value on herself!–[Aloud.] Five pounds ten–she’s mine.

CHARLES. Knock down my aunt Deborah! Here, now, are two that were a sort of cousins of theirs.–You see, Moses, these pictures were done

some time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their own hair.

SIR OLIVER. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a little lower in those days.

CHARLES. Well, take that couple for the same. MOSES. ’Tis a good bargain.

CHARLES. Careless!–This, now, is a grandfather of my mother’s, a learned judge, well known on the western circuit,–What do you rate him at, Moses?

MOSES. Four guineas.

CHARLES. Four guineas! Gad’s life, you don’t bid me the price of his wig.–Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the woolsack; do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen.

SIR OLIVER. By all means. CARELESS. Gone!

CHARLES. And there are two brothers of his, William and Walter Blunt,

Esquires, both members of Parliament, and noted speakers; and, what’s very extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they were ever bought or sold.

SIR OLIVER. That is very extraordinary, indeed! I’ll take them at your own price, for the honour of Parliament.

CARELESS. Well said, little Premium! I’ll knock them down at forty.

CHARLES. Here’s a jolly fellow–I don’t know what relation, but he was mayor of Norwich: take him at eight pounds.

SIR OLIVER. No, no; six will do for the mayor.

CHARLES. Come, make it guineas, and I’ll throw you the two aldermen here into the bargain.

SIR OLIVER. They’re mine.

CHARLES. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. But, plague on’t! we shall be all day retailing in this manner;

do let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium?

Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump.

CARELESS. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.

SIR OLIVER. Well, well, anything to accommodate you; they are mine.

But there is one portrait which you have always passed over.

CARELESS. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee?

SIR OLIVER. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don’t think him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any means.

CHARLES. What, that? Oh; that’s my uncle Oliver! ’Twas done before he went to India.

CARELESS. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you’ll never be friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as ever

I saw; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance! an inveterate knave, depend on’t. Don’t you think so, little Premium?

SIR OLIVER. Upon my soul, Sir, I do not; I think it is as honest a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But I suppose uncle

Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber?

CHARLES. No, hang it! I’ll not part with poor Noll. The old fellow has been very good to me, and, egad, I’ll keep his picture while I’ve

a room to put it in.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] The rogue’s my nephew after all!–[Aloud.] But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture.

CHARLES. I’m sorry for’t, for you certainly will not have it.

Oons, haven’t you got enough of them?

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] I forgive him everything!–[Aloud.] But, Sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don’t value money. I’ll give you as much for that as for all the rest.

CHARLES. Don’t tease me, master broker; I tell you I’ll not part with it, and there’s an end of it.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] How like his father the dog is.– [Aloud.] Well, well, I have done.– [Aside.] I did not perceive it before,

but I think I never saw such a striking resemblance.– [Aloud.] Here is a draught for your sum.

CHARLES. Why, ’tis for eight hundred pounds! SIR OLIVER. You will not let Sir Oliver go?

CHARLES. Zounds! no! I tell you, once more.

SIR OLIVER. Then never mind the difference, we’ll balance that another time. But give me your hand on the bargain; you are an honest fellow, Charles–I beg pardon, sir, for being so free.–

Come, Moses.

CHARLES. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow!–But hark’ee, Premium, you’ll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen.

SIR OLIVER. Yes, yes, I’ll send for them in a day or two. CHARLES. But, hold; do now send a genteel conveyance for them,

for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in their

own carriages.

SIR OLIVER. I will, I will–for all but Oliver. CHARLES. Ay, all but the little nabob.

SIR OLIVER. You’re fixed on that?

CHARLES. Peremptorily.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue!–[Aloud.] Good day!

Come, Moses.–[Aside.] Let me hear now who dares call him profligate! [Exit with MOSES.]

CARELESS. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met with!

CHARLES. Egad, he’s the prince of brokers, I think. I wonder how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow.–Ha! here’s Rowley.–Do, Careless, say I’ll join the company in a few moments.

CARELESS. I will–but don’t let that old blockhead persuade you to squander any of that money on old musty debts, or any such nonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows.

CHARLES. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging them. CARELESS. Nothing else.

CHARLES. Ay, ay, never fear.– [Exit CARELESS.]

So! this was an odd old fellow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirds of these five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right.

Fore Heaven! I find one’s ancestors are more valuable relations than I took them for!–Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedient and very grateful servant.

[Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.] Enter ROWLEY

Ha! old Rowley! egad, you are just come in time to take leave of your old acquaintance.

ROWLEY. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you can have such spirits under so many distresses.

CHARLES. Why, there’s the point! my distresses are so many, that I can’t affort to part with my spirits; but I shall be rich and

splenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose you are surprised that I am not more sorrowful at parting with so many near relations; to be sure, ’tis very affecting; but you see they never move a muscle, so why should I?

ROWLEY. There’s no making you serious a moment.

CHARLES. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley, here, get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds of it immediately to old Stanley.

ROWLEY. A hundred pounds! Consider only—-

CHARLES. Gad’s life, don’t talk about it! poor Stanley’s wants are pressing, and, if you don’t make haste, we shall have some one call that has a better right to the money.

ROWLEY. Ah! there’s the point! I never will cease dunning you with the old proverb—-

CHARLES. BE JUST BEFORE YOU’RE GENEROUS.–Why, so I would if

I could;

but Justice is an old hobbling beldame, and I can’t get her to keep pace with Generosity, for the soul of me.

ROWLEY. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour’s reflection—- CHARLES. Ay, ay, it’s very true; but, hark’ee, Rowley, while I have,

by Heaven I’ll give; so, damn your economy! and now for hazard.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.–The Parlour

Enter SIR OLIVER and MOSES

MOSES. Well sir, I think as Sir Peter said you have seen Mr. Charles in high Glory–’tis great Pity He’s so extravagant.

SIR OLIVER. True–but he would not sell my Picture– MOSES. And loves wine and women so much–

SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn’t sell my Picture. MOSES. And game so deep–

SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn’t sell my Picture. O–here’s Rowley! Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. So–Sir Oliver–I find you have made a Purchase—-

SIR OLIVER. Yes–yes–our young Rake has parted with his Ancestors like old Tapestry–sold Judges and Generals by the foot–and maiden Aunts as cheap as broken China.–

ROWLEY. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you Part of the purchase-money–I mean tho’ in your necessitous character

of old Stanley—-

MOSES. Ah! there is the Pity of all! He is so damned charitable. ROWLEY. And I left a Hosier and two Tailors in the Hall–who

I’m sure won’t be paid, and this hundred would satisfy ’em.

SIR OLIVER. Well–well–I’ll pay his debts and his Benevolences too–I’ll take care of old Stanley–myself– But now I am no more

a Broker, and you shall introduce me to the elder Brother as Stanley—-

ROWLEY. Not yet a while–Sir Peter I know means to call there about this time.

Enter TRIP

TRIP. O Gentlemen–I beg Pardon for not showing you out–this way– Moses, a word.

[Exit TRIP with MOSES.]

SIR OLIVER. There’s a Fellow for you– Would you believe it that Puppy intercepted the Jew, on our coming, and wanted to raise money before he got to his master!

ROWLEY. Indeed!

SIR OLIVER. Yes–they are now planning an annuity Business– Ah Master Rowley[,] in my Day Servants were content with the Follies of their Masters when they were worn a little Thread Bare but now they have their Vices like their Birth Day cloaths with the gloss on. [Exeunt.]

SCENE III.–A Library SURFACE and SERVANT

SURFACE. No letter from Lady Teazle? SERVANT. No Sir–

SURFACE. I am surprised she hasn’t sent if she is prevented from coming–! Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me–yet I wish

I may not lose the Heiress, thro’ the scrape I have drawn myself

in with the wife–However, Charles’s imprudence and bad character are great Points in my Favour.

SERVANT. Sir–I believe that must be Lady Teazle– SURFACE. Hold[!] see–whether it is or not before you go to the

Door–I have a particular Message for you if it should be my Brother.

SERVANT. ’Tis her ladyship Sir–She always leaves her Chair at the milliner’s in the next Street.

SURFACE. Stay–stay–draw that Screen before the Window–that will do–my opposite Neighbour is a maiden Lady of so curious a temper!– [SERVANT draws the screen and exit.]

I have a difficult Hand to play in this Affair–Lady Teazle as lately suspected my Views on Maria–but She must by no means be let into that secret, at least till I have her more in my Power.

Enter LADY TEAZLE

LADY TEAZLE. What[!] Sentiment in soliloquy–have you been very impatient now?–O Lud! don’t pretend to look grave–I vow I couldn’t come before—-

SURFACE. O Madam[,] Punctuality is a species of Constancy, a very unfashionable quality in a Lady.

LADY TEAZLE. Upon my word you ought to pity me, do you now Sir Peter is grown so ill-tempered to me of Late! and so jealous! of Charles too

that’s the best of the story isn’t it?

SURFACE. I am glad my scandalous Friends keep that up. [Aside.] LADY TEAZLE. I am sure I wish He would let Maria marry him–

and then perhaps He would be convinced–don’t you–Mr. Surface?

SURFACE. Indeed I do not.–[Aside.] O certainly I do–for then

my dear Lady Teazle would also be convinced how wrong her suspicions were of my having any design on the silly Girl—-

LADY TEAZLE. Well–well I’m inclined to believe you–besides I really never could perceive why she should have so any admirers.

SURFACE. O for her Fortune–nothing else–

LADY TEAZLE. I believe so for tho’ she is certainly very pretty– yet she has no conversation in the world–and is so grave and reserved–that I declare I think she’d have made an excellent wife

for Sir Peter.–

SURFACE. So she would.

LADY TEAZLE. Then–one never hears her speak ill of anybody–which you know is mighty dull–

SURFACE. Yet she doesn’t want understanding–

LADY TEAZLE. No more she does–yet one is always disapointed when one hears [her] speak–For though her Eyes have no kind of meaning

in them–she very seldom talks Nonsense.

SURFACE. Nay–nay surely–she has very fine eyes–

LADY TEAZLE. Why so she has–tho’ sometimes one fancies there’s a little sort of a squint–

SURFACE. A squint–O fie–Lady Teazle.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes yes–I vow now–come there is a left-handed Cupid in one eye–that’s the Truth on’t.

SURFACE. Well–his aim is very direct however–but Lady Sneerwell has quite corrupted you.

LADY TEAZLE. No indeed–I have not opinion enough of her to be taught by her, and I know that she has lately rais’d many scandalous hints of me–which you know one always hears from one common Friend, or other.

SURFACE. Why to say truth I believe you are not more obliged to her than others of her acquaintance.

LADY TEAZLE. But isn’t [it] provoking to hear the most ill-natured Things said to one and there’s my friend Lady Sneerwell has circulated

I don’t know how many scandalous tales of me, and all without any foundation, too; that’s what vexes me.

SURFACE. Aye Madam to be sure that is the Provoking circumstance– without Foundation–yes yes–there’s the mortification indeed–

for when a slanderous story is believed against one–there certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it—-

LADY TEAZLE. No to be sure–then I’d forgive their malice– but to attack me, who am really so innocent–and who never say an ill-natured thing of anybody–that is, of any Friend–!

and then Sir Peter too–to have him so peevish–and so suspicious– when I know the integrity of my own Heart–indeed ’tis monstrous.

SURFACE. But my dear Lady Teazle ’tis your own fault if you suffer it–when a Husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his Wife and withdraws his confidence from her–the original compact is broke and

she owes it to the Honour of her sex to endeavour to outwit him–

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed–So that if He suspects me without cause it follows that the best way of curing his jealousy is to give him reason for’t–

SURFACE. Undoubtedly–for your Husband [should] never be deceived in you–and in that case it becomes you to be frail in compliment

to his discernment–

LADY TEAZLE. To be sure what you say is very reasonable–and when the consciousness of my own Innocence—-

SURFACE. Ah: my dear–Madam there is the great mistake–’tis this very conscious Innocence that is of the greatest Prejudice to you–

what is it makes you negligent of Forms and careless of the world’s opinion–why the consciousness of your Innocence–what makes you thoughtless in your Conduct and apt to run into a thousand little imprudences–why the consciousness of your Innocence–what makes you impatient of Sir Peter’s temper, and outrageous at his suspicions–

why the consciousness of your own Innocence– LADY TEAZLE. ’Tis very true.

SURFACE. Now my dear Lady Teazle if you but once make a trifling Faux Pas you can’t conceive how cautious you would grow, and how ready to humour and agree with your Husband.

LADY TEAZLE. Do you think so–

SURFACE. O I’m sure on’t; and then you’d find all scandal would cease at once–for in short your Character at Present is like

a Person in a Plethora, absolutely dying of too much Health–

LADY TEAZLE. So–so–then I perceive your Prescription is that I must sin in my own Defence–and part with my virtue to preserve my Reputation.–

SURFACE. Exactly so upon my credit Ma’am[.]

LADY TEAZLE. Well certainly this is the oddest Doctrine–and the newest Receipt for avoiding calumny.

SURFACE. An infallible one believe me–Prudence like experience must be paid for–

LADY TEAZLE. Why if my understanding were once convinced—-

SURFACE. Oh, certainly Madam, your understanding SHOULD be convinced–yes–yes–Heaven forbid I should persuade you to do

anything you THOUGHT wrong–no–no–I have too much honor to desire it–

LADY TEAZLE. Don’t–you think we may as well leave Honor out of the Argument? [Rises.]

SURFACE. Ah–the ill effects of your country education I see still remain with you.

LADY TEAZLE. I doubt they do indeed–and I will fairly own to you, that If I could be persuaded to do wrong it would be by Sir Peter’s

ill-usage–sooner than your honourable Logic, after all.

SURFACE. Then by this Hand, which He is unworthy of—- Enter SERVANT

Sdeath, you Blockhead–what do you want?

SERVANT. I beg your Pardon Sir, but I thought you wouldn’t chuse Sir Peter to come up without announcing him?

SURFACE. Sir Peter–Oons–the Devil!

LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter! O Lud! I’m ruined! I’m ruin’d! SERVANT. Sir, ’twasn’t I let him in.

LADY TEAZLE. O I’m undone–what will become of me now Mr. Logick.– Oh! mercy, He’s on the Stairs–I’ll get behind here–and if ever

I’m so imprudent again—- [Goes behind the screen–]

SURFACE. Give me that–Book!—-

[Sits down–SERVANT pretends to adjust his Hair–] Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Aye–ever improving himself!–Mr. Surface–

SURFACE. Oh! my dear Sir Peter–I beg your Pardon–[Gaping and throws away the Book.] I have been dosing [dozing] over a stupid Book! well–I am much obliged to you for this Call–You haven’t

been here I believe since I fitted up this Room–Books you know are the only Things I am a Coxcomb in–

SIR PETER. ’Tis very neat indeed–well well that’s proper– and you make even your Screen a source of knowledge–hung

I perceive with Maps–

SURFACE. O yes–I find great use in that Screen.

SIR PETER. I dare say you must–certainly–when you want to find out anything in a Hurry.

SURFACE. Aye or to hide anything in a Hurry either–

SIR PETER. Well I have a little private Business–if we were alone– SURFACE. You needn’t stay.

SERVANT. No–Sir—- [Exit SERVANT.]

SURFACE. Here’s a Chair–Sir Peter–I beg—-

SIR PETER. Well–now we are alone–there IS a subject–my dear Friend–on which I wish to unburthen my Mind to you–a Point

of the greatest moment to my Peace–in short, my good Friend– Lady Teazle’s conduct of late has made me very unhappy.

SURFACE. Indeed I’m very sorry to hear it–

SIR PETER. Yes ’tis but too plain she has not the least regard for me–but what’s worse, I have pretty good Authority to suspect that she must have formed an attachment to another.

SURFACE. Indeed! you astonish me.

SIR PETER. Yes–and between ourselves–I think I have discover’d the Person.

SURFACE. How–you alarm me exceedingly!

SIR PETER. Ah: my dear Friend I knew you would sympathize with me.–

SURFACE. Yes–believe me Sir Peter–such a discovery would hurt me just as much as it would you–

SIR PETER. I am convinced of it–ah–it is a happiness to have a Friend whom one can trust even with one’s Family secrets–

but have you no guess who I mean?

SURFACE. I haven’t the most distant Idea–it can’t be Sir Benjamin Backbite.

SIR PETER. O–No. What say you to Charles?

SURFACE. My Brother–impossible!–O no Sir Peter you mustn’t credit the scandalous insinuations you hear–no no–Charles to be sure

has been charged with many things but go I can never think He would meditate so gross an injury–

SIR PETER. Ah! my dear Friend–the goodness of your own Heart misleads you–you judge of others by yourself.

SURFACE. Certainly Sir Peter–the Heart that is conscious of its own integrity is ever slowest to credit another’s Treachery.–

SIR PETER. True–but your Brother has no sentiment[–]you never hear him talk so.–

SURFACE. Well there certainly is no knowing what men are capable of– no–there is no knowing–yet I can’t but think Lady Teazle herself

has too much Principle—-

SIR PETER. Aye but what’s Principle against the Flattery of a handsome–lively young Fellow–

SURFACE. That’s very true–

SIR PETER. And then you know the difference of our ages makes it very improbable that she should have any great affection for me–and if she

were to be frail and I were to make it Public–why the Town would only laugh at the foolish old Batchelor, who had married a girl—-

SURFACE. That’s true–to be sure People would laugh.

SIR PETER. Laugh–aye and make Ballads–and Paragraphs and the Devil knows what of me–

SURFACE. No–you must never make it public–

SIR PETER. But then again that the Nephew of my old Friend, Sir Oliver[,] should be the Person to attempt such an injury–

hurts me more nearly–

SURFACE. Undoubtedly–when Ingratitude barbs the Dart of Injury– the wound has double danger in it–

SIR PETER. Aye–I that was in a manner left his Guardian–

in his House he had been so often entertain’d–who never in my Life denied him my advice–

SURFACE. O ’tis not to be credited–There may be a man capable of such Baseness, to be sure–but for my Part till you can give me positive Proofs you must excuse me withholding my Belief. However, if this should be proved on him He is no longer a brother of mine

I disclaim kindred with him–for the man who can break thro’ the Laws of Hospitality–and attempt the wife of his Friend deserves to be branded as the Pest of Society.

SIR PETER. What a difference there is between you–what noble sentiments!–

SURFACE. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle’s honor.

SIR PETER. I’m sure I wish to think well of her–and to remove all ground of Quarrel between us–She has lately reproach’d me more than once with having made no settlement on her–and, in our last Quarrel, she almost hinted that she should not break her Heart if

I was dead.–now as we seem to differ in our Ideas of Expense I have resolved she shall be her own Mistress in that Respect

for the future–and if I were to die–she shall find that I have not been inattentive to her Interests while living–Here my Friend

are the Draughts of two Deeds which I wish to have your opinion on– by one she will enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live– and by the other the bulk of my Fortune after my Death.

SURFACE. This conduct Sir Peter is indeed truly Generous! I wish it may not corrupt my pupil.–[Aside.]

SIR PETER. Yes I am determined she shall have no cause to complain– tho’ I would not have her acquainted with the latter instance of my affection yet awhile.

SURFACE. Nor I–if I could help it.

SIR PETER. And now my dear Friend if you please we will talk over the situation of your Hopes with Maria.

SURFACE. No–no–Sir Peter–another Time if you Please–[softly].

SIR PETER. I am sensibly chagrined at the little Progress you seem to make in her affection.

SURFACE. I beg you will not mention it–What are my Disappointments when your Happiness is in Debate [softly]. ’Sdeath I shall be ruined

every way.

SIR PETER. And tho’ you are so averse to my acquainting Lady Teazle with YOUR passion, I am sure she’s not your Enemy in the Affair.

SURFACE. Pray Sir Peter, now oblige me.–I am really too much affected by the subject we have been speaking of to bestow a thought on my own concerns–The Man who is entrusted with his Friend’s Distresses can never—-

Enter SERVANT Well, Sir?

SERVANT. Your Brother Sir, is–speaking to a Gentleman in the Street, and says He knows you’re within.

SURFACE. ’Sdeath, Blockhead–I’m NOT within–I’m out for the Day. SIR PETER. Stay–hold–a thought has struck me–you shall be at home. SURFACE. Well–well–let him up.–

[Exit SERVANT.]

He’ll interrupt Sir Peter, however. [Aside.]

SIR PETER. Now, my good Friend–oblige me I Intreat you–before Charles comes–let me conceal myself somewhere–Then do you tax him on the Point we have been talking on–and his answers may satisfy me at once.–

SURFACE. O Fie–Sir Peter–would you have ME join in so mean a Trick? to trepan my Brother too?

SIR PETER. Nay you tell me you are SURE He is innocent–if so you do him the greatest service in giving him an opportunity to clear himself–and–you will set my Heart at rest–come you shall not refuse me–here behind this Screen will be–hey! what the Devil–there seems

to be one listener here already–I’ll swear I saw a Petticoat.–

SURFACE. Ha! ha! ha! Well this is ridiculous enough–I’ll tell you, Sir Peter–tho’ I hold a man of Intrigue to be a most despicable Character–yet you know it doesn’t follow that a man is to be an absolute Joseph either–hark’ee–’tis a little French Milliner–

a silly Rogue that plagues me–and having some character, on your coming she ran behind the Screen.–

SIR PETER. Ah a Rogue–but ’egad she has overheard all I have been saying of my Wife.

SURFACE. O ’twill never go any farther, you may depend on’t.

SIR PETER. No!–then efaith let her hear it out.–Here’s a Closet will do as well.–

SURFACE. Well, go in there.–

SIR PETER. Sly rogue–sly Rogue.–

SURFACE. Gad’s my Life what an Escape–! and a curious situation I’m in!–to part man and wife in this manner.–

LADY TEAZLE. [peeps out.] Couldn’t I steal off– SURFACE. Keep close, my Angel!

SIR PETER. [Peeping out.] Joseph–tax him home.

SURFACE. Back–my dear Friend

LADY TEAZLE. [Peeping out.] Couldn’t you lock Sir Peter in?– SURFACE. Be still–my Life!

SIR PETER. [Peeping.] You’re sure the little Milliner won’t blab?

SURFACE. In! in! my good Sir Peter–’Fore Gad, I wish I had a key to the Door.

Enter CHARLES

CHARLES. Hollo! Brother–what has been the matter? your Fellow wouldn’t let me up at first–What[?] have you had a Jew or a wench with you.–

SURFACE. Neither Brother I assure you.

CHARLES. But–what has made Sir Peter steal off–I thought He had been with you–

SURFACE. He WAS Brother–but hearing you were coming He didn’t chuse to stay–

CHARLES. What[!] was the old Gentleman afraid I wanted to borrow money of him?

SURFACE. No Sir–but I am sorry to find[,] Charles–you have lately given that worthy man grounds for great Uneasiness.

CHARLES. Yes they tell me I do that to a great many worthy men– but how so Pray?

SURFACE. To be plain with you Brother He thinks you are endeavouring to gain Lady Teazle’s Affections from him.

CHARLES. Who I–O Lud! not I upon my word.–Ha! ha! ha! so the old Fellow has found out that He has got a young wife has He? or what’s

worse she has discover’d that she has an old Husband?

SURFACE. This is no subject to jest on Brother–He who can laugh—-

CHARLES. True true as you were going to say–then seriously I never had the least idea of what you charge me with, upon my honour.

SURFACE. Well it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear this.

CHARLES. [Aloud.] To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed to have taken a fancy–but upon my soul I never gave her the least

encouragement.–Beside you know my Attachment to Maria–

SURFACE. But sure Brother even if Lady Teazle had betray’d the fondest Partiality for you—-

CHARLES. Why–look’ee Joseph–I hope I shall never deliberately do a dishonourable Action–but if a pretty woman was purposely

to throw herself in my way–and that pretty woman married to a man old enough to be her Father—-

SURFACE. Well?

CHARLES. Why I believe I should be obliged to borrow a little of your Morality, that’s all.–but, Brother do you know now that you surprize

me exceedingly by naming me with Lady Teazle–for faith I always understood YOU were her Favourite–

SURFACE. O for shame–Charles–This retort is Foolish. CHARLES. Nay I swear I have seen you exchange such significant

Glances—-

SURFACE. Nay–nay–Sir–this is no jest–

CHARLES. Egad–I’m serious–Don’t you remember–one Day, when I called here—-

SURFACE. Nay–prithee–Charles CHARLES. And found you together—- SURFACE. Zounds, Sir–I insist—-

CHARLES. And another time when your Servant—-

SURFACE. Brother–brother a word with you–Gad I must stop him– [Aside.]

CHARLES. Informed–me that—-

SURFACE. Hush!–I beg your Pardon but Sir Peter has overheard all we have been saying–I knew you would clear yourself, or I shouldn’t have consented–

CHARLES. How Sir Peter–Where is He– SURFACE. Softly, there! [Points to the closet.]

CHARLES. [In the Closet!] O ’fore Heaven I’ll have him out– Sir Peter come forth!

SURFACE. No–no—-

CHARLES. I say Sir Peter–come into court.– [Pulls in SIR PETER.]

What–my old Guardian–what[!] turn inquisitor and take evidence incog.–

SIR PETER. Give me your hand–Charles–I believe I have suspected you wrongfully; but you mustn’t be angry with Joseph–’twas my Plan–

CHARLES. Indeed!–

SIR PETER. But I acquit you–I promise you I don’t think near so ill of you as I did–what I have heard has given me great satisfaction.

CHARLES. Egad then ’twas lucky you didn’t hear any more. Wasn’t it Joseph?

SIR PETER. Ah! you would have retorted on him. CHARLES. Aye–aye–that was a Joke.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, I know his honor too well.

CHARLES. Yet you might as well have suspected him as me in this matter, for all that–mightn’t He, Joseph?

SIR PETER. Well well I believe you–

SURFACE. Would they were both out of the Room! Enter SERVANT, whispers SURFACE

SIR PETER. And in future perhaps we may not be such Strangers.

SURFACE. Gentlemen–I beg Pardon–I must wait on you downstairs– Here is a Person come on particular Business—-

CHARLES. Well you can see him in another Room–Sir Peter and I haven’t met a long time and I have something to say [to] him.

SURFACE. They must not be left together.–I’ll send this man away and return directly–

[SURFACE goes out.]

SIR PETER. Ah–Charles if you associated more with your Brother, one might indeed hope for your reformation–He is a man of Sentiment– Well! there is nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!

CHARLES. Pshaw! He is too moral by half–and so apprehensive of his good Name, as he calls it, that I suppose He would as soon let

a Priest in his House as a Girl–

SIR PETER. No–no–come come,–you wrong him. No, no, Joseph is no Rake but he is no such Saint in that respect either. I have a great

mind to tell him–we should have such a Laugh!

CHARLES. Oh, hang him? He’s a very Anchorite–a young Hermit!

SIR PETER. Harkee–you must not abuse him, he may chance to hear of it again I promise you.

CHARLES. Why you won’t tell him?

SIR PETER. No–but–this way. Egad, I’ll tell him–Harkee, have you a mind to have a good laugh against Joseph?

CHARLES. I should like it of all things–

SIR PETER. Then, E’faith, we will–I’ll be quit with him for discovering me.–He had a girl with him when I called. [Whispers.]

CHARLES. What[!] Joseph[!] you jest–

SIR PETER. Hush!–a little French Milliner–and the best of the jest is–she’s in the room now.

CHARLES. The devil she is–

SIR PETER. Hush! I tell you. [Points.]

CHARLES. Behind the screen! Odds Life, let’s unveil her! SIR PETER. No–no! He’s coming–you shan’t indeed!

CHARLES. Oh, egad, we’ll have a peep at the little milliner! SIR PETER. Not for the world–Joseph will never forgive me. CHARLES. I’ll stand by you—-

SIR PETER. Odds Life! Here He’s coming–

[SURFACE enters just as CHARLES throws down the Screen.] Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE

CHARLES. Lady Teazle! by all that’s wonderful!

SIR PETER. Lady Teazle! by all that’s Horrible!

CHARLES. Sir Peter–This is one of the smartest French Milliners I ever saw!–Egad, you seem all to have been diverting yourselves

here at Hide and Seek–and I don’t see who is out of the Secret!– Shall I beg your Ladyship to inform me!–Not a word!–Brother!–

will you please to explain this matter? What! is Honesty Dumb too?– Sir Peter, though I found you in the Dark–perhaps you are not so now–all mute! Well tho’ I can make nothing of the Affair, I make

no doubt but you perfectly understand one another–so I’ll leave you to yourselves.–[Going.] Brother I’m sorry to find you have given that worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness!–Sir Peter–there’s nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!–

[Stand for some time looking at one another. Exit CHARLES.]

SURFACE. Sir Peter–notwithstanding I confess that appearances are against me. If you will afford me your Patience I make no doubt but I shall explain everything to your satisfaction.–

SIR PETER. If you please–Sir–

SURFACE. The Fact is Sir–that Lady Teazle knowing my Pretensions to your ward Maria–I say Sir Lady Teazle–being apprehensive of the Jealousy of your Temper–and knowing my Friendship to the Family. S

he Sir–I say call’d here–in order that I might explain those Pretensions–but on your coming being apprehensive–as I said of your Jealousy–she withdrew–and this, you may depend on’t is the whole truth of the Matter.

SIR PETER. A very clear account upon the [my] word and I dare swear the Lady will vouch for every article of it.

LADY TEAZLE. For not one word of it Sir Peter–

SIR PETER. How[!] don’t you think it worthwhile to agree in the lie. LADY TEAZLE. There is not one Syllable of Truth in what that

Gentleman has told you.

SIR PETER. I believe you upon my soul Ma’am– SURFACE. ’Sdeath, madam, will you betray me! [Aside.]

LADY TEAZLE. Good Mr. Hypocrite by your leave I will speak for myself–

SIR PETER. Aye let her alone Sir–you’ll find she’ll make out a better story than you without Prompting.

LADY TEAZLE. Hear me Sir Peter–I came hither on no matter relating to your ward and even ignorant of this Gentleman’s pretensions to

her–but I came–seduced by his insidious arguments–and pretended Passion[–]at least to listen to his dishonourable Love if not

to sacrifice your Honour to his Baseness.

SIR PETER. Now, I believe, the Truth is coming indeed[.] SURFACE. The Woman’s mad–

LADY TEAZLE. No Sir–she has recovered her Senses. Your own Arts have furnished her with the means. Sir Peter–I do not expect you

to credit me–but the Tenderness you express’d for me, when I am sure you could not think I was a witness to it, has penetrated so to my Heart that had I left the Place without the Shame of this discovery– my future life should have spoken the sincerity of my Gratitude–

as for that smooth-tongued Hypocrite–who would have seduced the wife of his too credulous Friend while he pretended honourable addresses

to his ward–I behold him now in a light so truly despicable that I shall never again Respect myself for having Listened to him. [Exit.]

SURFACE. Notwithstanding all this Sir Peter–Heaven knows—-

SIR PETER. That you are a Villain!–and so I leave you to your conscience–

SURFACE. You are too Rash Sir Peter–you SHALL hear me–The man who shuts out conviction by refusing to—-

[Exeunt, SURFACE following and speaking.] END OF THE FOURTH

ACT V

SCENE I.–The Library

Enter SURFACE and SERVANT

SURFACE. Mr. Stanley! and why should you think I would see him?– you must know he came to ask something!

SERVANT. Sir–I shouldn’t have let him in but that Mr. Rowley came to the Door with him.

SURFACE. Pshaw!–Blockhead to suppose that I should now be in a Temper to receive visits from poor Relations!–well why don’t

you show the Fellow up?

SERVANT. I will–Sir–Why, Sir–it was not my Fault that Sir Peter discover’d my Lady—-

SURFACE. Go, fool!– [Exit SERVANT.]

Sure Fortune never play’d a man of my policy such a Trick before– my character with Sir Peter!–my Hopes with Maria!–destroy’d in

a moment!–I’m in a rare Humour to listen to other People’s Distresses!–I shan’t be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment on Stanley–So! here–He comes and Rowley with him–I MUST try to recover myself, and put a little Charity into my Face however.—- [Exit.]

Enter SIR OLIVER and ROWLEY

SIR OLIVER. What! does He avoid us? that was He–was it not? ROWLEY. It was Sir–but I doubt you are come a little too abruptly–

his Nerves are so weak that the sight of a poor Relation may be too much for him–I should have gone first to break you to him.

SIR OLIVER. A Plague of his Nerves–yet this is He whom Sir Peter extolls as a Man of the most Benevolent way of thinking!–

ROWLEY. As to his way of thinking–I can’t pretend to decide[,] for, to do him justice He appears to have as much speculative Benevolence as any private Gentleman in the Kingdom–though he is seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise of it—-

SIR OLIVER. Yet [he] has a string of charitable Sentiments I suppose at his Fingers’ ends!–

ROWLEY. Or, rather at his Tongue’s end Sir Oliver; for I believe there is no sentiment he has more faith in than that ’Charity begins at Home.’

SIR OLIVER. And his I presume is of that domestic sort which never stirs abroad at all.

ROWLEY. I doubt you’ll find it so–but He’s coming–I mustn’t seem to interrupt you–and you know immediately–as you leave him–I come in to announce–your arrival in your real Character.

SIR OLIVER. True–and afterwards you’ll meet me at Sir Peter’s—- ROWLEY. Without losing a moment.

[Exit.]

SIR OLIVER. So–I see he has premeditated a Denial by the Complaisance of his Features.

Enter SURFACE

SURFACE. Sir–I beg you ten thousand Pardons for keeping– you a moment waiting–Mr. Stanley–I presume—-

SIR OLIVER. At your Service.

SURFACE. Sir–I beg you will do me the honour to sit down– I entreat you Sir.

SIR OLIVER. Dear Sir there’s no occasion–too civil by half! SURFACE. I have not the Pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Stanley–

but I am extremely happy to see you look so well–you were nearly

related to my mother–I think Mr. Stanley—-

SIR OLIVER. I was Sir–so nearly that my present Poverty I fear may do discredit to her Wealthy Children–else I should not

have presumed to trouble you.–

SURFACE. Dear Sir–there needs no apology–He that is in Distress tho’ a stranger has a right to claim kindred with the wealthy–

I am sure I wish I was of that class, and had it in my power to offer you even a small relief.

SIR OLIVER. If your Unkle, Sir Oliver were here–I should have a Friend—-

SURFACE. I wish He was Sir, with all my Heart–you should not want an advocate with him–believe me Sir.

SIR OLIVER. I should not need one–my Distresses would recommend me.–but I imagined–his Bounty had enabled you to become the agent

of his Charity.

SURFACE. My dear Sir–you are strangely misinformed–Sir Oliver is a worthy Man, a worthy man–a very worthy sort of Man–but avarice Mr. Stanley is the vice of age–I will tell you my good Sir in confidence:–what he has done for me has been a mere–nothing[;]

tho’ People I know have thought otherwise and for my Part I never chose to contradict the Report.

SIR OLIVER. What!–has he never transmitted–you–Bullion–Rupees– Pagodas!

SURFACE. O Dear Sir–Nothing of the kind–no–no–a few Presents now and then–china, shawls, congo Tea, Avadavats–and indian Crackers–little more, believe me.

SIR OLIVER. Here’s Gratitude for twelve thousand pounds!– Avadavats and indian Crackers.

SURFACE. Then my dear–Sir–you have heard, I doubt not, of the extravagance of my Brother–Sir–there are very few would credit

what I have done for that unfortunate young man.

SIR OLIVER. Not I for one!

SURFACE. The sums I have lent him! indeed–I have been exceedingly to blame–it was an amiable weakness! however I don’t pretend

to defend it–and now I feel it doubly culpable–since it has

deprived me of the power of serving YOU Mr. Stanley as my Heart directs—-

SIR OLIVER. Dissembler! Then Sir–you cannot assist me? SURFACE. At Present it grieves me to say I cannot–but whenever

I have the ability, you may depend upon hearing from me.

SIR OLIVER. I am extremely sorry—-

SURFACE. Not more than I am believe me–to pity without the Power to relieve is still more painful than to ask and be denied—-

SIR OLIVER. Kind Sir–your most obedient humble servant. SURFACE. You leave me deeply affected Mr. Stanley–William–

be ready to open the door—-

SIR OLIVER. O, Dear Sir, no ceremony—- SURFACE. Your very obedient—-

SIR OLIVER. Your most obsequious—-

SURFACE. You may depend on hearing from me whenever I can be of service—-

SIR OLIVER. Sweet Sir–you are too good—-

SURFACE. In the mean time I wish you Health and Spirits—-

SIR OLIVER. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble Servant—- SURFACE. Sir–yours as sincerely—-

SIR OLIVER. Charles!–you are my Heir. [Exit.]

SURFACE, solus

Soh!–This is one bad effect of a good Character–it invites applications from the unfortunate and there needs no small degree of address to gain the reputation of Benevolence without incurring the expence.–The silver ore of pure Charity is an expensive article in the catalogue of a man’s good Qualities–whereas the sentimental French Plate I use instead of it makes just as good a shew–and pays no tax.

Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. Mr. Surface–your Servant: I was apprehensive of interrupting you, tho’ my Business demands immediate attention– as this Note will inform you—-

SURFACE. Always Happy to see Mr. Rowley–how–Oliver–Surface!– My Unkle arrived!

ROWLEY. He is indeed–we have just parted–quite well–after a speedy voyage–and impatient to embrace his worthy Nephew.

SURFACE. I am astonished!–William[!] stop Mr. Stanley, if He’s not gone—-

ROWLEY. O–He’s out of reach–I believe.

SURFACE. Why didn’t you let me know this when you came in together.–

ROWLEY. I thought you had particular–Business–but must be gone to inform your Brother, and appoint him here to meet his Uncle.

He will be with you in a quarter of an hour—-

SURFACE. So he says. Well–I am strangely overjoy’d at his coming– never to be sure was anything so damn’d unlucky!

ROWLEY. You will be delighted to see how well He looks. SURFACE. O–I’m rejoiced to hear it–just at this time—- ROWLEY. I’ll tell him how impatiently you expect him—- SURFACE. Do–do–pray–give my best duty and affection–indeed,

I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of seeing

him!–certainly his coming just at this Time is the cruellest piece of ill Fortune—-

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.–At SIR PETER’S House

Enter MRS. CANDOUR and SERVANT

SERVANT. Indeed Ma’am, my Lady will see nobody at Present.

MRS. CANDOUR. Did you tell her it was her Friend Mrs. Candour—- SERVANT. Yes Ma’am but she begs you will excuse her—-

MRS. CANDOUR. Do go again–I shall be glad to see her if it be only for a moment–for I am sure she must be in great Distress

[exit MAID]

–Dear Heart–how provoking!–I’m not mistress of half the circumstances!–We shall have the whole affair in the newspapers

with the Names of the Parties at length before I have dropt the story at a dozen houses.

Enter SIR BENJAMIN

Sir Benjamin you have heard, I suppose—-

SIR BENJAMIN. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Surface—- MRS. CANDOUR. And Sir Peter’s Discovery—-

SIR BENJAMIN. O the strangest Piece of Business to be sure—-

MRS. CANDOUR. Well I never was so surprised in my life!–I am so sorry for all Parties–indeed,

SIR BENJAMIN. Now I don’t Pity Sir Peter at all–he was so extravagant–partial to Mr. Surface—-

MRS. CANDOUR. Mr. Surface!–why ’twas with Charles Lady Teazle was detected.

SIR BENJAMIN. No such thing Mr. Surface is the gallant.

MRS. CANDOUR. No–no–Charles is the man–’twas Mr. Surface brought Sir Peter on purpose to discover them—-

SIR BENJAMIN. I tell you I have it from one—- MRS. CANDOUR. And I have it from one—-

SIR BENJAMIN. Who had it from one who had it—-

MRS. CANDOUR. From one immediately–but here comes Lady Sneerwell– perhaps she knows the whole affair.

Enter LADY SNEERWELL

LADY SNEERWELL. So–my dear Mrs. Candour Here’s a sad affair of our Friend Teazle—-

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye my dear Friend, who could have thought it. LADY SNEERWELL. Well there is no trusting to appearances[;] tho’–

indeed she was always too lively for me.

MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure, her manners were a little too–free– but she was very young—-

LADY SNEERWELL. And had indeed some good Qualities.

MRS. CANDOUR. So she had indeed–but have you heard the Particulars? LADY SNEERWELL. No–but everybody says that Mr. Surface—-

SIR BENJAMIN. Aye there I told you–Mr. Surface was the Man. MRS. CANDOUR. No–no–indeed the assignation was with Charles—- LADY SNEERWELL. With Charles!–You alarm me Mrs. Candour!

MRS. CANDOUR. Yes–yes He was the Lover–Mr. Surface–do him justice–was only the Informer.

SIR BENJAMIN. Well I’ll not dispute with you Mrs. Candour– but be it which it may–I hope that Sir Peter’s wound will not—-

MRS. CANDOUR. Sir Peter’s wound! O mercy! I didn’t hear a word of their Fighting—-

LADY SNEERWELL. Nor I a syllable!

SIR BENJAMIN. No–what no mention of the Duel—- MRS. CANDOUR. Not a word–

SIR BENJAMIN. O, Lord–yes–yes–they fought before they left the Room.

LADY SNEERWELL. Pray let us hear.

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye–do oblige–us with the Duel—-

SIR BENJAMIN. ’Sir’–says Sir Peter–immediately after the Discovery, ’you are a most ungrateful Fellow.’

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye to Charles—-

SIR BENJAMIN. No, no–to Mr. Surface–’a most ungrateful Fellow; and old as I am, Sir,’ says He, ’I insist on immediate satisfaction.’

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye that must have been to Charles for ’tis very unlikely Mr. Surface should go to fight in his own House.

SIR BENJAMIN. Gad’s Life, Ma’am, not at all–giving me immediate satisfaction–on this, Madam–Lady Teazle seeing Sir Peter in such Danger–ran out of the Room in strong Hysterics–and Charles after

her calling out for Hartshorn and Water! Then Madam–they began to fight with Swords—-

Enter CRABTREE

CRABTREE. With Pistols–Nephew–I have it from undoubted authority. MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, Mr. Crabtree then it is all true—-

CRABTREE. Too true indeed Ma’am, and Sir Peter Dangerously wounded—-

SIR BENJAMIN. By a thrust in second–quite thro’ his left side CRABTREE. By a Bullet lodged in the Thorax—-

MRS. CANDOUR. Mercy–on me[!] Poor Sir Peter—-

CRABTREE. Yes, ma’am tho’ Charles would have avoided the matter if he could—-

MRS. CANDOUR. I knew Charles was the Person—-

SIR BENJAMIN. O my Unkle I see knows nothing of the matter—- CRABTREE. But Sir Peter tax’d him with the basest ingratitude—- SIR BENJAMIN. That I told you, you know—-

CRABTREE. Do Nephew let me speak–and insisted on immediate—- SIR BENJAMIN. Just as I said—-

CRABTREE. Odds life! Nephew allow others to know something too– A Pair of Pistols lay on the Bureau–for Mr. Surface–it seems,

had come home the Night before late from Salt-Hill where He had been to see the Montem with a Friend, who has a Son at Eton–so unluckily the Pistols were left Charged—-

SIR BENJAMIN. I heard nothing of this—-

CRABTREE. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one and they fired– it seems pretty nearly together–Charles’s shot took Place as I tell you–and Sir Peter’s miss’d–but what is very extraordinary the Ball struck against a little Bronze Pliny that stood over the Fire Place– grazed out of the window at a right angle–and wounded the Postman, who was just coming to the Door with a double letter from Northamptonshire.

SIR BENJAMIN. My Unkle’s account is more circumstantial I must confess–but I believe mine is the true one for all that.

LADY SNEERWELL. I am more interested in this Affair than they imagine–and must have better information.–

[Exit.]

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! Lady Sneerwell’s alarm is very easily accounted for.–

CRABTREE. Yes yes, they certainly DO say–but that’s neither here nor there.

MRS. CANDOUR. But pray where is Sir Peter at present—- CRABTREE. Oh! they–brought him home and He is now in the House,

tho’ the Servants are order’d to deny it—-

MRS. CANDOUR. I believe so–and Lady Teazle–I suppose attending him—-

CRABTREE. Yes yes–and I saw one of the Faculty enter just before me—-

SIR BENJAMIN. Hey–who comes here—- CRABTREE. Oh, this is He–the Physician depend on’t.

MRS. CANDOUR. O certainly it must be the Physician and now we shall know—-

Enter SIR OLIVER

CRABTREE. Well, Doctor–what Hopes?

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye Doctor how’s your Patient?

SIR BENJAMIN. Now Doctor isn’t it a wound with a small sword—-

CRABTREE. A bullet lodged in the Thorax–for a hundred!

SIR OLIVER. Doctor!–a wound with a small sword! and a Bullet in the Thorax!–oon’s are you mad, good People?

SIR BENJAMIN. Perhaps, Sir, you are not a Doctor.

SIR OLIVER. Truly Sir I am to thank you for my degree If I am. CRABTREE. Only a Friend of Sir Peter’s then I presume–but, sir,

you must have heard of this accident– SIR OLIVER. Not a word!

CRABTREE. Not of his being dangerously wounded? SIR OLIVER. The Devil he is!

SIR BENJAMIN. Run thro’ the Body—- CRABTREE. Shot in the breast—-

SIR BENJAMIN. By one Mr. Surface—- CRABTREE. Aye the younger.

SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the plague! you seem to differ strangely in your accounts–however you agree that Sir Peter is dangerously wounded.

SIR BENJAMIN. Oh yes, we agree in that.

CRABTREE. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt in that. SIR OLIVER. Then, upon my word, for a person in that Situation,

he is the most imprudent man alive–For here he comes walking as if nothing at all was the matter.

Enter SIR PETER

Odd’s heart, sir Peter! you are come in good time I promise you, for we had just given you over!

SIR BENJAMIN. ’Egad, Uncle this is the most sudden Recovery!

SIR OLIVER. Why, man, what do you do out of Bed with a Small Sword through your Body, and a Bullet lodg’d in your Thorax?

SIR PETER. A Small Sword and a Bullet–

SIR OLIVER. Aye these Gentlemen would have kill’d you without Law or Physic, and wanted to dub me a Doctor to make me an accomplice.

SIR PETER. Why! what is all this?

SIR BENJAMIN. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the Story of the Duel is not true–and are sincerely sorry for your other Misfortune.

SIR PETER. So–so–all over the Town already! [Aside.]

CRABTREE. Tho’, Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to blame to marry at all at your years.

SIR PETER. Sir, what Business is that of yours?

MRS. CANDOUR. Tho’ Indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a Husband, he’s very much to be pitied.

SIR PETER. Plague on your pity, Ma’am, I desire none of it.

SIR BENJAMIN. However Sir Peter, you must not mind the Laughing and jests you will meet with on the occasion.

SIR PETER. Sir, I desire to be master in my own house. CRABTREE. ’Tis no Uncommon Case, that’s one comfort.

SIR PETER. I insist on being left to myself, without ceremony,– I insist on your leaving my house directly!

MRS. CANDOUR. Well, well, we are going and depend on’t, we’ll make the best report of you we can.

SIR PETER. Leave my house!

CRABTREE. And tell how hardly you have been treated. SIR PETER. Leave my House–

SIR BENJAMIN. And how patiently you bear it.

SIR PETER. Friends! Vipers! Furies! Oh that their own Venom would choke them!

SIR OLIVER. They are very provoking indeed, Sir Peter. Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. I heard high words: what has ruffled you Sir Peter–

SIR PETER. Pshaw what signifies asking–do I ever pass a Day without my Vexations?

SIR OLIVER. Well I’m not Inquisitive–I come only to tell you, that I have seen both my Nephews in the manner we proposed.

SIR PETER. A Precious Couple they are!

ROWLEY. Yes and Sir Oliver–is convinced that your judgment was right Sir Peter.

SIR OLIVER. Yes I find Joseph is Indeed the Man after all. ROWLEY. Aye as Sir Peter says, He’s a man of Sentiment. SIR OLIVER. And acts up to the Sentiments he professes. ROWLEY. It certainly is Edification to hear him talk.

SIR OLIVER. Oh, He’s a model for the young men of the age!

But how’s this, Sir Peter? you don’t Join us in your Friend Joseph’s Praise as I expected.

SIR PETER. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and the fewer we praise the better.

ROWLEY. What do YOU say so, Sir Peter–who were never mistaken in your Life?

SIR PETER. Pshaw–Plague on you both–I see by your sneering you have heard–the whole affair–I shall go mad among you!

ROWLEY. Then to fret you no longer Sir Peter–we are indeed acquainted with it all–I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr. Surface’s so humbled, that she deigned to request ME to be her advocate with you–

SIR PETER. And does Sir Oliver know all too? SIR OLIVER. Every circumstance!

SIR PETER. What of the closet and the screen–hey[?]

SIR OLIVER. Yes yes–and the little French Milliner. Oh, I have been vastly diverted with the story! ha! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. ’Twas very pleasant!

SIR OLIVER. I never laugh’d more in my life, I assure you: ha! ha!

SIR PETER. O vastly diverting! ha! ha!

ROWLEY. To be sure Joseph with his Sentiments! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Yes his sentiments! ha! ha! a hypocritical Villain!

SIR OLIVER. Aye and that Rogue Charles–to pull Sir Peter out of the closet: ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Ha! ha! ’twas devilish entertaining to be sure–

SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter I should like to have seen your Face when the screen was thrown down–ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Yes, my face when the Screen was thrown down: ha! ha! ha!

O I must never show my head again!

SIR OLIVER. But come–come it isn’t fair to laugh at you neither my old Friend–tho’ upon my soul I can’t help it–

SIR PETER. O pray don’t restrain your mirth on my account: it does not hurt me at all–I laugh at the whole affair myself–Yes–yes–

I think being a standing Jest for all one’s acquaintance a very happy situation–O yes–and then of a morning to read the Paragraphs about Mr. S—-, Lady T—-, and Sir P—-, will be so entertaining!–

I shall certainly leave town tomorrow and never look mankind in the Face again!

ROWLEY. Without affectation Sir Peter, you may despise the ridicule of Fools–but I see Lady Teazle going towards the next Room–I am sure you must desire a Reconciliation as earnestly as she does.

SIR OLIVER. Perhaps MY being here prevents her coming to you– well I’ll leave honest Rowley to mediate between you; but he must bring you all presently to Mr. Surface’s–where I am now returning–

if not to reclaim a Libertine, at least to expose Hypocrisy.

SIR PETER. Ah! I’ll be present at your discovering yourself there with all my heart; though ’tis a vile unlucky Place for discoveries.

SIR OLIVER. However it is very convenient to the carrying on of my Plot that you all live so near one another!

[Exit SIR OLIVER.]

ROWLEY. We’ll follow–

SIR PETER. She is not coming here you see, Rowley–

ROWLEY. No but she has left the Door of that Room open you perceive.–see she is in Tears–!

SIR PETER. She seems indeed to wish I should go to her.–how dejected she appears–

ROWLEY. And will you refrain from comforting her–

SIR PETER. Certainly a little mortification appears very becoming in a wife–don’t you think it will do her good to let her Pine

a little.

ROWLEY. O this is ungenerous in you–

SIR PETER. Well I know not what to think–you remember Rowley the Letter I found of her’s–evidently intended for Charles?

ROWLEY. A mere forgery, Sir Peter–laid in your way on Purpose– this is one of the Points which I intend Snake shall give you

conviction on–

SIR PETER. I wish I were once satisfied of that–She looks this way—-what a remarkably elegant Turn of the Head she has!

Rowley I’ll go to her– ROWLEY. Certainly–

SIR PETER. Tho’ when it is known that we are reconciled, People will laugh at me ten times more!

ROWLEY. Let–them laugh–and retort their malice only by showing them you are happy in spite of it.

SIR PETER. Efaith so I will–and, if I’m not mistaken we may yet be the happiest couple in the country–

ROWLEY. Nay Sir Peter–He who once lays aside suspicion—-

SIR PETER. Hold Master Rowley–if you have any Regard for me– never let me hear you utter anything like a Sentiment. I have had enough of THEM to serve me the rest of my Life.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE THE LAST.–The Library SURFACE and LADY SNEERWELL

LADY SNEERWELL. Impossible! will not Sir Peter immediately be reconciled to CHARLES? and of consequence no longer oppose his union with MARIA? the thought is Distraction to me!

SURFACE. Can Passion–furnish a Remedy?

LADY SNEERWELL. No–nor cunning either. O I was a Fool, an Ideot– to league with such a Blunderer!

SURFACE. Surely Lady Sneerwell I am the greatest Sufferer–yet you see I bear the accident with Calmness.

LADY SNEERWELL. Because the Disappointment hasn’t reached your HEART–your interest only attached you to Maria–had you felt for her–what I have for that ungrateful Libertine–neither your Temper

nor Hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of your Vexation.

SURFACE. But why should your Reproaches fall on me for this Disappointment?

LADY SNEERWELL. Are not you the cause of it? what had you to bate in your Pursuit of Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the way.–had you

not a sufficient field for your Roguery in blinding Sir Peter and supplanting your Brother–I hate such an avarice of crimes–’tis an unfair monopoly and never prospers.

SURFACE. Well I admit I have been to blame–I confess I deviated from the direct Road of wrong but I don’t think we’re so totally defeated neither.

LADY SNEERWELL. No!

SURFACE. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since we met– and that you still believe him faithful to us–

LADY SNEERWELL. I do believe so.

SURFACE. And that he has undertaken should it be necessary–to swear and prove that Charles is at this Time contracted by vows and Honour

to your Ladyship–which some of his former letters to you will serve to support–

LADY SNEERWELL. This, indeed, might have assisted–

SURFACE. Come–come it is not too late yet–but hark! this is probably my Unkle Sir Oliver–retire to that Room–we’ll consult further when He’s gone.–

LADY SNEERWELL. Well but if HE should find you out to–

SURFACE. O I have no fear of that–Sir Peter will hold his tongue for his own credit sake–and you may depend on’t I shall soon Discover

Sir Oliver’s weak side!–

LADY SNEERWELL. I have no diffidence of your abilities–only be constant to one roguery at a time–

[Exit.]

SURFACE. I will–I will–So ’tis confounded hard after such bad Fortune, to be baited by one’s confederate in evil–well at all events my character is so much better than Charles’s, that I certainly–hey–what!–this is not Sir Oliver–but old Stanley again!–Plague on’t that He should return to teaze me just now–

I shall have Sir Oliver come and find him here–and—- Enter SIR OLIVER

Gad’s life, Mr. Stanley–why have you come back to plague me at this time? you must not stay now upon my word!

SIR OLIVER. Sir–I hear your Unkle Oliver is expected here– and tho’ He has been so penurious to you, I’ll try what He’ll

do for me–

SURFACE. Sir! ’tis impossible for you to stay now–so I must beg—-come any other time and I promise you you shall be assisted.

SIR OLIVER. No–Sir Oliver and I must be acquainted– SURFACE. Zounds Sir then [I] insist on your quitting the–

Room directly–

SIR OLIVER. Nay Sir—-

SURFACE. Sir–I insist on’t–here William show this Gentleman out.

Since you compel me Sir–not one moment–this is such insolence. [Going to push him out.]

Enter CHARLES

CHARLES. Heyday! what’s the matter now?–what the Devil have you got hold of my little Broker here! Zounds–Brother, don’t hurt

little Premium. What’s the matter–my little Fellow?

SURFACE. So! He has been with you, too, has He– CHARLES. To be sure He has! Why, ’tis as honest a little—-

But sure Joseph you have not been borrowing money too have you?

SURFACE. Borrowing–no!–But, Brother–you know sure we expect Sir Oliver every—-

CHARLES. O Gad, that’s true–Noll mustn’t find the little Broker here to be sure–

SURFACE. Yet Mr. Stanley insists—- CHARLES. Stanley–why his name’s Premium– SURFACE. No no Stanley.

CHARLES. No, no–Premium. SURFACE. Well no matter which–but—-

CHARLES. Aye aye Stanley or Premium, ’tis the same thing as you say–for I suppose He goes by half a hundred Names, besides A. B’s

at the Coffee-House. [Knock.]

SURFACE. ’Sdeath–here’s Sir Oliver at the Door—-Now I beg– Mr. Stanley—-

CHARLES. Aye aye and I beg Mr. Premium—- SIR OLIVER. Gentlemen—-

SURFACE. Sir, by Heaven you shall go– CHARLES. Aye out with him certainly—- SIR OLIVER. This violence—- SURFACE. ’Tis your own Fault.

CHARLES. Out with him to be sure. [Both forcing SIR OLIVER out.]

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY

SIR PETER. My old Friend, Sir Oliver!–hey! what in the name of wonder!–Here are dutiful Nephews!–assault their Unkle

at his first Visit!

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed Sir Oliver ’twas well we came in to rescue you.

ROWLEY. Truly it was–for I perceive Sir Oliver the character of old Stanley was no Protection to you.

SIR OLIVER. Nor of Premium either–the necessities of the former could not extort a shilling from that benevolent Gentleman; and

with the other I stood a chance of faring worse than my Ancestors,

and being knocked down without being bid for.

SURFACE. Charles! CHARLES. Joseph! SURFACE. ’Tis compleat! CHARLES. Very!

SIR OLIVER. Sir Peter–my Friend and Rowley too–look on that elder Nephew of mine–You know what He has already received from my Bounty and you know also how gladly I would have look’d on half my Fortune as held in trust for him–judge then my Disappointment in discovering him to be destitute of Truth–Charity–and Gratitude–

SIR PETER. Sir Oliver–I should be more surprized at this Declaration, if I had not myself found him to be selfish– treacherous and Hypocritical.

LADY TEAZLE. And if the Gentleman pleads not guilty to these pray let him call ME to his Character.

SIR PETER. Then I believe we need add no more–if He knows himself He will consider it as the most perfect Punishment that He is known

to the world–

CHARLES. If they talk this way to Honesty–what will they say to ME by and bye!

SIR OLIVER. As for that Prodigal–his Brother there—-

CHARLES. Aye now comes my Turn–the damn’d Family Pictures will ruin me–

SURFACE. Sir Oliver–Unkle–will you honour me with a hearing– CHARLES. I wish Joseph now would make one of his long speeches and

I might recollect myself a little–

SIR OLIVER. And I suppose you would undertake to vindicate yourself entirely–

SURFACE. I trust I could–

SIR OLIVER. Nay–if you desert your Roguery in its Distress and try to be justified–you have even less principle than I thought

you had.–[To CHARLES SURFACE] Well, Sir–and YOU could JUSTIFY yourself too I suppose–

CHARLES. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver.

SIR OLIVER. What[!] little Premium has been let too much into the secret I presume.

CHARLES. True–Sir–but they were Family Secrets, and should not be mentioned again you know.

ROWLEY. Come Sir Oliver I know you cannot speak of Charles’s Follies with anger.

SIR OLIVER. Odd’s heart no more I can–nor with gravity either– Sir Peter do you know the Rogue bargain’d with me for all his Ancestors–sold me judges and Generals by the Foot, and Maiden Aunts as cheap as broken China!

CHARLES. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free with the Family Canvas that’s the truth on’t:–my Ancestors may certainly rise in judgment against me there’s no denying it–but believe me sincere when I tell you, and upon my soul I would not say so if I was not–that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure of my Follies,

it is because I feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in seeing you, my liberal benefactor.

SIR OLIVER. Charles–I believe you–give me your hand again: the ill-looking little fellow over the Couch has made your Peace.

CHARLES. Then Sir–my Gratitude to the original is still encreased.

LADY TEAZLE. [Advancing.] Yet I believe, Sir Oliver, here is one whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to.

SIR OLIVER. O I have heard of his Attachment there–and, with the young Lady’s Pardon if I construe right that Blush—-

SIR PETER. Well–Child–speak your sentiments–you know–we are going to be reconciled to Charles–

MARIA. Sir–I have little to say–but that I shall rejoice to hear that He is happy–For me–whatever claim I had to his Affection–

I willing resign to one who has a better title.

CHARLES. How Maria!

SIR PETER. Heyday–what’s the mystery now? while he appeared an incorrigible Rake, you would give your hand to no one else

and now that He’s likely to reform I’ll warrant You won’t have him!

MARIA. His own Heart–and Lady Sneerwell know the cause.

[CHARLES.] Lady Sneerwell!

SURFACE. Brother it is with great concern–I am obliged to speak on this Point, but my Regard to justice obliges me– and Lady Sneerwell’s injuries can no longer–be concealed– [Goes to the Door.]

Enter LADY SNEERWELL

SIR PETER. Soh! another French milliner egad! He has one in every Room in the House I suppose–

LADY SNEERWELL. Ungrateful Charles! Well may you be surprised and feel for the indelicate situation which your Perfidy has forced me

into.

CHARLES. Pray Unkle, is this another Plot of yours? for as I have Life I don’t understand it.

SURFACE. I believe Sir there is but the evidence of one Person more necessary to make it extremely clear.

SIR PETER. And that Person–I imagine, is Mr. Snake–Rowley–you were perfectly right to bring him with us–and pray let him appear.

ROWLEY. Walk in, Mr. Snake– Enter SNAKE

I thought his Testimony might be wanted–however it happens unluckily that He comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and not to support her–

LADY SNEERWELL. A Villain!–Treacherous to me at last! Speak, Fellow, have you too conspired against me?

SNAKE. I beg your Ladyship–ten thousand Pardons–you paid me extremely Liberally for the Lie in question–but I unfortunately

have been offer’d double to speak the Truth.

LADY SNEERWELL. The Torments of Shame and Disappointment on you

all!

LADY TEAZLE. Hold–Lady Sneerwell–before you go let me thank you

for the trouble you and that Gentleman have taken in writing Letters from me to Charles and answering them yourself–and let me also request you to make my Respects to the Scandalous College–of which you are President–and inform them that Lady Teazle, Licentiate, begs leave to return the diploma they granted her–as she leaves of[f] Practice and kills Characters no longer.

LADY SNEERWELL. Provoking–insolent!–may your Husband live these fifty years!

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Oons what a Fury—-

LADY TEAZLE. A malicious Creature indeed! SIR PETER. Hey–not for her last wish?– LADY TEAZLE. O No–

SIR OLIVER. Well Sir, and what have you to say now?

SURFACE. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell could be guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner to impose on us

all that I know not what to say—-however, lest her Revengeful Spirit should prompt her to injure my Brother I had certainly better follow her directly.

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Moral to the last drop!

SIR OLIVER. Aye and marry her Joseph if you can.–Oil and Vinegar egad:–you’ll do very well together.

ROWLEY. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at Present– SNAKE. Before I go–I beg Pardon once for all for whatever uneasiness

I have been the humble instrument of causing to the Parties present.

SIR PETER. Well–well you have made atonement by a good Deed at last–

SNAKE. But I must Request of the Company that it shall never be known–

SIR PETER. Hey!–what the Plague–are you ashamed of having done a right thing once in your life?

SNAKE. Ah: Sir–consider I live by the Badness of my Character!– I have nothing but my Infamy to depend on!–and, if it were once known that I had been betray’d into an honest Action, I should lose every Friend I have in the world.

SIR OLIVER. Well–well we’ll not traduce you by saying anything to your Praise never fear.

[Exit SNAKE.]

SIR PETER. There’s a precious Rogue–Yet that fellow is a Writer and a Critic.

LADY TEAZLE. See[,] Sir Oliver[,] there needs no persuasion now to reconcile your Nephew and Maria–

SIR OLIVER. Aye–aye–that’s as it should be and egad we’ll have the wedding to-morrow morning–

CHARLES. Thank you, dear Unkle!

SIR PETER. What! you rogue don’t you ask the Girl’s consent first– CHARLES. Oh, I have done that a long time–above a minute ago–

nd She has look’d yes–

MARIA. For Shame–Charles–I protest Sir Peter, there has not been a word—-

SIR OLIVER. Well then the fewer the Better–may your love for each other never know–abatement.

SIR PETER. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle and I–intend to do–

CHARLES. Rowley my old Friend–I am sure you congratulate me and I suspect too that I owe you much.

SIR OLIVER. You do, indeed, Charles–

ROWLEY. If my Efforts to serve you had not succeeded you would have been in my debt for the attempt–but deserve to be happy–and you

over-repay me.

SIR PETER. Aye honest Rowley always said you would reform. CHARLES. Why as to reforming Sir Peter I’ll make no promises–

and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about it–

But here shall be my Monitor–my gentle Guide.–ah! can I leave the Virtuous path those Eyes illumine?

Tho’ thou, dear Maid, should’st wave [waive] thy Beauty’s Sway,

–Thou still must Rule–because I will obey: An humbled fugitive from Folly View,

No sanctuary near but Love and YOU:

You can indeed each anxious Fear remove,

For even Scandal dies if you approve. [To the audience.] EPILOGUE

BY MR. COLMAN

SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE

I, who was late so volatile and gay,

Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way, Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows, To one dull rusty weathercock–my spouse!

So wills our virtuous bard–the motley Bayes Of crying epilogues and laughing plays!

Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives, Learn from our play to regulate your lives:

Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her– London will prove the very source of honour.

Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves, When principles relax, to brace the nerves: Such is my case; and yet I must deplore That the gay dream of dissipation’s o’er.

And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife, Born with a genius for the highest life, Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,

Like me condemn’d to such a dismal doom? Save money–when I just knew how to waste it! Leave London–just as I began to taste it!

Must I then watch the early crowing cock, The melancholy ticking of a clock;

In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,

With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded? With humble curate can I now retire,

(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,) And at backgammon mortify my soul,

That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole?

Seven’s the main! Dear sound that must expire, Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire;

The transient hour of fashion too soon spent, Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Farewell the plumed head, the cushion’d tete, That takes the cushion from its proper seat! That spirit-stirring drum!–card drums I mean, Spadille–odd trick–pam–basto–king and queen! And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat, The welcome visitors’ approach denote; Farewell all quality of high renown,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town! Farewell! your revels I partake no more,

And Lady Teazle’s occupation’s o’er!

All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said ’twas clear, I ought to play deep tragedy next year.

Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play, And in these solemn periods stalk’d away:—

”Bless’d were the fair like you; her faults who stopp’d, And closed her follies when the curtain dropp’d!

No more in vice or error to engage,

Or play the fool at large on life’s great stage.”

¡End of play¿¡End of play¿¡End of play¿¡End of play¿¡End of play¿

¡1¿ This PORTRAIT and Garrick’s PROLOGUE are not included in Fraser Rae’s text.

¡2¿ From Sheridan’s manuscript.

¡3¿ The story in Act I. Scene I., told by Crabtree about

Miss Letitia Piper, is repeated here, the speaker being Sir Peter:

SIR PETER. O nine out of ten malicious inventions are founded on some ridiculous misrepresentation–Mrs. Candour you remember how poor Miss Shepherd lost her Lover and her Character one Summer at Tunbridge.

MRS. C. To be sure that was a very ridiculous affair. CRABTREE. Pray tell us Sir Peter how it was.

SIR P. Why madam–[The story follows.] MRS. C. Ha ha strange indeed–

SIR P. Matter of Fact I assure you….

LADY T. As sure as can be–Sir Peter will grow scandalous himself–if you encourage him to tell stories.

[Fraser Rae’s footnote–Ed.]

¡4¿ The words which follow this title are not inserted in the manuscript of the play. [Fraser Rae’s footnote.–Ed.]

¡5¿ From this place to Scene ii. Act IV. several sheets are missing. [Fraser Rae’s footnote.–Ed.]

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats _ Poetry Foundation

Ode on a Grecian Urn

BY JOHN KEATS

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,

For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

Milton-Paradise-Lost-Book-9

Paradise Lost BOOK 9 John Milton (1667)

THE ARGUMENT

Satan having compast the Earth, with meditated guile returns as a mist by Night into Paradise, enters into the Serpent sleeping. Adam and Eve in the Morning go forth to thir labours, which Eve proposes to divide in several places,

each labouring apart: Adam consents not, alledging the danger, lest that Enemy, of whom they were forewarn’d, should attempt her found alone: Eve loath to be thought not circumspect or firm enough, urges her going apart, the rather desirous to make tryal of her strength; Adam at last yields: The Serpent finds her alone; his subtle approach, first gazing, then speaking, with much flattery extolling Eve above all other Creatures. Eve wondring to hear the Serpent speak, asks how he attain’d to human speech and such understanding not till now; the Serpent answers, that by tasting of a certain Tree in the Garden he attain’d both to Speech and Reason, till then void of both: Everequires him to bring her to that Tree, and finds it to be the Tree of Knowledge forbidden: The Serpent now grown bolder, with many wiles and arguments induces her at length to eat;

shepleas’d with the taste deliberates a while whether to impart thereof

to Adam or not, at last brings him of the Fruit, relates what perswaded her to eat thereof: Adam at first amaz’d, but perceiving her lost, resolves through vehemence of love to perish with her; and extenuating the trespass, eats also of the Fruit: The Effects thereof in them both; they seek to cover thirnakedness; then fall to variance and accusation of one another.

NO more of talk where God or Angel Guest With Man, as with his Friend, familiar us’d To sit indulgent, and with him partake Rural repast, permitting him the while

Venial discourse unblam’d: I now must change [ 5 ] Those Notes to Tragic; foul distrust, and breach Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,

And disobedience: On the part of Heav’n Now alienated, distance and distaste,

Anger and just rebuke, and judgement giv’n, [ 10 ] That brought into this World a world of woe, Sinne and her shadow Death, and Miserie Deaths Harbinger: Sad task, yet argument

Not less but more Heroic then the wrauth Of stern Achilles on his Foe pursu’d [ 15 ] Thrice Fugitive about Troy Wall; or rage Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d,

Or Neptun’s ire or Juno’s, that so long Perplex’d the Greek and Cytherea’s Son; If answerable style I can obtaine [ 20 ]

Of my Celestial Patroness, who deignes Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,

And dictates to me slumb’ring, or inspires Easie my unpremeditated Verse:

Since first this Subject for Heroic Song [ 25 ] Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late; Not sedulous by Nature to indite

Warrs, hitherto the onely Argument Heroic deem’d, chief maistrie to dissect

With long and tedious havoc fabl’d Knights [ 30 ] In Battels feign’d; the better fortitude

Of Patience and Heroic Martyrdom Unsung; or to describe Races and Games, Or tilting Furniture, emblazon’d Shields,

Impreses quaint, Caparisons and Steeds; [ 35 ] Bases and tinsel Trappings, gorgious Knights At Joust and Torneament; then marshal’d Feast Serv’d up in Hall with Sewers, and Seneshals; The skill of Artifice or Office mean,

Not that which justly gives Heroic name [ 40 ] To Person or to Poem. Mee of these

Nor skilld nor studious, higher Argument Remaines, sufficient of it self to raise

That name, unless an age too late, or cold Climat, or Years damp my intended wing [ 45 ] Deprest, and much they may, if all be mine, Not Hers who brings it nightly to my Ear.

The Sun was sunk, and after him the Starr Of Hesperus, whose Office is to bring

Twilight upon the Earth, short Arbiter [ 50 ] Twixt Day and Night, and now from end to end Nights Hemisphere had veild the Horizon round: When Satan who late fled before the threats

Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d

In meditated fraud and malice, bent [ 55 ]

On mans destruction, maugre what might hap Of heavier on himself, fearless return’d.

By Night he fled, and at Midnight return’d. From compassing the Earth, cautious of day, Since Uriel Regent of the Sun descri’d [ 60 ] His entrance, and forewarnd the Cherubim

That kept thir watch; thence full of anguish driv’n, The space of seven continu’d Nights he rode With darkness, thrice the Equinoctial Line

He circl’d, four times cross’d the Carr of Night [ 65 ]

From Pole to Pole, traversing each Colure;

On the eighth return’d, and on the Coast averse From entrance or Cherubic Watch, by stealth Found unsuspected way. There was a place,

Now not, though Sin, not Time, first wraught the change, [ 70 ] Where Tigris at the foot of Paradise

Into a Gulf shot under ground, till part Rose up a Fountain by the Tree of Life; In with the River sunk, and with it rose

Satan involv’d in rising Mist, then sought [ 75 ] Where to lie hid; Sea he had searcht and Land From Eden over Pontus, and the Poole Mæotis, up beyond the River Ob;

Downward as farr Antartic; and in length West from Orontes to the Ocean barr’d [ 80 ] At Darien, thence to the Land where flowes Ganges and Indus: thus the Orb he roam’d With narrow search; and with inspection deep Consider’d every Creature, which of all

Most opportune might serve his Wiles, and found [ 85 ] The Serpent suttlest Beast of all the Field.

Him after long debate, irresolute

Of thoughts revolv’d, his final sentence chose Fit Vessel, fittest Imp of fraud, in whom

To enter, and his dark suggestions hide [ 90 ] From sharpest sight: for in the wilie Snake, Whatever sleights none would suspicious mark, As from his wit and native suttletie

Proceeding, which in other Beasts observ’d Doubt might beget of Diabolic pow’r [ 95 ] Active within beyond the sense of brute.

Thus he resolv’d, but first from inward griefe His bursting passion into plaints thus pour’d:

O Earth, how like to Heav’n, if not preferr’d More justly, Seat worthier of Gods, as built [ 100 ] With second thoughts, reforming what was old!

For what God after better worse would build? Terrestrial Heav’n, danc’t round by other Heav’ns That shine, yet bear thir bright officious Lamps, Light above Light, for thee alone, as seems, [ 105 ] In thee concentring all thir precious beams

Of sacred influence: As God in Heav’n Is Center, yet extends to all, so thou

Centring receav’st from all those Orbs; in thee,

Not in themselves, all thir known vertue appeers [ 110 ]

Productive in Herb, Plant, and nobler birth Of Creatures animate with gradual life

Of Growth, Sense, Reason, all summ’d up in Man. With what delight could I have walkt thee round,

If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange [ 115 ] Of Hill, and Vallie, Rivers, Woods and Plaines,

Now Land, now Sea, and Shores with Forrest crownd, Rocks, Dens, and Caves; but I in none of these

Find place or refuge; and the more I see Pleasures about me, so much more I feel [ 120 ] Torment within me, as from the hateful siege

Of contraries; all good to me becomes

Bane, and in Heav’n much worse would be my state. But neither here seek I, no nor in Heav’n

To dwell, unless by maistring Heav’ns Supreame; [ 125 ] Nor hope to be my self less miserable

By what I seek, but others to make such As I, though thereby worse to me redound: For onely in destroying I find ease

To my relentless thoughts; and him destroyd, [ 130 ] Or won to what may work his utter loss,

For whom all this was made, all this will soon Follow, as to him linkt in weal or woe,

In wo then: that destruction wide may range: To mee shall be the glorie sole among [ 135 ] The infernal Powers, in one day to have marr’d What he Almightie styl’d, six Nights and Days Continu’d making, and who knows how long Before had bin contriving, though perhaps

Not longer then since I in one Night freed [ 140 ] From servitude inglorious welnigh half

Th’ Angelic Name, and thinner left the throng Of his adorers: hee to be aveng’d,

And to repaire his numbers thus impair’d, Whether such vertue spent of old now faild [ 145 ] More Angels to Create, if they at least

Are his Created, or to spite us more, Determin’d to advance into our room

A Creature form’d of Earth, and him endow, Exalted from so base original, [ 150 ]

With Heav’nly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed He effected; Man he made, and for him built Magnificent this World, and Earth his seat,

Him Lord pronounc’d, and, O indignitie! Subjected to his service Angel wings, [ 155 ]

And flaming Ministers to watch and tend Thir earthy Charge: Of these the vigilance I dread, and to elude, thus wrapt in mist Of midnight vapor glide obscure, and prie

In every Bush and Brake, where hap may finde [ 160 ] The Serpent sleeping, in whose mazie foulds

To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.

O foul descent! that I who erst contended

With Gods to sit the highest, am now constraind Into a Beast, and mixt with bestial slime, [ 165 ] This essence to incarnate and imbrute,

That to the hight of Deitie aspir’d;

But what will not Ambition and Revenge Descend to? who aspires must down as low As high he soard, obnoxious first or last [ 170 ]

To basest things. Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on it self recoiles;

Let it; I reck not, so it light well aim’d, Since higher I fall short, on him who next

Provokes my envie, this new Favorite [ 175 ] Of Heav’n, this Man of Clay, Son of despite, Whom us the more to spite his Maker rais’d From dust: spite then with spite is best repaid.

So saying, through each Thicket Danck or Drie, Like a black mist low creeping, he held on [ 180 ] His midnight search, where soonest he might finde The Serpent: him fast sleeping soon he found

In Labyrinth of many a round self-rowld,

His head the midst, well stor’d with suttle wiles: Not yet in horrid Shade or dismal Den, [ 185 ] Nor nocent yet, but on the grassie Herbe Fearless unfeard he slept: in at his Mouth

The Devil enterd, and his brutal sense,

In heart or head, possessing soon inspir’d With act intelligential; but his sleep [ 190 ]

Disturbd not, waiting close th’ approach of Morn. Now when as sacred Light began to dawne

In Eden on the humid Flours, that breathd

Thir morning incense, when all things that breath, From th’ Earths great Altar send up silent praise [ 195 ] To the Creator, and his Nostrils fill

With grateful Smell, forth came the human pair And joind thir vocal Worship to the Quire

Of Creatures wanting voice, that done, partake

The season, prime for sweetest Sents and Aires: [ 200 ]

Then commune how that day they best may ply Thir growing work: for much thir work outgrew The hands dispatch of two Gardning so wide.

And Eve first to her Husband thus began.

Adam, well may we labour still to dress [ 205 ] This Garden, still to tend Plant, Herb and Flour, Our pleasant task enjoyn’d, but till more hands Aid us, the work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint; what we by day

Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind, [ 210 ] One night or two with wanton growth derides Tending to wilde. Thou therefore now advise

Or hear what to my minde first thoughts present, Let us divide our labours, thou where choice

Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind [ 215 ] The Woodbine round this Arbour, or direct

The clasping Ivie where to climb, while I In yonder Spring of Roses intermixt

With Myrtle, find what to redress till Noon:

For while so near each other thus all day [ 220 ] Our taske we choose, what wonder if so near Looks intervene and smiles, or object new Casual discourse draw on, which intermits

Our dayes work brought to little, though begun

Early, and th’ hour of Supper comes unearn’d. [ 225 ] To whom mild answer Adam thus return’d.

Sole Eve, Associate sole, to me beyond Compare above all living Creatures deare,

Well hast thou motion’d, well thy thoughts imployd How we might best fulfill the work which here [ 230 ] God hath assign’d us, nor of me shalt pass Unprais’d: for nothing lovelier can be found

In Woman, then to studie houshold good, And good workes in her Husband to promote.

Yet not so strictly hath our Lord impos’d [ 235 ] Labour, as to debarr us when we need Refreshment, whether food, or talk between, Food of the mind, or this sweet intercourse

Of looks and smiles, for smiles from Reason flow, To brute deni’d, and are of Love the food, [ 240 ] Love not the lowest end of human life.

For not to irksom toile, but to delight

He made us, and delight to Reason joyn’d.

These paths & Bowers doubt not but our joynt hands Will keep from Wilderness with ease, as wide [ 245 ]

As we need walk, till younger hands ere long Assist us: But if much converse perhaps Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield. For solitude somtimes is best societie,

And short retirement urges sweet returne. [ 250 ] But other doubt possesses me, least harm Befall thee sever’d from me; for thou knowst What hath bin warn’d us, what malicious Foe Envying our happiness, and of his own

Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame [ 255 ] By sly assault; and somwhere nigh at hand Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find

His wish and best advantage, us asunder, Hopeless to circumvent us joynd, where each To other speedie aide might lend at need; [ 260 ] Whether his first design be to withdraw

Our fealtie from God, or to disturb

Conjugal Love, then which perhaps no bliss Enjoy’d by us excites his envie more;

Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side [ 265 ] That gave thee being, still shades thee and protects. The Wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,

Safest and seemliest by her Husband staies, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.

To whom the Virgin Majestie of Eve, [ 270 ] As one who loves, and some unkindness meets, With sweet austeer composure thus reply’d,

Ofspring of Heav’n and Earth, and all Earths Lord, That such an Enemie we have, who seeks

Our ruin, both by thee informd I learne, [ 275 ] And from the parting Angel over-heard

As in a shadie nook I stood behind,

Just then returnd at shut of Evening Flours.

But that thou shouldst my firmness therfore doubt To God or thee, because we have a foe [ 280 ] May tempt it, I expected not to hear.

His violence thou fear’st not, being such, As wee, not capable of death or paine, Can either not receave, or can repell.

His fraud is then thy fear, which plain inferrs [ 285 ] Thy equal fear that my firm Faith and Love

Can by his fraud be shak’n or seduc’t;

Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy brest

Adam, misthought of her to thee so dear?

To whom with healing words Adam replyd. [ 290 ] Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve,

For such thou art, from sin and blame entire: Not diffident of thee do I dissuade

Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid

Th’ attempt itself, intended by our Foe. [ 295 ]

For hee who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses The tempted with dishonour foul, suppos’d

Not incorruptible of Faith, not prooff

Against temptation: thou thy self with scorne

And anger wouldst resent the offer’d wrong, [ 300 ] Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,

If such affront I labour to avert

From thee alone, which on us both at once The Enemie, though bold, will hardly dare,

Or daring, first on mee th’ assault shall light. [ 305 ] Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn; Suttle he needs must be, who could seduce Angels nor think superfluous others aid.

I from the influence of thy looks receave Access in every Vertue, in thy sight [ 310 ]

More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on, Shame to be overcome or over-reacht

Would utmost vigor raise, and rais’d unite.

Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel [ 315 ] When I am present, and thy trial choose

With me, best witness of thy Vertue tri’d. So spake domestick Adam in his care

And Matrimonial Love; but Eve, who thought Less attributed to her Faith sincere, [ 320 ] Thus her reply with accent sweet renewd.

If this be our condition, thus to dwell In narrow circuit strait’nd by a Foe, Suttle or violent, we not endu’d

Single with like defence, wherever met, [ 325 ] How are we happie, still in fear of harm?

But harm precedes not sin: onely our Foe Tempting affronts us with his foul esteem Of our integritie: his foul esteeme

Sticks no dishonor on our Front, but turns [ 330 ] Foul on himself; then wherefore shund or feard By us? who rather double honour gaine

From his surmise prov’d false, find peace within, Favour from Heav’n, our witness from th’ event.

And what is Faith, Love, Vertue unassaid [ 335 ] Alone, without exterior help sustaind?

Let us not then suspect our happie State Left so imperfet by the Maker wise,

As not secure to single or combin’d.

Fraile is our happiness, if this be so, [ 340 ] And Eden were no Eden thus expos’d.

To whom thus Adam fervently repli’d. O Woman, best are all things as the will Of God ordain’d them, his creating hand Nothing imperfet or deficient left [ 345 ] Of all that he Created, much less Man,

Or aught that might his happie State secure, Secure from outward force; within himself The danger lies, yet lies within his power:

Against his will he can receave no harme. [ 350 ] But God left free the Will, for what obeyes Reason, is free, and Reason he made right

But bid her well beware, and still erect,

Least by some faire appeering good surpris’d She dictate false, and misinforme the Will [ 355 ] To do what God expresly hath forbid,

Not then mistrust, but tender love enjoynes, That I should mind thee oft, and mind thou me. Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve,

Since Reason not impossibly may meet [ 360 ] Some specious object by the Foe subornd, And fall into deception unaware,

Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warnd. Seek not temptation then, which to avoide Were better, and most likelie if from mee [ 365 ] Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.

Wouldst thou approve thy constancie, approve First thy obedience; th’ other who can know, Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?

But if thou think, trial unsought may finde [ 370 ] Us both securer then thus warnd thou seemst, Go; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more; Go in thy native innocence, relie

On what thou hast of vertue, summon all,

For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine. [ 375 ] So spake the Patriarch of Mankinde, but Eve

Persisted, yet submiss, though last, repli’d.

With thy permission then, and thus forewarnd Chiefly by what thy own last reasoning words

Touchd onely, that our trial, when least sought, [ 380 ] May finde us both perhaps farr less prepar’d,

The willinger I goe, nor much expect

A Foe so proud will first the weaker seek,

So bent, the more shall shame him his repulse.

Thus saying, from her Husbands hand her hand [ 385 ] Soft she withdrew, and like a Wood-Nymph light Oread or Dryad, or of Delia’s Traine,

Betook her to the Groves, but Delia’s self In gate surpass’d and Goddess-like deport,

Though not as shee with Bow and Quiver armd, [ 390 ] But with such Gardning Tools as Art yet rude, Guiltless of fire had formd, or Angels brought.

To Pales, or Pomona, thus adornd,

Likeliest she seemd, Pomona when she fled Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her Prime, [ 395 ] Yet Virgin of Proserpina from Jove.

Her long with ardent look his Eye pursu’d Delighted, but desiring more her stay.

Oft he to her his charge of quick returne Repeated, shee to him as oft engag’d [ 400 ] To be returnd by Noon amid the Bowre,

And all things in best order to invite Noontide repast, or Afternoons repose.

O much deceav’d, much failing, hapless Eve, Of thy presum’d return! event perverse! [ 405 ] Thou never from that houre in Paradise Foundst either sweet repast, or sound repose;

Such ambush hid among sweet Flours and Shades Waited with hellish rancour imminent

To intercept thy way, or send thee back [ 410 ] Despoild of Innocence, of Faith, of Bliss.

For now, and since first break of dawne the Fiend, Meer Serpent in appearance, forth was come, And on his Quest, where likeliest he might finde The onely two of Mankinde, but in them [ 415 ] The whole included Race, his purposd prey.

In Bowre and Field he sought, where any tuft Of Grove or Garden-Plot more pleasant lay, Thir tendance or Plantation for delight,

By Fountain or by shadie Rivulet [ 420 ]

He sought them both, but wish’d his hap might find

Eve separate, he wish’d, but not with hope

Of what so seldom chanc’d, when to his wish, Beyond his hope, Eve separate he spies,

Veild in a Cloud of Fragrance, where she stood, [ 425 ] Half spi’d, so thick the Roses bushing round

About her glowd, oft stooping to support

Each Flour of slender stalk, whose head though gay Carnation, Purple, Azure, or spect with Gold,

Hung drooping unsustaind, them she upstaies [ 430 ] Gently with Mirtle band, mindless the while,

Her self, though fairest unsupported Flour, From her best prop so farr, and storm so nigh. Neerer he drew, and many a walk travers’d

Of stateliest Covert, Cedar, Pine, or Palme, [ 435 ] Then voluble and bold, now hid, now seen

Among thick-wov’n Arborets and Flours Imborderd on each Bank, the hand of Eve: Spot more delicious then those Gardens feign’d Or of reviv’d Adonis, or renownd [ 440 ] Alcinous, host of old Laertes Son,

Or that, not Mystic, where the Sapient King Held dalliance with his fair Egyptian Spouse. Much hee the Place admir’d, the Person more. As one who long in populous City pent, [ 445 ]

Where Houses thick and Sewers annoy the Aire, Forth issuing on a Summers Morn to breathe Among the pleasant Villages and Farmes Adjoynd, from each thing met conceaves delight,

The smell of Grain, or tedded Grass, or Kine, [ 450 ] Or Dairie, each rural sight, each rural sound;

If chance with Nymphlike step fair Virgin pass, What pleasing seemd, for her now pleases more, She most, and in her look summs all Delight.

Such Pleasure took the Serpent to behold [ 455 ] This Flourie Plat, the sweet recess of Eve

Thus earlie, thus alone; her Heav’nly forme Angelic, but more soft, and Feminine,

Her graceful Innocence, her every Aire Of gesture or lest action overawd [ 460 ]

His Malice, and with rapine sweet bereav’d His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought: That space the Evil one abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remaind Stupidly good, of enmitie disarm’d, [ 465 ] Of guile, of hate, of envie, of revenge;

But the hot Hell that alwayes in him burnes, Though in mid Heav’n, soon ended his delight, And tortures him now more, the more he sees

Of pleasure not for him ordain’d: then soon [ 470 ] Fierce hate he recollects, and all his thoughts

Of mischief, gratulating, thus excites.

Thoughts, whither have ye led me, with what sweet Compulsion thus transported to forget

What hither brought us, hate, not love, nor hope [ 475 ] Of Paradise for Hell, hope here to taste

Of pleasure, but all pleasure to destroy, Save what is in destroying, other joy

To me is lost. Then let me not let pass

Occasion which now smiles, behold alone [ 480 ] The Woman, opportune to all attempts,

Her Husband, for I view far round, not nigh, Whose higher intellectual more I shun,

And strength, of courage hautie, and of limb Heroic built, though of terrestrial mould, [ 485 ] Foe not informidable, exempt from wound,

I not; so much hath Hell debas’d, and paine Infeebl’d me, to what I was in Heav’n.

Shee fair, divinely fair, fit Love for Gods,

Not terrible, though terrour be in Love [ 490 ] And beautie, not approacht by stronger hate, Hate stronger, under shew of Love well feign’d, The way which to her ruin now I tend.

So spake the Enemie of Mankind, enclos’d In Serpent, Inmate bad, and toward Eve [ 495 ] Address’d his way, not with indented wave, Prone on the ground, as since, but on his reare, Circular base of rising foulds, that tour’d

Fould above fould a surging Maze, his Head Crested aloft, and Carbuncle his Eyes; [ 500 ] With burnisht Neck of verdant Gold, erect Amidst his circling Spires, that on the grass Floted redundant: pleasing was his shape, And lovely, never since of Serpent kind Lovelier, not those that in Illyria chang’d [ 505 ] Hermione and Cadmus, or the God

In Epidaurus; nor to which transformd Ammonian Jove, or Capitoline was seen, Hee with Olympias, this with her who bore

Scipio the highth of Rome. With tract oblique [ 510 ] At first, as one who sought access, but feard

To interrupt, side-long he works his way.

As when a Ship by skilful Stearsman wrought Nigh Rivers mouth or Foreland, where the Wind

Veres oft, as oft so steers, and shifts her Saile; [ 515 ] So varied hee, and of his tortuous Traine

Curld many a wanton wreath in sight of Eve, To lure her Eye; shee busied heard the sound Of rusling Leaves, but minded not, as us’d

To such disport before her through the Field, [ 520 ] From every Beast, more duteous at her call,

Then at Circean call the Herd disguis’d. Hee boulder now, uncall’d before her stood; But as in gaze admiring: Oft he bowd

His turret Crest, and sleek enamel’d Neck, [ 525 ] Fawning, and lick’d the ground whereon she trod. His gentle dumb expression turnd at length

The Eye of Eve to mark his play; he glad

Of her attention gaind, with Serpent Tongue Organic, or impulse of vocal Air, [ 530 ]

His fraudulent temptation thus began.

Wonder not, sovran Mistress, if perhaps Thou canst, who art sole Wonder, much less arm Thy looks, the Heav’n of mildness, with disdain,

Displeas’d that I approach thee thus, and gaze [ 535 ] Insatiate, I thus single, nor have feard

Thy awful brow, more awful thus retir’d. Fairest resemblance of thy Maker faire, Thee all things living gaze on, all things thine

By gift, and thy Celestial Beautie adore [ 540 ] With ravishment beheld, there best beheld Where universally admir’d; but here

In this enclosure wild, these Beasts among, Beholders rude, and shallow to discerne

Half what in thee is fair, one man except, [ 545 ]

Who sees thee? (and what is one?) who shouldst be seen A Goddess among Gods, ador’d and serv’d

By Angels numberless, thy daily Train.

So gloz’d the Tempter, and his Proem tun’d; Into the Heart of Eve his words made way, [ 550 ] Though at the voice much marveling; at length Not unamaz’d she thus in answer spake.

What may this mean? Language of Man pronounc’t By Tongue of Brute, and human sense exprest?

The first at lest of these I thought deni’d [ 555 ] To Beasts, whom God on thir Creation-Day Created mute to all articulat sound;

The latter I demurre, for in thir looks

Much reason, and in thir actions oft appeers.

Thee, Serpent, suttlest beast of all the field [ 560 ] I knew, but not with human voice endu’d; Redouble then this miracle, and say,

How cam’st thou speakable of mute, and how To me so friendly grown above the rest

Of brutal kind, that daily are in sight? [ 565 ] Say, for such wonder claims attention due.

To whom the guileful Tempter thus reply’d.

Empress of this fair World, resplendent Eve, Easie to mee it is to tell thee all

What thou commandst and right thou shouldst be obeyd: [ 570 ] I was at first as other Beasts that graze

The trodden Herb, of abject thoughts and low, As was my food, nor aught but food discern’d Or Sex, and apprehended nothing high:

Till on a day roaving the field, I chanc’d [ 575 ] A goodly Tree farr distant to behold

Loaden with fruit of fairest colours mixt, Ruddie and Gold: I nearer drew to gaze;

When from the boughes a savorie odour blow’n, Grateful to appetite, more pleas’d my sense, [ 580 ] Then smell of sweetest Fenel or the Teats

Of Ewe or Goat dropping with Milk at Eevn, Unsuckt of Lamb or Kid, that tend thir play. To satisfie the sharp desire I had

Of tasting those fair Apples, I resolv’d [ 585 ] Not to deferr; hunger and thirst at once, Powerful perswaders, quick’nd at the scent Of that alluring fruit, urg’d me so keene.

About the mossie Trunk I wound me soon,

For high from ground the branches would require [ 590 ] Thy utmost reach or Adams: Round the Tree

All other Beasts that saw, with like desire Longing and envying stood, but could not reach. Amid the Tree now got, where plenty hung Tempting so nigh, to pluck and eat my fill [ 595 ] I spar’d not, for such pleasure till that hour

At Feed or Fountain never had I found. Sated at length, ere long I might perceave Strange alteration in me, to degree

Of Reason in my inward Powers, and Speech [ 600 ] Wanted not long, though to this shape retain’d.

Thenceforth to Speculations high or deep

I turnd my thoughts, and with capacious mind Considerd all things visible in Heav’n,

Or Earth, or Middle, all things fair and good; [ 605 ] But all that fair and good in thy Divine

Semblance, and in thy Beauties heav’nly Ray United I beheld; no Fair to thine

Equivalent or second, which compel’d

Mee thus, though importune perhaps, to come [ 610 ] And gaze, and worship thee of right declar’d

Sovran of Creatures, universal Dame.

So talk’d the spirited sly Snake; and Eve

Yet more amaz’d unwarie thus reply’d.

Serpent, thy overpraising leaves in doubt [ 615 ] The vertue of that Fruit, in thee first prov’d:

But say, where grows the Tree, from hence how far? For many are the Trees of God that grow

In Paradise, and various, yet unknown

To us, in such abundance lies our choice, [ 620 ] As leaves a greater store of Fruit untoucht,

Still hanging incorruptible, till men

Grow up to thir provision, and more hands Help to disburden Nature of her Bearth.

To whom the wilie Adder, blithe and glad. [ 625 ] Empress, the way is readie, and not long,

Beyond a row of Myrtles, on a Flat,

Fast by a Fountain, one small Thicket past Of blowing Myrrh and Balme; if thou accept

My conduct, I can bring thee thither soon. [ 630 ] Lead then, said Eve. Hee leading swiftly rowld

In tangles, and made intricate seem strait, To mischief swift. Hope elevates, and joy Bright’ns his Crest, as when a wandring Fire

Compact of unctuous vapor, which the Night [ 635 ] Condenses, and the cold invirons round,

Kindl’d through agitation to a Flame,

Which oft, they say, some evil Spirit attends Hovering and blazing with delusive Light,

Misleads th’ amaz’d Night-wanderer from his way [ 640 ] To Boggs and Mires, and oft through Pond or Poole, There swallow’d up and lost, from succour farr.

So glister’d the dire Snake, and into fraud Led Eve our credulous Mother, to the Tree Of prohibition, root of all our woe; [ 645 ]

Which when she saw, thus to her guide she spake. Serpent, we might have spar’d our coming hither,

Fruitless to mee, though Fruit be here to excess, The credit of whose vertue rest with thee,

Wondrous indeed, if cause of such effects. [ 650 ] But of this Tree we may not taste nor touch;

God so commanded, and left that Command Sole Daughter of his voice; the rest, we live Law to our selves, our Reason is our Law.

To whom the Tempter guilefully repli’d. [ 655 ] Indeed? hath God then said that of the Fruit

Of all these Garden Trees ye shall not eate, Yet Lords declar’d of all in Earth or Aire?

To whom thus Eve yet sinless. Of the Fruit Of each Tree in the Garden we may eate, [ 660 ] But of the Fruit of this fair Tree amidst

The Garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eate Thereof, nor shall ye touch it, least ye die.

She scarse had said, though brief, when now more bold The Tempter, but with shew of Zeale and Love [ 665 ]

To Man, and indignation at his wrong,

New part puts on, and as to passion mov’d, Fluctuats disturbd, yet comely and in act Rais’d, as of som great matter to begin.

As when of old som Orator renound [ 670 ] In Athens or free Rome, where Eloquence

Flourishd, since mute, to som great cause addrest, Stood in himself collected, while each part, Motion, each act won audience ere the tongue, Somtimes in highth began, as no delay [ 675 ]

Of Preface brooking through his Zeal of Right. So standing, moving, or to highth upgrown The Tempter all impassiond thus began.

O Sacred, Wise, and Wisdom-giving Plant, Mother of Science, Now I feel thy Power [ 680 ] Within me cleere, not onely to discerne

Things in thir Causes, but to trace the wayes Of highest Agents, deemd however wise.

Queen of this Universe, doe not believe

Those rigid threats of Death; ye shall not Die: [ 685 ] How should ye? by the Fruit? it gives you Life

To Knowledge, By the Threatner, look on mee, Mee who have touch’d and tasted, yet both live, And life more perfet have attaind then Fate

Meant mee, by ventring higher then my Lot. [ 690 ] Shall that be shut to Man, which to the Beast

Is open? or will God incense his ire

For such a petty Trespass, and not praise Rather your dauntless vertue, whom the pain

Of Death denounc’t, whatever thing Death be, [ 695 ] Deterrd not from atchieving what might leade

To happier life, knowledge of Good and Evil; Of good, how just? of evil, if what is evil

Be real, why not known, since easier shunnd? God therefore cannot hurt ye, and be just; [ 700 ] Not just, not God; not feard then, nor obeyd: Your feare it self of Death removes the feare.

Why then was this forbid? Why but to awe, Why but to keep ye low and ignorant,

His worshippers; he knows that in the day [ 705 ] Ye Eate thereof, your Eyes that seem so cleere, Yet are but dim, shall perfetly be then

Op’nd and cleerd, and ye shall be as Gods, Knowing both Good and Evil as they know.

That ye should be as Gods, since I as Man, [ 710 ] Internal Man, is but proportion meet,

I of brute human, yee of human Gods. So ye shall die perhaps, by putting off

Human, to put on Gods, death to be wisht,

Though threat’nd, which no worse then this can bring. [ 715 ] And what are Gods that Man may not become

As they, participating God-like food?

The Gods are first, and that advantage use On our belief, that all from them proceeds; I question it, for this fair Earth I see, [ 720 ] Warm’d by the Sun, producing every kind,

Them nothing: If they all things, who enclos’d Knowledge of Good and Evil in this Tree, That whoso eats thereof, forthwith attains

Wisdom without their leave? and wherein lies [ 725 ] Th’ offence, that Man should thus attain to know?

What can your knowledge hurt him, or this Tree Impart against his will if all be his?

Or is it envie, and can envie dwell

In Heav’nly brests? these, these and many more [ 730 ] Causes import your need of this fair Fruit.

Goddess humane, reach then, and freely taste. He ended, and his words replete with guile

Into her heart too easie entrance won:

Fixt on the Fruit she gaz’d, which to behold [ 735 ] Might tempt alone, and in her ears the sound

Yet rung of his perswasive words, impregn’d With Reason, to her seeming, and with Truth; Mean while the hour of Noon drew on, and wak’d

An eager appetite, rais’d by the smell [ 740 ] So savorie of that Fruit, which with desire, Inclinable now grown to touch or taste, Sollicited her longing eye; yet first

Pausing a while, thus to her self she mus’d.

Great are thy Vertues, doubtless, best of Fruits. [ 745 ] Though kept from Man, and worthy to be admir’d,

Whose taste, too long forborn, at first assay Gave elocution to the mute, and taught

The Tongue not made for Speech to speak thy praise: Thy praise hee also who forbids thy use, [ 750 ] Conceales not from us, naming thee the Tree

Of Knowledge, knowledge both of good and evil; Forbids us then to taste, but his forbidding Commends thee more, while it inferrs the good By thee communicated, and our want: [ 755 ] For good unknown, sure is not had, or had

And yet unknown, is as not had at all.

In plain then, what forbids he but to know, Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise?

Such prohibitions binde not. But if Death [ 760 ] Bind us with after-bands, what profits then

Our inward freedom? In the day we eate Of this fair Fruit, our doom is, we shall die.

How dies the Serpent? hee hath eat’n and lives,

And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns, [ 765 ] Irrational till then. For us alone

Was death invented? or to us deni’d

This intellectual food, for beasts reserv’d?

For Beasts it seems: yet that one Beast which first Hath tasted, envies not, but brings with joy [ 770 ] The good befall’n him, Author unsuspect,

Friendly to man, farr from deceit or guile. What fear I then, rather what know to feare Under this ignorance of good and Evil,

Of God or Death, of Law or Penaltie? [ 775 ] Here grows the Cure of all, this Fruit Divine, Fair to the Eye, inviting to the Taste,

Of vertue to make wise: what hinders then

To reach, and feed at once both Bodie and Mind?

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour [ 780 ] Forth reaching to the Fruit, she pluck’d, she eat: Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe, That all was lost. Back to the Thicket slunk

The guiltie Serpent, and well might, for Eve [ 785 ] Intent now wholly on her taste, naught else Regarded, such delight till then, as seemd,

In Fruit she never tasted, whether true Or fansied so, through expectation high

Of knowledg, nor was God-head from her thought. [ 790 ] Greedily she ingorg’d without restraint,

And knew not eating Death: Satiate at length, And hight’nd as with Wine, jocond and boon, Thus to her self she pleasingly began.

O Sovran, vertuous, precious of all Trees [ 795 ] In Paradise, of operation blest

To Sapience, hitherto obscur’d, infam’d, And thy fair Fruit let hang, as to no end Created; but henceforth my early care,

Not without Song, each Morning, and due praise [ 800 ] Shall tend thee, and the fertil burden ease

Of thy full branches offer’d free to all; Till dieted by thee I grow mature

In knowledge, as the Gods who all things know; Though others envie what they cannot give; [ 805 ] For had the gift bin theirs, it had not here

Thus grown. Experience, next to thee I owe, Best guide; not following thee, I had remaind In ignorance, thou op’nst Wisdoms way,

And giv’st access, though secret she retire. [ 810 ] And I perhaps am secret; Heav’n is high,

High and remote to see from thence distinct Each thing on Earth; and other care perhaps May have diverted from continual watch

Our great Forbidder, safe with all his Spies [ 815 ] About him. But to Adam in what sort

Shall I appeer? shall I to him make known As yet my change, and give him to partake Full happiness with mee, or rather not,

But keep the odds of Knowledge in my power [ 820 ] Without Copartner? so to add what wants

In Femal Sex, the more to draw his Love, And render me more equal, and perhaps, A thing not undesireable, somtime Superior: for inferior who is free? [ 825 ]

This may be well: but what if God have seen And Death ensue? then I shall be no more, And Adam wedded to another Eve,

Shall live with her enjoying, I extinct;

A death to think. Confirm’d then I resolve, [ 830 ]

Adam shall share with me in bliss or woe: So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.

So saying, from the Tree her step she turnd, But first low Reverence don, as to the power [ 835 ] That dwelt within, whose presence had infus’d

Into the plant sciential sap, deriv’d

From Nectar, drink of Gods. Adam the while Waiting desirous her return, had wove

Of choicest Flours a Garland to adorne [ 840 ] Her Tresses, and her rural labours crown,

As Reapers oft are wont thir Harvest Queen. Great joy he promis’d to his thoughts, and new Solace in her return, so long delay’d;

Yet oft his heart, divine of somthing ill, [ 845 ] Misgave him; hee the faultring measure felt; And forth to meet her went, the way she took That Morn when first they parted; by the Tree Of Knowledge he must pass, there he her met,

Scarse from the Tree returning; in her hand [ 850 ] A bough of fairest fruit that downie smil’d,

New gatherd, and ambrosial smell diffus’d. To him she hasted, in her face excuse Came Prologue, and Apologie to prompt,

Which with bland words at will she thus addrest. [ 855 ] Hast thou not wonderd, Adam, at my stay?

Thee I have misst, and thought it long, depriv’d Thy presence, agonie of love till now

Not felt, nor shall be twice, for never more Mean I to trie, what rash untri’d I sought, [ 860 ] The pain of absence from thy sight. But strange Hath bin the cause, and wonderful to heare: This Tree is not as we are told, a Tree

Of danger tasted, nor to evil unknown Op’ning the way, but of Divine effect [ 865 ]

To open Eyes, and make them Gods who taste; And hath bin tasted such: the Serpent wise,

Or not restraind as wee, or not obeying, Hath eat’n of the fruit, and is become,

Not dead, as we are threatn’d, but thenceforth [ 870 ] Endu’d with human voice and human sense, Reasoning to admiration, and with mee Perswasively hath so prevaild, that I

Have also tasted, and have also found

Th’ effects to correspond, opener mine Eyes [ 875 ] Dimm erst, dilated Spirits, ampler Heart,

And growing up to Godhead; which for thee Chiefly I sought, without thee can despise. For bliss, as thou hast part, to me is bliss,

Tedious, unshar’d with thee, and odious soon. [ 880 ] Thou therefore also taste, that equal Lot

May joyne us, equal Joy, as equal Love; Least thou not tasting, different degree Disjoyne us, and I then too late renounce

Deitie for thee, when Fate will not permit. [ 885 ] Thus Eve with Countnance blithe her storie told;

But in her Cheek distemper flushing glowd. On th’ other side, Adam, soon as he heard The fatal Trespass don by Eve, amaz’d,

Astonied stood and Blank, while horror chill [ 890 ] Ran through his veins, and all his joynts relax’d; From his slack hand the Garland wreath’d for Eve Down drop’d, and all the faded Roses shed: Speechless he stood and pale, till thus at length First to himself he inward silence broke. [ 895 ]

O fairest of Creation, last and best

Of all Gods works, Creature in whom excell’d Whatever can to sight or thought be formd, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!

How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, [ 900 ] Defac’t, deflourd, and now to Death devote?

Rather how hast thou yeelded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate

The sacred Fruit forbidd’n! som cursed fraud

Of Enemie hath beguil’d thee, yet unknown, [ 905 ] And mee with thee hath ruind, for with thee Certain my resolution is to Die;

How can I live without thee, how forgoe

Thy sweet Converse and Love so dearly joyn’d, To live again in these wilde Woods forlorn? [ 910 ] Should God create another Eve, and I

Another Rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart; no no, I feel

The Link of Nature draw me: Flesh of Flesh,

Bone of my Bone thou art, and from thy State [ 915 ] Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.

So having said, as one from sad dismay Recomforted, and after thoughts disturbd

Submitting to what seemd remediless,

Thus in calm mood his Words to Eve he turnd. [ 920 ] Bold deed thou hast presum’d, adventrous Eve

And peril great provok’t, who thus hath dar’d Had it been onely coveting to Eye

That sacred Fruit, sacred to abstinence,

Much more to taste it under banne to touch. [ 925 ] But past who can recall, or don undoe?

Not God Omnipotent, nor Fate, yet so Perhaps thou shalt not Die, perhaps the Fact Is not so hainous now, foretasted Fruit,

Profan’d first by the Serpent, by him first [ 930 ] Made common and unhallowd ere our taste; Nor yet on him found deadly, he yet lives, Lives, as thou saidst, and gaines to live as Man Higher degree of Life, inducement strong

To us, as likely tasting to attaine [ 935 ] Proportional ascent, which cannot be But to be Gods, or Angels Demi-gods. Nor can I think that God, Creator wise,

Though threatning, will in earnest so destroy Us his prime Creatures, dignifi’d so high, [ 940 ] Set over all his Works, which in our Fall,

For us created, needs with us must faile, Dependent made; so God shall uncreate, Be frustrate, do, undo, and labour loose,

Not well conceav’d of God, who though his Power [ 945 ] Creation could repeate, yet would be loath

Us to abolish, least the Adversary

Triumph and say; Fickle their State whom God Most Favors, who can please him long; Mee first He ruind, now Mankind; whom will he next? [ 950 ] Matter of scorne, not to be given the Foe, However I with thee have fixt my Lot,

Certain to undergoe like doom, if Death Consort with thee, Death is to mee as Life; So forcible within my heart I feel [ 955 ] The Bond of Nature draw me to my owne, My own in thee, for what thou art is mine; Our State cannot be severd, we are one,

One Flesh; to loose thee were to loose my self. So Adam, and thus Eve to him repli’d. [ 960 ]

O glorious trial of exceeding Love, Illustrious evidence, example high! Ingaging me to emulate, but short

Of thy perfection, how shall I attaine,

Adam, from whose deare side I boast me sprung, [ 965 ] And gladly of our Union heare thee speak,

One Heart, one Soul in both; whereof good prooff This day affords, declaring thee resolvd,

Rather then Death or aught then Death more dread Shall separate us, linkt in Love so deare, [ 970 ]

To undergoe with mee one Guilt, one Crime, If any be, of tasting this fair Fruit,

Whose vertue, for of good still good proceeds, Direct, or by occasion hath presented

This happie trial of thy Love, which else [ 975 ] So eminently never had bin known.

Were it I thought Death menac’t would ensue This my attempt, I would sustain alone

The worst, and not perswade thee, rather die Deserted, then oblige thee with a fact [ 980 ] Pernicious to thy Peace, chiefly assur’d Remarkably so late of thy so true,

So faithful Love unequald; but I feel

Farr otherwise th’ event, not Death, but Life Augmented, op’nd Eyes, new Hopes, new Joyes, [ 985 ] Taste so Divine, that what of sweet before

Hath toucht my sense, flat seems to this, and harsh. On my experience, Adam, freely taste,

And fear of Death deliver to the Windes.

So saying, she embrac’d him, and for joy [ 990 ] Tenderly wept, much won that he his Love

Had so enobl’d, as of choice to incurr Divine displeasure for her sake, or Death. In recompence (for such compliance bad

Such recompence best merits) from the bough [ 995 ] She gave him of that fair enticing Fruit

With liberal hand: he scrupl’d not to eat Against his better knowledge, not deceav’d, But fondly overcome with Femal charm.

Earth trembl’d from her entrails, as again [ 1000 ] In pangs, and Nature gave a second groan,

Skie lowr’d, and muttering Thunder, som sad drops Wept at compleating of the mortal Sin

Original; while Adam took no thought, Eating his fill, nor Eve to iterate [ 1005 ]

Her former trespass fear’d, the more to soothe Him with her lov’d societie, that now

As with new Wine intoxicated both

They swim in mirth, and fansie that they feel Divinitie within them breeding wings [ 1010 ] Wherewith to scorne the Earth: but that false Fruit Farr other operation first displaid,

Carnal desire enflaming, hee on Eve

Began to cast lascivious Eyes, she him

As wantonly repaid; in Lust they burne: [ 1015 ] Till Adam thus ‘gan Eve to dalliance move,

Eve, now I see thou art exact of taste, And elegant, of Sapience no small part, Since to each meaning savour we apply, And Palate call judicious; I the praise [ 1020 ]

Yeild thee, so well this day thou hast purvey’d. Much pleasure we have lost, while we abstain’d From this delightful Fruit, nor known till now True relish, tasting; if such pleasure be

In things to us forbidden, it might be wish’d, [ 1025 ] For this one Tree had bin forbidden ten.

But come, so well refresh’t, now let us play, As meet is, after such delicious Fare;

For never did thy Beautie since the day

I saw thee first and wedded thee, adorn’d [ 1030 ] With all perfections, so enflame my sense

With ardor to enjoy thee, fairer now Then ever, bountie of this vertuous Tree.

So said he, and forbore not glance or toy Of amorous intent, well understood [ 1035 ] Of Eve, whose Eye darted contagious Fire. Her hand he seis’d, and to a shadie bank, Thick overhead with verdant roof imbowr’d

He led her nothing loath; Flours were the Couch, Pansies, and Violets, and Asphodel, [ 1040 ] And Hyacinth, Earths freshest softest lap.

There they thir fill of Love and Loves disport Took largely, of thir mutual guilt the Seale, The solace of thir sin, till dewie sleep

Oppress’d them, wearied with thir amorous play. [ 1045 ] Soon as the force of that fallacious Fruit,

That with exhilerating vapour bland

About thir spirits had plaid, and inmost powers Made erre, was now exhal’d, and grosser sleep

Bred of unkindly fumes, with conscious dreams [ 1050 ] Encumberd, now had left them, up they rose

As from unrest, and each the other viewing, Soon found thir Eyes how op’nd, and thir minds

How dark’nd; innocence, that as a veile

Had shadow’d them from knowing ill, was gon, [ 1055 ] Just confidence, and native righteousness

And honour from about them, naked left To guiltie shame hee cover’d, but his Robe Uncover’d more, so rose the Danite strong

Herculean Samson from the Harlot-lap [ 1060 ] Of Philistean Dalilah, and wak’d

Shorn of his strength, They destitute and bare Of all thir vertue: silent, and in face Confounded long they sate, as struck’n mute,

Till Adam, though not less then Eve abasht, [ 1065 ] At length gave utterance to these words constraind.

O Eve, in evil hour thou didst give eare To that false Worm, of whomsoever taught To counterfet Mans voice, true in our Fall,

False in our promis’d Rising; since our Eyes [ 1070 ] Op’nd we find indeed, and find we know

Both Good and Evil, Good lost, and Evil got, Bad Fruit of Knowledge, if this be to know, Which leaves us naked thus, of Honour void, Of Innocence, of Faith, of Puritie, [ 1075 ] Our wonted Ornaments now soild and staind, And in our Faces evident the signes

Of foul concupiscence; whence evil store; Even shame, the last of evils; of the first

Be sure then. How shall I behold the face [ 1080 ] Henceforth of God or Angel, earst with joy

And rapture so oft beheld? those heav’nly shapes Will dazle now this earthly, with thir blaze Insufferably bright. O might I here

In solitude live savage, in some glade [ 1085 ] Obscur’d, where highest Woods impenetrable To Starr or Sun-light, spread thir umbrage broad, And brown as Evening: Cover me ye Pines,

Ye Cedars, with innumerable boughs

Hide me, where I may never see them more. [ 1090 ] But let us now, as in bad plight, devise

What best may for the present serve to hide The Parts of each from other, that seem most To shame obnoxious, and unseemliest seen,

Some Tree whose broad smooth Leaves together sowd, [ 1095 ] And girded on our loyns, may cover round

Those middle parts, that this new commer, Shame, There sit not, and reproach us as

uncleanhttp://www.dartmouth.edu/~milton/reading_room/pl/book_9/notes.shtml – line1098.

So counsel’d hee, and both together went

Into the thickest Wood, there soon they chose [ 1100 ] The Figtree, not that kind for Fruit renown’d,

But such as at this day to Indians known In Malabar or Decan spreds her Armes

Braunching so broad and long, that in the ground

The bended Twigs take root, and Daughters grow [ 1105 ] About the Mother Tree, a Pillard shade

High overarch’t, and echoing Walks between; There oft the Indian Herdsman shunning heate Shelters in coole, and tends his pasturing Herds

At Loopholes cut through thickest shade: Those Leaves [ 1110 ] They gatherd, broad as Amazonian Targe,

And with what skill they had, together sowd, To gird thir waste, vain Covering if to hide Thir guilt and dreaded shame; O how unlike To that first naked Glorie. Such of late [ 1115 ] Columbus found th’ American so girt

With featherd Cincture, naked else and wilde Among the Trees on Iles and woodie Shores. Thus fenc’t, and as they thought, thir shame in part Coverd, but not at rest or ease of Mind, [ 1120 ] They sate them down to weep, nor onely Teares Raind at thir Eyes, but high Winds worse within Began to rise, high Passions, Anger, Hate, Mistrust, Suspicion, Discord, and shook sore

Thir inward State of Mind, calm Region once [ 1125 ] And full of Peace, now tost and turbulent:

For Understanding rul’d not, and the Will Heard not her lore, both in subjection now To sensual Appetite, who from beneathe

Usurping over sovran Reason claimd [ 1130 ] Superior sway: From thus distemperd brest, Adam, estrang’d in look and alterd stile, Speech intermitted thus to Eve renewd.

Would thou hadst heark’nd to my words, and stai’d With me, as I besought thee, when that strange [ 1135 ] Desire of wandring this unhappie Morn,

I know not whence possessd thee; we had then Remaind still happie, not as now, despoild

Of all our good, sham’d, naked, miserable.

Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve [ 1140 ]

The Faith they owe; when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to faile.

To whom soon mov’d with touch of blame thus Eve.

What words have past thy Lips, Adam severe, Imput’st thou that to my default, or will [ 1145 ] Of wandring, as thou call’st it, which who knows But might as ill have happ’nd thou being by,

Or to thy self perhaps: hadst thou been there,

Or here th’ attempt, thou couldst not have discernd Fraud in the Serpent, speaking as he spake; [ 1150 ] No ground of enmitie between us known,

Why hee should mean me ill, or seek to harme. Was I to have never parted from thy side?

As good have grown there still a liveless Rib. Being as I am, why didst not thou the Head [ 1155 ] Command me absolutely not to go,

Going into such danger as thou saidst? Too facil then thou didst not much gainsay,

Nay, didst permit, approve, and fair dismiss. Hadst thou bin firm and fixt in thy dissent, [ 1160 ] Neither had I transgress’d, nor thou with mee.

To whom then first incenst Adam repli’d, Is this the Love, is this the recompence

Of mine to thee, ingrateful Eve, exprest Immutable when thou wert lost, not I, [ 1165 ] Who might have liv’d and joyd immortal bliss, Yet willingly chose rather Death with thee: And am I now upbraided, as the cause

Of thy transgressing? not enough severe,

It seems, in thy restraint: what could I more? [ 1170 ] I warn’d thee, I admonish’d thee, foretold

The danger, and the lurking Enemie

That lay in wait; beyond this had bin force, And force upon free Will hath here no place.

But confidence then bore thee on, secure [ 1175 ] Either to meet no danger, or to finde

Matter of glorious trial; and perhaps I also err’d in overmuch admiring

What seemd in thee so perfet, that I thought No evil durst attempt thee, but I rue [ 1180 ] That errour now, which is become my crime, And thou th’ accuser. Thus it shall befall Him who to worth in Women overtrusting

Lets her Will rule; restraint she will not brook,

And left to her self, if evil thence ensue, [ 1185 ] Shee first his weak indulgence will accuse.

Thus they in mutual accusation spent

The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning, And of thir vain contest appeer’d no end.

The End of the Ninth Book.

Notes:

venial. Mistaken; erroneous without being blameworthy or sinful. For example, in book 8, Raphael tells Adam it is a mistake to be overconcerned with matters of no concern to him, but this mistake is nevertheless blameless (8.65-75 and 167- 178). Error, in Paradise, is not equivalent to sin. Sin is disobedience.

Tragic. Milton wrote a short essay called “Of that sort of Dramatic Poem which is call’d Tragedy” and printed it with Samson Agonistes in 1671. See also Aristotle’sPoetics 1449b on tragedy.

into this World a world of woe. This line echoes the early lines of book 1, which in turn echo fairly closely Virgil’s narrative voice in Aeneid book 4, announcing that death and woe followed the ersatz nuptials of Aeneas and Dido:

To the same cave come Dido and the Trojan chief. Primal earth and nuptial Juno give the sign; fires flashed in heaven, the witness to their bridal, and on the mountain-top screamed the Nymphs. That day was the first day of death, that the first cause of woe. (Trans. H. Rushton Fairclough in Virgil vol. 1 [Cambridge, MA: Havard University Press, 1935] 407)

See also the Perseus Project edition of this passage.

argument. Subject.

the wrauth. The wrath of Achilles is the epic theme announced at the beginning of Homer’s Iliad.

his Foe. Hector: Achilles pursued Hector around the walls of Troy ( Iliad 22).

Turnus for Lavinia. A major theme of Virgil’s Aeneid is the rage of Turnus for the loss to Aeneas of his beloved Lavinia (Aeneid 7).

the Greek. Odysseus; his wandering at sea was caused by Neptune’s (Poseidon’s) anger (Odyssey 1.19-20).

Cytherea’s son. Aeneas; Milton alludes to two classical heroes hated and persecuted by Gods — Odysseus by Neptune and Aeneas by Juno (Aeneid 1 )

answerable. Appropriate, adequate.

Celestial Patroness. Urania, traditionally the muse of astronomy, but adapted by Milton as a figure for both the Holy Spirit (1.1) and his own spiritual inspiration (7.1).

beginning late. Milton wrote Paradise Lost almost seventeen years after he made his earliest sketches of it, originally intended as part of a drama (Orgel & Goldberg). He probably started the epic form of the poem late in life, perhaps as late as age 59.

sedulous. Eager.

Lines 29-31. Milton once again claims that his epic subject is unlike any before, and is more rather than less heroic than they. This echoes earlier boasts

(see 1.16) in which Milton refers to the opening lines of Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. Milton makes the point repeatedly in Paradise Lost that the true Hero is not the warrior of pagan epics but the warrior who fights by resisting temptation, a sort of “spiritual heroism.” See, for example, the angel hero Abdiel in 5.805 and following.

tilting Furniture. Equipment used in jousting (sometimes also called tilting). Impreses quaint. Imprezas are heraldic symbols on the shields of knights. Bases. Cloth coverings worn by horses in battle.

Sewers and seneschals. “Sewer” literally means “seater” but also refers to

waiter-like servants. A seneschal was the chief steward of a medieval household.

skill of Artifice. Milton implies that his poem is not chiefly a matter of art, but of divine inspiration. Art is a “mean” employment compared to that of divine revelation and prophecy.

cold Climate or Years. Milton refers to the traditional belief that human talents were maimed by cold damp climates and by age. Hughes makes the interesting point that Milton was apparently concerned that “our climate” (Preface to Book 2 of Reason of Church Government) would hinder his ability to write his great epic, an allusion to Aristotle’s claim that northern races lacked intelligence

(Politics 1327b).

Hesperus. Venus, the evening star.

improv’d. Increased in knowledge; Satan has learned much from spying on Adam and Eve.

Uriel. Uriel earlier spotted Satan in Eden and warned the heavenly host of his presence (4.555-576). Uriel was introduced in the Argument to book 3.

Cherubim. Plural of cherub, one of the chief ranks of angels. See 1.387.

Carr of Night. Night as it moves around the earth. Satan circled the earth at the equator, staying ahead of the sun and therefore staying in night for “The space of seven continu’d nights.” He also crossed the entire breadth of night’s shadow from “Pole to Pole.”

Colure. “Each of two great circles which intersect each other at right angles at the poles, and divide the equinoctial and the ecliptic into four equal parts. One passes through the equinoctial points, the other through the solstitial points, of the ecliptic” (OED2).

averse. Opposite.

Tigris. According to Josephus (Antiquities 1.1.3) the Tigris is related to the river which “went out of Eden to water the Garden” (Genesis 2:10).

Pontus. The Black Sea was named Pontus Euxinus on some Latin maps.

Pool Mæotis. The Sea of Azov lies just north of the Black Sea. River Ob. A river, the world’s fourth largest, in the Siberian arctic. Orontes. River in Lebanon, Syria, and Turkey.

barr’d. Bounded; see this use of the term in Job 38:10.

Darien. The s, a narrow strip of land linking Central and South America.

Orb. The globe of Earth.

Suttlest beast of all. “The serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord made” (Genesis 3:1).

Doubt. Suspicion.

how like to Heav’n. Satan unintentionally echoes Raphael’s observation from 5.574.

second thoughts. The argument that things created second or last must be better or more perfect was a salient feature of the defences of women in popular songs and tracts of the early 17th century. See Esther Sowernam’s Ester Hath Hang’d Haman (1617) Chapter VIII:

Let no man think much if women compare, That in their creation they much better are:

More blessings therein to women doe fall, Then vnto mankinde haue been giuen at all.

Women were the last worke, and therefore the best, For what was the end, excelleth the rest.

Milton puts this sort of argument in Satan’s mouth.

officious. Dutiful.

for thee alone. See Eve’s similar supposition and Adam’s response in 4.657-77.

welnigh half. Satan appears to exaggerate; he seduced only one third of heaven’s host: 2.692.

vertue. Power.

if they at least. Satan stumbles a bit here. Earlier, in argument with Abdiel, he had claimed to be self-created (5.853-63); now he implicitly acknowledges the Father created angels like himself, then he backpedals with this “if” clause.

At 4.43 Satan acknowledges in soliloquy that he was created by God.

into our room. Satan meditates on the indignity of earthly creatures taking his place. See2.835; 4.359; and 7.190.

our spoils. The notion of spoils recalls the Israelites’ spoliation of Egypt as they fled Pharaoh; see the story in Exodus 3.

incarnate and imbrute. Satan’s incarnation as a beast is “in emulation opposite” to the Son’s incarnation as a man.

Obnoxious. Exposed, see OED2.

envie. Envy is Satan’s motivating force. He begins with envy of the Son (5.783) and concludes with envy of man.

Spite. Satan and Beelzebub pledged to do all they could to “spite/ the great Creator” (2.384-85) “The phrasing here resembles Prometheus’s declaration of enmity against Zeus (Prometheus Bound [909-926])” (Hughes).

Nor nocent. Innocent, not yet harmful.

close. Secretly. whenas. When. wanting. Lacking.

hear. 1674 has “bear” here; probably a printer’s error. 1667 had “hear.”

Spring. Grove.

which intermits. Eve’s words here stand in sharp contrast to her alleged reasons for leaving Adam and Raphael at the beginning of book 8. There she left the two males in conversation because she preferred (said the narrator) to hear the matter from Adam himself who, unlike Raphael, would intermix his discourse with caresses, kisses, and such (8.50-57). Why now does she want to avoid such conversation with Adam?

unearn’d. Labor is not alien to Milton’s Paradise; rather it is considered proper to human dignity and its performance made food, drink and rest more pleasurable (4.328). The notion of earning one’s supper by work does, however, seem at odds with paradise; Adam was quite ready to take an afternoon off to entertain Raphael.

motion’d. Suggested.

Wilderness. Wildness.

satiate. The idea that Eve could be sated with conjugal conversation, the purpose for which she was created (4.440-49), seems odd. For his part, Adam said he could never get enough conversation with Raphael (8.210-16), for it made him feel “in heaven” (see Philippians 3:20).

best societie. A reference to Cicero’s comment that Africanus was never so little alone as when he was by himself (Hughes) (De Republica 1.7.27). But we also recall that Eve was created because God knew it was not good for man to be alone (Genesis 2: 18).

Virgin. Innocent of sin? Most readers believe that Milton represents the couple as copulating in book 4.741-749, so Eve would not technically be a virgin, but see Thomas H. Luxon’s “Milton’s Wedded Love: Not about Sex (as we know it).”

Lines 274-278. These lines indicate that Eve overheard some part of the conversation between Adam and Raphael, most likely from 8.633 forward. This means she has heard Raphael’s parting warning to beware of passion’s power

over free will. It seems less likely that we are meant to think she overheard Adam confess that the passion prompted by touching Eve’s beauty makes him feel that Eve is superior to him (8.530-559), even though he knows she is not (8.540-546), and she has heard Raphael’s rebuke to Adam on this score (8.561-575). Perhaps something she heard motivates her desire to prove herself apart from Adam?

missthought. Misjudged.

entire. Entirely free.

Access. Increase. Perhaps a reference to Phaedrus’s suggestion in

Plato’s Symposium 178e that an army of lovers would be invincible since one would never behave shamefully in the sight of one’s beloved.

strait’nd. Limited.

Front. Brow.

Vertue unassaid. Eve’s question here reminds one of Milton’s point about “a fugitive and cloistered virtue” in Areopagitica.

Nothing imperfet. This may be true of Adam only after Eve also was created to mitigate his “single imperfection,” loneliness; see 8.422-427.

free the Will. See the Father’s discourse on free will in 3.99 and following.

erect. Alert.

specious. OED2: “Having a fair or attractive appearance or character, calculated to make a favourable impression on the mind, but in reality devoid of the qualities apparently possessed.” The serpent will be such a creature with Satan inside.

What’s more, the Serpent will claim he has eaten the forbidden fruit, but he hasn’t.

Approve. Prove.

done his part. Adam echoes here Raphael’s words to him in 8.561.

though last. That is, having the last word which might appear to us less than “submiss.”

the weaker. Eve, though eager throughout this discussion to prove herself constant and capable as Adam to resist the Foe, acknowledges herself “the weaker,” echoing1 Peter 3:7.

from her Husbands hand. In book 4, Adam first teaches Eve to admire “manly grace and wisdom” by seizing her hand (4.488-491).

submiss. Submissively.

Oread or Dryad. Mountain or wood nymph.

Delia. Diana: called Delia from her birthplace, Delos. Her train refers to the nymphs who attend her.

Deport. Deportment, bearing.

Pales. Goddess of flocks and pastures.

Pomona. Goddess of orchards or fruit: Ovid tells the story of Pomona being wooed by Vertumnus who eventually succeeds (Metamorphoses 14.628).

Ceres. Ovid says that Ceres was the first to teach men to use the plow before the birth of Proserpina (Metamorphoses 5.341).

desiring more her stay. In book 8, Eve’s “winning graces” are said to prompt all to “wish her still in sight” (8.61-63).

Mere serpent. Not a demi-woman as the tempter was sometimes portrayed. It is interesting that Milton chose not to use the popular image of a feminized serpent. It would seem a tempting association to make since submission to bodily desire is characterized by Milton as effeminate, and rational management of such desires is manly.

tendance. Object of attendance and care.

voluable. Rolling upon itself, undulating.

Lines 439-441. Milton implies that Paradise was even more beautiful than the Garden of Adonis, to which it was commonly compared, as well as the gardens of Alcinous and the Hesperides.

Laertes’ son. Odysseus, who visited the Garden of Alcinous in Odyssey 7.

not Mystic. The garden of Alcinous is mythological but the garden of the “Sapient King,” Solomon, was real. Solomon married an Egyptian princess and brought her back to his garden. See Song of Solomon 6:2.

tedded. Cut and scattered in preparation for hay making.

Plat. Plot of ground.

and Feminine. “Angelic” is here assumed to be a masculine state, though angels, like any spiritual being, may assume any form or sex (1.423-426). See

also 10.888-890.

Stupidly good. Eve’s beauty apparently exercises enormous power. Perhaps there is also a hint here that her beauty is enhanced by the power of chastity, or innocence; compare to A Mask 450-52.

higher intellectual. Many critics hold this to be only Satan’s opinion, but the poem in general supports this notion of male intellectual superiority. See 4.296-

99; 4.489-91; and Eve’s preference for physical conversation (8.52-57) and Adam’s for intellectual or heavenly conversation (8.210-16).

Exempt from wound. This contrasts with Satan’s discovery of pain during the battle in heaven (6.327).

tour’d. Towered.

Spires. Loops or coils (Latin). Milton imagines that the serpent, before it is cursed, looked like a serpent but traveled in a more elaborate, and more erect, manner.

chang’d. The narrator alludes to Ovid’s story of the metamorphosis of Cadmus and Harmonia into serpents (Metamorphoses 4.563-603).

The God. Æsculapius, the god of healing, appeared in his temple in Epidaurus in the body of a serpent (Metamorphoses 15.669-74).

Lines 507-510. Macedonian legend held that Olympias, mother of Alexander the Great, was visited by Zeus in the form of a serpent, and thus conceived the hero her son (Pausanius Description of Greece 4.14.7). Romans told similar stories about the conception of Scipio Africanus the Elder.

Lines 510-514. The first letters of these lines, read vertically from top to bottom (beginning with the italicized S of “Scipio”), spell S A T A N.

Herd disguis’d. A reference to Circe’s victims (See Odyssey 10.238), whom she turned into groveling swine.

Organic. Being used as an organ or instrument. Satan, in the serpent’s form, was forced to use his tongue as a vocal instrument because snakes lack vocal chords and so have no physical capacity for human speech.

Fairest resemblance of thy Maker. See 8.543-545 and Raphael’s confirmation that Adam, not Eve, is the closest version of God’s image. The serpent, though not Satan, may be presumed not yet to have seen Adam. Also see Eve’s remark below at lines 615-616.

gloz’d. Lied.

Proem. Preamble in verse or song.

demurre. Entertain doubts about. God told Adam that beasts “know” and reason “not contemptibly” ( 8.373-74).

apprehended nothing high. Animals (like children) were generally thought incapable of higher pleasures than those of the body (Nicomachean Ethics 1099b and 1100a).

Fennel…teats. Tradition held that fennel and milk sucked directly from the teats of goats and sheep were favorite foods of snakes. Another legend held that lactating livestock that went dry had been sucked by demons.

but could not reach. Birds, squirrels, and chipmunks are just a few animals that certainly could reach any fruit in a tree. We may take this as evidence that the serpent is lying (he never did eat the fruit of that tree) and Eve should (shouldn’t she?) notice the deceit.

to degree. Satan implies that the serpent first recieved a degree of mental reason, then the gift of speech. Neither, of course, ever happened. The serpent came by the appearance of reason and speech by, in a sense, swallowing Satan, not the fruit.

Middle. The air between Earth and Heav’n.

spirited. Spirit possessed.

thy overpraising. Is Eve being coyly modest here? Or does she truly recognize that the serpent overpraises her above all creatures in heaven — God, Adam and angels included. If the latter, then why does she not detect deceit? Are we supposed to think her dangerously vain?

thir provision. Meaning that men would grow up in numbers proportional to the plenty provided for them.

Bearth. Birth; a spelling that appears appropriate for describing trees that “bear” fruit.

Blowing. Blooming.

wand’ring Fire. Ignis fatuus or “Foolish Fire,” swamp gas which spontaneously combusts. This is possibly a reference to John Swan’s Speculum Mundi (1643) 88-89, which refers to the “much terrified, ignorant and stupid people” who mistake such lights for “walking spirits. They are no spirits, and yet lead out of the way, because those who see them are amazed, and look so earnestly after them that they forget their way: and then…wander to and fro…sometimes to waters, pits and other dangerous places” (K. Svendson quoted in Hughes).

Fruitless. An allusion to Spenser’s similar pun on fruit and fruitless in the Faerie Queene 2.7.55.

Law to ourselves. Similar to Paul’s remark that virtuous Gentiles lived outside Hebrew law but were a “law unto themselves” (Romans 2:14).

som Orator. Satan plays the role of a democratic orator of Athens, whom Milton admired and referred to in Paradise Regain’d 4.269, but abuses the role by using it to deceive. “Free Rome” refers to republican, rather than imperial Rome.

brooking. Not allowing; that is, not waiting for any preface or proem.

Science. Knowledge.

highest Agents. Perhaps a subtly ironic reference to Satan’s own act of hubris. “Highest Agents” would be the highest angels or possibly God. This, especially followed by “deem’d however wise,” would seem to highlight Satan’s aspirations to godhead. Satan here reminds one of the bombastic wizard in The Wizard of Oz, with the addition of malice.

ye shall not Die. Quotes Genesis 3:4-5 ” And the serpent said unto the woman, ye shall not surely die.”

to Knowledge. Eventuating in knowledge. 1674 has a question mark after “Knowledge” and a comma after “Threatner;” taking this to be a transposition, I have reveresed them.

removes the feare. Serpentine logic. The poem has a poor opinion of Eve’s intellectual acuity, since she falls for this, combined with flattery that she detects but hardly resists. See below: “too easie entrance won” (735-39).

Internal Man. Satan implies that the serpent has become man internally but his physical features remain unchanged. This is, of course, untrue.

participating God-like food. This is, as Raphael suggested (5.496-501), sort of true, but only if they remain “obedient.” Eve cannot do that and eat from this tree.

If they. “Produced” is understood.

too easie entrance. Not unlike Satan’s entrance into the garden itself (4.180-92).

impregn’d. Impregnated. inclinable. Easily inclined. In plain. In clear language.

Author unsuspect. Authority apparently unsuspicious.

her rash hand. See William Blake’s 1808 watercolor illustration of these lines.

Knew not eating death. She did not know she was eating death.

boon. Jovial, jolly, convivial; see OED2.

To Sapience. Able to produce knowledge. There is a pun here on the etymological meaning of sapience, “taste” (Orgel & Goldberg). Eve now addresses the tree in language once reserved for addressing Adam or God.

Infam’d. Misreputed, slandered.

secret. Hidden, unseen.

inferior who is free? This line makes an interesting contrast to 5.792-793. Again Milton puts familiar early feminist discourse into the mouth of a fallen being.

sciential. Endowed with knowledge.

divine. Foreseeing.

Came Prologue. A personified excuse in the role of a prologue. See much the same figure of speech in Shakespeare’s Macbeth 1.3.

agonie of love. Milton anticipates Eve’s punishment. According to Genesis 3: 16, Eve’s punishment is twofold: pain in childbirth and simultaneously to desire her husband.

rash untri’d. Because she (Eve) was rash and the separation was unfamiliar.

tasted. “If” is understood.

tasted. Proven by tasting.

Not dead. With some of the sense of “un-dead,” like Satan who is devoted to death but never dies.

Tedious, unshar’d with thee. Eve apparently experiences the characteristically masculine desire for company for the first time. See Adam’s description of this lack in8.363-366. In Tetrachordon, Milton tries to argue that Adam’s desire for companionship is a desire for specifically female companionship, though not principally for sex (Tetrachordon Genesis places).

last and best. Human beings are the “last and best” creation; Adam may refer here to Eve’s loss of humanness, the loss of the image of God in her. If we also hear him endorsing the early feminist notion that Eve was superior because created last, then he and the narrator are at odds; see above and Milton’s opinion on the matter inTetrachordon.

devote. Doomed.

bliss or woe. Echoes marriage vows: for better or for worse. Milton makes the point clearly that Adam was not deceived, but instead made a choice in favor of Eve. Augustine outlined this distinction in (City of God 12.11). See also 1 Timothy 2: 14.

Adversary. Literal sense of “Satan.” See 1.361 and 6.282.

Certain. Resolved. The phrase ironically echoes Aeneas’s opposite declaration, certus eundi, announcing his intention to leave Carthage and Dido (Aeneid 4.554).

oblige. Keeps its Latin force of “involve in guilt.”

fact. Deed , crime.

compliance bad. The narrator’s condemnation of Adam’s actions here seems clear, though many seasoned readers refuse to see it. Admiring Adam for his love and devotion here is not an inaccurate response, but it is quite beside the point of the poem.

Line 999. This line sums up Adam’s fall. He understands reason but turns away from it in favor of the desires of the body, desires that Eve tries to ennoble with a discourse of sacrificial love. What was earlier described as “mysterious” rites (4.741), Adam now refers to as the “Link” or “Bond of Nature”

(above 914 and 956). What was once a spiritual bond is now merely carnal: “Flesh of flesh” without mystery. Milton is not known as a numerologist, but he depicts Adam’s fall at line 999, an inversion of 666, the line in book 2 at which Milton introduces the character, Death–2.666.

in Lust they burne. As opposed to the rational burning Milton defined in Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce 1.4 and imagined in 4.742-49.

Line 1019. 1674 misprints “me” here for 1667’s “we”.

Eye darted contagious Fire. Compare this description to that in 8.61-63.

he seis’d. Milton invites us to remember the first time Adam “seis’d” Eve’s hand, to what end and with what effect (4.488-491).

Lines 1037-1045. Similar to the scene between Zeus and Hera in Iliad 14.292- 353.

bland. Pleasing to the senses (OED2).

grosser sleep. We recall Adam’s “Aerie” light sleep in 5.4.

unkindly. Unnatural.

conscious. Guilty; conscious of error and sin.

hee cover’d. Echoes Psalm 6:10: “Let mine adversaries be clothed with shame.” See also Samson Agonistes 841-42.

Danite. Samson (Judges 16) was a Danite who was betrayed by his Philistine lover Delilah when she cut off his hair, the secret source of his strength, and then delivered him to the Philistines. The Samson simile at first invites us to think of Adam as a Samson figure, but the “They” of line 1062 makes both Adam and Eve appear Samson-like as they rise from post-coital sleep. In his tragic

drama Samson Agonistes (1671), Milton imagines Dalila and Samson as wife and husband.

Line 1092. 1674 switches the “for” of this line with the “from” of the next line; I have switched them back.

obnoxious, and unseemliest. What now seem obnoxious and unseemly were once decribed as “mysterious parts” (4.312). This shift is in perfect analogy to their conjugal conversation, which was once “Rites mysterious” (4.743) and now is “Flesh of flesh.”

Line 1098. 1674 misprints a comma at the end of this line; I have changed it to a period.

not that kind for Fruit. The lines appear to describe a banyan tree, but banyan leaves are not nearly large enough to be compared to Amazonian shields as in line 1111. Perhaps banyan gets confused with banana?

Amazonian Targe. Amazons’ shields.

th’ American so girt. Milton quite expectedly challenges the notion gaining popularity in his day that the New World natives are innocent like Adam in Eden, or noble upright savages. Milton explicitly compares them to the newly-fallen, lust-driven, shameful Adam.

Usurping over sovran Reason. Milton reckons that this interior usurpation accounts for all tyrannous usurpations that follow throughout history. See 12.87- 104 andTenure of Kings and Magistrates.

Head. See 4.443 where Eve refers to Adam as her Head. See also 1 Corinthians 11:3.

err’d in overmuch admiring. Precisely what Raphael warned Adam about in the closing lines of book 8.561-570.

Women. The accusatory tone makes this otherwise orthodox antifeminist remark sound mean and cruel, verging on the popular misogynist claim that women first brought sin into the world. When Adam tries a similar line of talk in God’s presence, he is rebuked by the more orthodox antifeminism of Milton’s God (10.146-156). Adam repeats an even stronger, more clearly misogynistic, version of this remark in conversation with the archangel Michael in book 11 and Michael takes care to distinguish the antifeminist principle of female inferiority from the misogynist slur that blames women in general for the advent of sin (11.632-36). I use the word antifeminist here to mean “a person who is hostile to sexual equality or to the advocacy of women’s rights” (OED2) even though it may appear to some an anachronistic usage.

The Rape of the Lock


ALEXANDER POPE

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

 is S S P edition published , is based on the edition originally published by L S: L, .

© P D

E N 

 E E

———————————

 e edition that this volume is based on is one of the rare occurances in publishing history, the creation of what is considered an ideal edition, in which the text, typography and illustrations compliment each other perfectly.  ere are only a handful of such books which include; the Kelmscott Press edition of Chaucer, Baskerville’s Milton, and Oscar Wilde’s Salome illustrated by Beardsley. I can only hope that I have done this book justice.

 e pagination, page layout & illustration placement have been retained for this edition.  e front cover has been reproduced based on the original design by Aubrey Beardsley.

All preparation work done by Frater Nec Temere Nec Timide for S S P.

Questions, comments or suggestions can be directed to the Editor c/o: sovsancpress@yahoo.ca

 e Rape of the Lock

 e Rape of the Lock

AN HEROICOMICAL POEM

IN FIVE CANTOS

W 

ALEXANDER POPE

 W  W



AUBREY BEARDSLEY

“Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos;

Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.”—M. “A tonso est hoc nomen adepta capillo.”—O m

Sovereign

Sanctuary

Press



EDMUND GOSSE

  



“THE RAPE OF THE LOCK”

THE DRAWINGS


 

. T D . . . . . . .   . T B-D . . . . . . . .  . T T . . . . . . . . .  . T B’ P . . . . . . .  . T B . . . . . . . . .  . T R   L . . . . . .  . T C  S . . . . . . .  . T B   B   B . .  . T N  S . . . . . . . . . 

ADVERTISEMENT

HE RAPE OF THE LOCK was fi rst published in the year , by Bernard Lintott, at the sign of the Cross-Keys, between the two Temple Gates, Fleet Street. It was then in two cantos. It was occasioned by a frolic, carried rather beyond the bounds of good breeding, in which Lord Petre cut off a lock of Mrs. Arabella Fermor’s hair.  e poem was undertaken at Mr. Caryl’s request (see Pope’s notes), in order to reconcile the two families, this incident having caused a considerable estrangement between them.

T

 e great success of this jeu d’esprit induced Pope to extend it from the original two cantos—comprising some  lines—to fi ve, by the addition of the “machinery” of Sylphs and Gnomes.

 ose readers anxious to be acquainted with the original form of the work will fi nd its extent indicated in the author’s notes to the poem, which is here printed in its extended form, with Pope’s fi nal revisions.

To MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR

M,

I

T will be vain to deny that I have some Value for this

Piece, since I dedicate it to You. Yet You may bear me W itness, it was intended only to divert a few young Ladies, who have good Sense and good Humour enough, to laugh not only at their Sex’s little unguarded Follies, but at their own. But as it was communicated with the Air of a Secret, it soon found its Way into the World. An imperfect Copy having been off ered to a Bookseller, You had the Good-Nature for my Sake to consent to the Publication of one more correct :  is I was forced to before I had executed half my Design, for the Machinery was entirely wanting to compleat it.



 e Machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the Criticks, to signify that Part which the Deities, Angels, or Daemons, are made to act in a Poem : For the ancient Poets are in one Respect like many modern Ladies : Let an Action be never so trivial in itself, they always make it

xii     

appear of the utmost Importance.  ese Machines I determin’d to raise on a very new and odd Foundation, the Rosicrucian Doctrine of Spirits.

I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard Words before a Lady: but ’tis so much the Concern of a Poet to have his Works understood, and particularly by your Sex, that You must give me leave to explain two or three diffi cult Terms.



 e Rosicrucians are a People I must bring You acquainted with.  e best Account I know of them is in a French Book called Le Comte de Gabalis, which both in its Title and Size is so like a Novel, that many of the Fair Sex have read it for one by Mistake. According to these Gentlemen the four Elements are inhabited by Spirits, which they call Sylphs, Gnomes, Nymphs, and Salamanders.  e Gnomes, or Daemons of Earth, delight in Mischief: but the Sylphs, whose Habitation is Air, are the best-conditioned Creatures imaginable. For they say, any Mortals may enjoy the most intimate Familiarities with these gentle Spirits, upon a Condition very easy to all true Adepts, an inviolate Preservation of Chastity.

As to the following Canto’s, all the Passages of them are as Fabulous, as the Vision at the Beginning, or the Trans-

 .   xiii

formation at the End ; (except the Loss of your Hair, which I always name with Reverence.)  e Human Persons are as Fictitious as the Airy ones; and the Character of Belinda, as it is now manag’d, resembles You in nothing but in Beauty.

If this Poem had as many Graces as there are in Your Person, or in Your Mind, yet I could never hope it should pass thro’ the World half so Uncensured as You have done. But let its Fortune be what it will, mine is happy enough, to have given me this Occasion of assuring You that I am,


with the truest Esteem,

Madam,

Your most Obedient

Humble Servant,

A. POPE.

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

CANTO I

W

HAT dire Off ence from am’rous Causes springs,

W hat mighty Contests rise from trivial  ings, I sing— is verse to C, Muse ! is due :

 is, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe to view :

Slight is the subject, but not so the Praise, If She inspire, and He approve my Lays.

Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou’d compel A well-bred Lord t’ assault a gentle Belle ? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor’d, Cou’d make a gentle Belle reject a Lord ?

In tasks so bold, can little Men engage,

And in soft Bosoms, dwells such mighty Rage ?

Sol through white Curtains shot a tim’rous Ray, And ope’d those eyes that must eclipse the Day : Now Lap-dogs give themselves the rousing Shake, And sleepless Lovers, just at Twelve, awake :

 rice rung the Bell, the Slipper knock’d the Ground,





And the press’d Watch return’d a silver sound.

Belinda still her downy Pillow prest,


Her guardian Sylph prolong’d the balmy rest. 

’Twas He had summon’d to her silent Bed

 e morning-dream that hover’d o’er her Head.

A Youth more glitt’ring than a Birth-night Beau

( at ev’n in slumber caus’d her Cheek to glow)

Seem’d to her Ear his winning Lips to lay,

And thus in Whispers said, or seem’d to say.



Fairest of Mortals, thou distinguish’d Care

  

Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air !

If e’er one Vision touch’d thy infant  ought,

Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught, 

Of airy Elves by Moonlight Shadows seen,

 e silver Token, and the Circled Green,

Or Virgins visited by Angel-pow’rs,

With Golden Crowns and Wreaths of heav’nly Flow’rs ;

Hear and believe! thy own Importance know, Nor bound thy narrow Views to things below. Some secret Truths, from Learned Pride conceal’d, To Maids alone and Children are reveal’d :

What tho’ no Credit doubting W its may give?

 e Fair and Innocent shall still believe.

Know, then, unnumber’d Spirits round thee fl y,





 e light Militia of the lower sky :

 ese, tho’ unseen, are ever on the W ing,

Hang o’er the Box, and hover round the Ring.

 ink what an Equipage thou hast in Air, And view with scorn Two Pages and a Chair.

As now your own, our Beings were of old,

And once inclos’d in Woman’s beauteous Mold ;  ence, by a soft Transition, we repair From earthly Vehicles to these of Air.


 ink not, when Woman’s transient Breath is fl ed,  at all her Vanities at once are dead.





Succeeding Vanities she still regards,

And tho’ she plays no more, o’erlooks the Cards.

Her Joy in gilded Chariots, when alive, And love of Ombre, after Death survive. For when the Fair in all their Pride expire, To their fi rst Elements their Souls retire :  e Sprites of fi ery Termagants in Flame


Mount up, and take a Salamander’s name.





Soft yielding Minds to Water glide away,

And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental Tea.

 e graver Prude sinks downward to a Gnome, In search of Mischief still on Earth to roam.
 e light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and fl utter in the Fields of Air.

Know further yet ; whoever fair and chaste Rejects Mankind, is by some Sylph embrac’d :

For Spirits, freed from mortal Laws, with ease Assume what Sexes and what Shapes they please.

What guards the Purity of melting Maids,

In Courtly Balls, and Midnight Masquerades,

Safe from the treach’rous Friend, the daring Spark,

 e Glance by Day, the Whisper in the Dark,

When kind Occasion prompts their warm desires, When music softens, and when Dancing fi res ?







 

’Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,  o’ Honour is the word with Men below.


Some Nymphs there are, too conscious of their Face,

For Life predestin’d to the Gnomes’ embrace.  ese swell their Prospects and exalt their Pride, When Off ers are disdain’d, and Love deny’d.

 en gay Ideas crowd the vacant Brain,

While Peers, and Dukes, and all their sweeping Train,

And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,

And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their Ear.

’Tis these that early taint the female soul,

Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll, Teach Infant Cheeks a bidden Blush to know, And little Hearts to fl utter at a Beau.

Oft, when the World imagine Women stray,


 e Sylphs thro’ Mystic mazes guide their Way,  ro’ all the giddy Circle they pursue, And old Impertinence expel by new.

What tender Maid but must a victim fall To one Man’s Treat, but for another’s Ball ? When Florio speaks what Virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her Hand ? With varying Vanities, from ev’ry Part,









 ey shift the moving Toyshop of their Heart ; 

Where Wigs with Wigs, with Sword-knots Sword-knots

strive,

Beaux banish Beaux, and Coaches Coaches drive.  is erring Mortals Levity may call,

Oh blind to Truth ! the Sylphs contrive it all.

Of these am I, who thy Protection claim, A watchful Sprite, and Ariel is my name.

Late, as I rang’d the crystal Wilds of Air,

In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star

I saw, alas! some dread Event impend, Ere to the Main this morning’s Sun descend,

But Heav’n reveals not what, or how, or where:

Warn’d by the Sylph, oh pious Maid, beware!


 is to disclose is all thy Guardian can. Beware of all, but most beware of Man!





He said : when Shock, who thought she slept too long,

Leap’d up, and wak’d his Mistress with his Tongue. 

’Twas then, Belinda, if Report say true,

 y Eyes fi rst open’d on a Billet-doux ;

Wounds, Charms, and Ardors were no sooner read,


But all the Vision vanish’d from thy Head. 

And now, unveil’d, the Toilet stands display’d, Each Silver Vase in mystic Order laid.

 

First, rob’d in W hite, the Nymph intent adores, With Head uncover’d, the Cosmetic pow’rs.

A heav’nly Image in the Glass appears,

To that she bends, to that her Eyes she rears ;  ’ inferior Priestess, at her Altar’s side, Trembling begins the sacred Rites of Pride.

Unnumber’d Treasures ope at once, and here

 e various Off ’rings of the World appear ; From each she nicely culls with curious Toil,


And decks the Goddess with the glitt’ring Spoil.





 is Casket India’s glowing Gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box.

 e Tortoise here and Elephant unite,

Transformed to Combs, the speckled and the white. Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows, Puff s, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. Now awful Beauty puts on all its Arms ;

 e Fair each moment rises in her Charms,

Repairs her Smiles, awakens ev’ry Grace,

And calls forth all the Wonders of her Face ;


Sees by Degrees a purer Blush arise,

And keener Lightnings quicken in her Eyes.

 e busy Sylphs surround their darling Care ;

 ese set the Head, and those divide the Hair, Some fold the Sleeve, whilst others plait the Gown ; And Betty’s prais’d for labours not her own.







CANTO II

N

OT with more Glories, in th’ Etherial Plain,

 e Sun fi rst rises o’er the purpled Main,  an, issuing forth, the Rival of his Beams Launch’d on the Bosom of the Silver  ames.

Fair Nymphs, and well-drest Youths around her shone.  But ev’ry Eye was fi x’d on her alone. On her white Breast a sparkling Cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and Infi dels adore. Her lively Looks a sprightly Mind disclose,


Quick as her Eyes, and as unfi x’d as those : 

Favours to none, to all she Smiles extends, Oft she rejects, but never once off ends. Bright as the Sun, her Eyes the Gazers strike, And, like the Sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful Ease, and Sweetness void of Pride, Might hide her Faults, if Belles had Faults to hide : If to her share some Female Errors fall,

Look on her Face, and you’ll forget ’em all.



 is Nymph, to the Destruction of Mankind,

 

Nourish’d two Locks, which graceful hung behind In equal Curls, and well conspir’d to deck With shining Ringlets the smooth iv’ry neck. Love in these Labyrinths his Slaves detains, And mighty Hearts are held in slender Chains.

With hairy sprindges we the Birds betray,

Slight lines of Hair surprise the Finny Prey, Fair Tresses Man’s Imperial Race insnare, And Beauty draws us with a single Hair.

 ’ Advent’rous Baron the bright Locks admir’d ; He saw, he wish’d, and to the Prize aspir’d :

Resolv’d to win, he meditates the way,

By Force to ravish, or by Fraud betray ;

For when Success a Lover’s Toil attends, Few ask, if Fraud or Force attain’d his Ends.


For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had implor’d Propitious Heav’n, and ev’ry Pow’r ador’d,









 ere lay three Garters, half a Pair of Gloves;
And all the Trophies of his former Loves;


With tender Billet-doux he lights the Pyre,

And breathes three am’rous Sighs to raise the Fire.



But chiefl y Love—to Love an Altar built, Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt.

     

 en prostrate falls, and begs with ardent Eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the Prize :
 e Pow’rs gave Ear, and granted half his Pray’r,  e rest, the W inds dispers’d in empty Air.

But now secure the painted Vessel glides,


 e Sun-beams trembling on the fl oating Tydes, While melting Musick steals upon the Sky, And soften’d Sounds along the Waters die. Smooth fl ow the Waves, the Zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil’d, and all the World was gay.


All but the Sylph—W ith careful  oughts opprest,  ’ impending Woe sat heavy on his Breast. He summons strait his Denizens of Air ;  e lucid Squadrons round the Sails repair :


Soft o’er the Shrouds Aerial Whispers breathe,  at seem’d but Zephyrs to the Train beneath. Some to the Sun their Insect-W ings unfold, Waft on the Breeze, or sink in Clouds of Gold. Transparent Forms, too fi ne for mortal Sight,  eir fl uid Bodies half dissolv’d in Light.


Loose to the Wind their airy Garments fl ew,

 in glitt’ring Textures of the fi lmy Dew ;


Dipt in the richest Tincture of the Skies,

Where Light disports in ever-mingling Dies,











 

While ev’ry Beam new transient Colours fl ings,

Colours that change whene’er they wave their Wings. Amid the Circle, on the gilded mast,


Superior by the Head, was Ariel plac’d ; His Purple Pinions op’ning to the Sun, 

He rais’d his Azure Wand, and thus begun.

Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear, Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Daemons, hear ! Ye know the Spheres and various Tasks assign’d  By Laws Eternal to th’ Aerial Kind.




Some in the Fields of purest Aether play,

And bask and whiten in the Blaze of Day.

Some guide the Course of wand’ring Orbs on high,

Or roll the Planets thro’ the boundless Sky.

Some less refi n’d, beneath the Moon’s pale Light

Pursue the Stars that shoot athwart the Night ;

Or suck the Mists in grosser Air below,

Or dip their Pinions in the painted Bow,

Or brew fi erce Tempests on the wintry Main, Or o’er the Glebe distil the kindly Rain.


Others on Earth o’er human Race preside,

Watch all their Ways, and all their actions guide : Of these the Chief the Care of Nations own,


And guard with Arms Divine the British  rone.









Our humbler Province is to tend the Fair, Not a less pleasing, tho’ less glorious Care.

To save the Powder from too rude a Gale,

Nor let th’ imprison’d Essences exhale ;

To draw fresh Colours from the vernal Flow’rs ;

To steal from Rainbows e’er they drop in Show’rs

A brighter Wash; to curl their waving Hairs,


Assist their Blushes, and inspire their Airs ; Nay oft, in Dreams, Invention we bestow, To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelo !


 is Day, black Omens threat the brightest Fair,

 at e’er deserv’d a watchful Spirit’s care ;

Some dire Disaster, or by Force, or Slight,

But what, or where, the Fates have wrapt in Night.

Whether the Nymph shall break Diana’s law,

Or some frail China jar receive a Flaw,

Or stain her Honour or her new Brocade,

Forget her Pray’rs, or miss a Masquerade,

Or lose her Heart, or Necklace, at a Ball ;

Or whether Heav’n has doom’d that Shock must fall.

Haste, then, ye Spirits ! to your Charge repair ;

 e fl utt’ring Fan be Zephyretta’s Care ;









 e Drops to thee, Brillante, we consign ;



And, Momentilla, let the Watch be thine ;

  
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav’rite Lock ; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.

To Fifty chosen Sylphs, of special Note, We trust th’ important charge, the Petticoat :


Oft have we known that seven-fold Fence to fail,

 o’ stiff with Hoops, and arm’d with Ribs of Whale ; Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around.

Whatever Spirit, careless of his Charge,

His Post neglects, or leaves the Fair at large,

Shall feel sharp Vengeance soon o’ertake his Sins,







Be stop’d in Vials, or transfi xt with Pins ; Or plung’d in lakes of bitter Washes lie,



Or wedg’d whole Ages in a Bodkin’s Eye :

Gums and Pomatums shall his Flight restrain,

While clogg’d he beats his silken Wings in vain ; Or Alom-Stypticks with contracting Pow’r Shrink his thin Essence like a rivel’d Flower.

Or, as Ixion fi x’d, the Wretch shall feel


 e giddy Motion of the whirling Mill, Midst Fumes of burning Chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the Sea that froths below !







He spoke ; the Spirits from the Sails descend ; Some, Orb in Orb, around the Nymph extend,

Some thrid the mazy Ringlets of her Hair,

Some hang upon the Pendants of her Ear ; 

With beating Hearts the dire Event they wait, Anxious, and trembling for the Birth of Fate.

CANTO III

C

LOSE by those Meads, for ever crown’d with Flow’rs,

Where  ames with Pride surveys his rising Tow’rs,  ere stands a Structure of Majestic Fame,

Which from the neighb’ring Hampton takes its Name.
Here Britain’s Statesmen oft the Fall foredoom

Of foreign Tyrants, and of Nymphs at home ;

Here  ou, great Anna ! whom three Realms obey, Dost sometimes Counsel take—and sometimes Tea.

Hither the Heroes and the Nymphs resort, To taste awhile the Pleasures of a Court ; In various Talk th’ instructive Hours they past, Who gave a Ball, or paid the Visit last :


One speaks the Glory of the British Queen,

And one describes a charming Indian Screen ; A third interprets Motions, Looks, and Eyes ; At every Word a Reputation dies.

Snuff , or the Fan, supply each Pause of Chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.







Mean while, declining from the Noon of Day,
 e Sun obliquely shoots his burning Ray ;

 e hungry Judges soon the Sentence sign,

And Wretches hang that Jury-men may Dine ;  e Merchant from th’ Exchange returns in Peace, And the long Labours of the Toilet cease.

Belinda now, whom  irst of Fame invites,

Burns to encounter two adventrous Knights,

At Ombre singly to decide their Doom ;

And swells her Breast with Conquests yet to come. Straight the three Bands prepare in Arms to join, Each Band the number of the Sacred Nine. Soon as she spreads her Hand, th’ Aerial Guard Descend, and sit on each important ard :







First Ariel perch’d upon a Matadore,

 en each, according to the Rank they bore ;

For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient Race, 

Are, as when women, wond’rous fond of Place.

Behold, four Kings in Majesty rever’d,

With hoary Whiskers and a forky Beard ;


And four fair Queens whose Hands sustain a Flow’r,

 ’ expressive Emblem of their softer Pow’r ;

Four Knaves in Garbs succinct, a trusty Band ;

Caps on their heads, and Halberds in their hand ;


 

And particolour’d Troops, a shining Train, Draw forth to combat on the Velvet Plain.


 e skilful Nymph reviews her Force with Care ; 

Let Spades be Trumps ! she said, and Trumps they were.




Now move to War her sable Matadores,

In show like Leaders of the swarthy Moors. Spadillio fi rst, unconquerable Lord !
Led off two captive Trumps, and swept the Board. As many more Manillio forc’d to yield,



And march’d a Victor from the verdant Field. Him Basto follow’d, but his Fate more hard Gain’d but one Trump and one Plebeian card.

With his broad Sabre next, a Chief in Years,

 e hoary Majesty of Spades appears ;

Puts forth one manly Leg, to sight reveal’d,

 e rest, his many-colour’d Robe conceal’d.



 e Rebel-Knave, who dares his Prince engage,


Proves the just Victim of his Royal Rage. 

Ev’n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o’erthrew,

And mow’d down Armies in the Fights of Lu, Sad Chance of War ! now destitute of Aid, Falls undistinguish’d by the Victor Spade !


 us far both Armies to Belinda yield ; 



Now to the Baron Fate inclines the Field.

His warlike Amazon her Host invades,

 ’ Imperial Consort of the Crown of Spades.

 e Club’s black Tyrant fi rst her Victim dy’d,

Spite of his haughty Mien, and barb’rous Pride :

What boots the Regal Circle on his Head,

His Giant Limbs, in State unwieldy spread ;  at long behind he trails his pompous Robe, And, of all Monarchs, only grasps the Globe ?

 e Baron now his Diamonds pours apace ;

 ’ embroider’d King who shows but half his Face, And his refulgent Queen, with Pow’rs combin’d, Of broken Troops an easy Conquest fi nd.

Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild Disorder seen, With  rongs promiscuous strow the level Green.

 us when dispers’d a routed Army runs,

Of Asia’s Troops, and Afric’s Sable Sons,


With like Confusion diff erent Nations fl y,

Of various Habits, and of various Dye,

 e pierc’d Battalions dis-united fall,

In Heaps on Heaps ; one Fate o’erwhelms them all.









 e Knave of Diamonds tries his wily Arts,

And wins (oh shameful Chance !) the Queen of Hearts.

 

At this, the Blood the Virgin’s Cheek forsook,


A livid Paleness spreads o’er all her Look ; She sees, and trembles at th’ approaching Ill, Just in the Jaws of Ruin, and Codille. And now (as oft in some distemper’d State) On one nice Trick depends the gen’ral Fate.

An Ace of Hearts steps forth :  e King unseen

Lurk’d in her Hand, and mourn’d his captive Queen. He springs to Vengeance with an eager Pace, And falls like  under on the prostrate Ace.  e Nymph exulting fi lls with Shouts the Sky ;  e Walls, the Woods, and long Canals reply.


Oh thoughtless Mortals ! ever blind to Fate, Too soon dejected, and too soon elate !

Sudden, these Honours shall be snatch’d away, And curs’d for ever this Victorious Day.







For lo ! the Board with Cups and Spoons is crown’d, 

 e Berries crackle, and the Mill turns round ; On shining Altars of Japan they raise  e silver Lamp; the fi ery Spirits blaze :

From silver Spouts the grateful Liquors glide,

While China’s earth receives the smoking Tyde. 

At once they gratify their Scent and Taste,



And frequent Cups prolong the rich Repast.

Straight hover round the Fair her Airy Band ;

Some, as she sipp’d, the fuming Liquor fann’d,

Some o’er her Lap their careful Plumes display’d, Trembling, and conscious of the rich Brocade.

Coff ee (which makes the Politician wise,

And see through all things with his half-shut Eyes) Sent up in Vapours to the Baron’s Brain New Stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.


Ah cease, rash Youth ! desist ere ’tis too late, Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla’s Fate ! Chang’d to a Bird, and sent to fl it in Air, She dearly pays for Nisus’ injur’d Hair !


But when to Mischief Mortals bend their Will, How soon they fi nd fi t Instruments of Ill !







Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting Grace


A two-edg’d Weapon from her shining Case ;

So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,
Present the Spear, and arm him for the Fight.

He takes the Gift with rev’rence, and extends

 e little Engine on his Fingers’ Ends ;

 is just behind Belinda’s Neck he spread

As o’er the fragrant Steams she bends her Head :

Swift to the Lock a thousand Sprights repair,





 

A thousand Wings, by turns, blow back the Hair ; And thrice they twitch’d the Diamond in her Ear,  rice she look’d back, and thrice the Foe drew near. Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought


 e close Recesses of the Virgin’s thought ;

As on the Nosegay in her Breast reclin’d,

He watch’d th’ Ideas rising in her Mind, Sudden he view’d, in spite of all her Art, An Earthly Lover lurking at her Heart. Amaz’d, confus’d, he found his Power expir’d, Resign’d to Fate, and with a Sigh retir’d.

 e Peer now spreads the glittering Forfex wide, T’ inclose the Lock ; now joins it, to divide.

Ev’n then, before the fatal Engine clos’d,

A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos’d ;

Fate urged the Sheers, and cut the Sylph in twain,

(But Airy Substance soon unites again)  e meeting Points the sacred Hair dissever From the fair Head, for ever and for ever !

 en fl ash’d the living Lightnings from her Eyes, And Screams of Horror rend th’ aff righted Skies.

Not louder Shrieks to pitying Heav’n are cast,

When Husbands, or when Lapdogs breathe their last,









     

Or when rich China Vessels fal’n from high,

In glitt’ring Dust and painted Fragments lie ! 

Let Wreaths of Triumph now my Temples twine, ( e Victor cry’d) the glorious Prize is mine !




While Fish in Streams, or Birds delight in Air,

Or in a Coach and Six the British Fair,

As long as Atalantis shall be read, 

Or the small Pillow grace a Lady’s Bed,

While Visits shall be paid on solemn Days,

When num’rous Wax-lights in bright Order blaze,


While Nymphs take Treats, or Assignations give,

So long my Honour, Name, and Praise shall live ! 

What Time would spare, from Steel receives its date, And Monuments, like Men, submit to Fate !

Steel cou’d the Labour of the Gods destroy,

And strike to Dust th’ Imperial Tow’rs of Troy ; Steel cou’d the Works of mortal Pride confound,  And hew Triumphal Arches to the Ground. What Wonder then, fair Nymph ! thy Hair shou’d feel  e conqu’ring Force of unresisted Steel ?




CANTO IV

B

UT anxious Cares the pensive Nymph oppress’d, And secret Passions labour’d in her Breast.

Not youthful Kings in Battle seiz’d alive,

Not scornful Virgins who their Charms survive,
Not ardent Lovers robb’d of all their Bliss,

Not ancient Ladies when refus’d a Kiss,

Not Tyrants fi erce that unrepenting die,


Not Cynthia when her Manteau’s pinn’d awry, E’er felt such Rage, Resentment, and Despair, As  ou, sad Virgin ! for thy ravish’d Hair.

For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew,



And Ariel weeping from Belinda fl ew,

Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy Sprite,

As ever sully’d the fair Face of Light,
Down to the Central Earth, his proper Scene, Repair’d to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen. 

Swift on his sooty Pinions fl its the Gnome,

     

And in a Vapour reach’d the dismal Dome.


No cheerful Breeze this sullen Region knows,

 e dreaded East is all the Wind that blows.

Here in a Grotto, shelter’d close from Air,

And screen’d in Shades from Day’s detested Glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive Bed, Pain at her Side, and Megrim at her Head.

Two Handmaids wait the  rone : Alike in Place, But diff ’ring far in Figure and in Face.





Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient Maid,



Her wrinkled form in Black and W hite array’d ;

With store of Pray’rs, for Mornings, Nights, and Noons,
Her Hand is fi ll’d ; her Bosom with Lampoons.

 ere Aff ectation, with a sickly Mien,

Shows in her Cheek the Roses of Eighteen,

Practis’d to Lisp, and hang the Head aside,

Faints into Airs, and languishes with Pride ; On the rich Quilt sinks with becoming Woe, Wrapt in a Gown, for Sickness, and for Show.


 e Fair ones feel such Maladies as these,

When each new Night-Dress gives a new Disease.

A constant Vapour o’er the Palace fl ies ;

Strange Phantoms rising as the Mists arise ;









Dreadful, as Hermits’ Dreams in haunted Shades, Or bright, as Visions of expiring Maids.

Now glaring Fiends, and Snakes on rolling Spires, Pale Spectres, gaping Tombs, and Purple Fires :

Now Lakes of liquid Gold, Elysian Scenes, And Crystal Domes, and Angels in Machines.

Unnumber’d  rongs on ev’ry side are seen, Of Bodies chang’d to various forms by Spleen. Here living Teapots stand, one Arm held out, One bent ; the Handle this, and that the Spout :

A Pipkin there, like Homer’s Tripod walks ;

Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pye talks ; Men prove with Child, as pow’rful Fancy works, And Maids turn’d Bottels, call aloud for Corks.

Safe past the Gnome thro’ this fantastic Band, A Branch of healing Spleenwort in his Hand.

 en thus addrest the Pow’r—Hail wayward Queen ;

Who rule the Sex to Fifty from Fifteen,







Parent of Vapours and of Female W it,

Who give th’ Hysteric or Poetic Fit, 





On various Tempers act by various ways,

Make some take Physic, others scribble Plays ; Who cause the Proud their Visits to delay, And send the Godly in a Pett, to pray.



A Nymph there is, that all thy Pow’r disdains, And thousands more in equal Mirth maintains.

But oh ! if e’er thy Gnome could spoil a Grace,

Or raise a Pimple on a beauteous Face,

Like Citron-Waters Matrons’ Cheeks infl ame,


Or change Complexions at a losing Game ;

If e’er with airy Horns I planted Heads,

Or rumpled Petticoats, or tumbled Beds,

Or caus’d Suspicion when no Soul was rude,

Or discompos’d the Head-Dress of a Prude,

Or e’er to costive Lap-Dog gave Disease,

Which not the Tears of brightest Eyes could ease :







Hear me, and touch Belinda with Chagrin ;


 at single Act gives half the World the Spleen.

 e Goddess with a discontented Air
Seems to reject him, tho’ she grants his Pray’r.

A wond’rous Bag with both her Hands she binds,

Like that where once Ulysses held the Winds ;

 ere she collects the Force of Female ungs,

Sighs, Sobs, and Passions, and the War of Tongues.


A Vial next she fi lls with fainting Fears,

Soft Sorrows, melting Griefs, and fl owing Tears.

 e Gnome rejoicing bears her Gift away,

Spreads his black Wings, and slowly mounts to Day.







Sunk in  alestris’ Arms the Nymph he found,
Her Eyes dejected and her Hair unbound. Full o’er their Heads the swelling Bag he rent, And all the Furies issu’d at the Vent. Belinda burns with more than mortal Ire, And fi erce  alestris fans the rising Fire.

O wretched Maid ! she spread her Hands, and cry’d,

(W hile Hampton’s Ecchoes, wretched Maid ! reply’d)

Was it for this you took such constant Care  e Bodkin, Comb, and Essence to prepare ;


For this your Locks in Paper-Durance bound, For this with tort’ring Irons wreath’d around ! For this with Fillets strain’d your tender Head, And bravely bore the double Loads of Lead ? Gods ! shall the Ravisher display your Hair, While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare ! Honour forbid ! at whose unrivall’d Shrine Ease, Pleasure, Virtue, all our Sex resign.

Methinks already I your Tears survey,

Already hear the horrid  ings they say,

Already see you a degraded Toast,

And all your Honour in a Whisper lost !

How shall I, then, your hapless Fame defend ?

’T will then be Infamy to seem your Friend !

And shall this Prize, th’ inestimable Prize,













Expos’d thro’ Crystal to the gazing Eyes,
And heighten’d by the Diamond’s circling Rays, On that Rapacious Hand for ever blaze ?

Sooner shall Grass in Hide-Park Circus grow,


And Wits take Lodgings in the sound of Bow ;

Sooner let Earth, Air, Sea, to Chaos fall,

Men, Monkeys, Lap-dogs, Parrots, perish all !

She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her Beau demand the precious Hairs :

(Sir Plume of Amber Snuff -box justly vain,

And the nice Conduct of a Clouded Cane)


With earnest Eyes and round unthinking Face,







He fi rst the Snuff -box open’d, then the Case, And thus broke out—“My Lord, why, what the devil !

“Z——ds ! damn the lock ! ’fore Gad, you must be civil !

“Plague on’t ! ’tis past a Jest—nay prithee, Pox !

“Give her the hair”—he spoke, and rapp’d his Box.

It grieves me much (reply’d the Peer again) Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.

But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear,

(W hich never more shall join its parted Hair ;

Which never more its Honours shall renew,

Clipp’d from the lovely Head where late it grew)







 at while my Nostrils draw the vital Air,  is Hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.

He spoke, and speaking, in proud Triumph spread

 e long-contended Honours of her Head.

But Umbriel, hateful Gnome ! forbears not so ; He breaks the Vial whence the Sorrows fl ow.

 en see ! the Nymph in beauteous Grief appears,

Her Eyes half-languishing, half-drown’d in Tears ; On her heav’d Bosom hung her drooping Head,

Which, with a Sigh, she rais’d ; and thus she said.

For ever curs’d be this detested Day,

Which snatch’d my best, my fav’rite Curl away ! Happy ! ah ten times happy had I been,





If Hampton-Court these Eyes had never seen ! 

Yet am not I the fi rst mistaken Maid, By love of Courts to num’rous Ills betray’d. Oh had I rather unadmir’d remain’d

In some lone Isle, or distant Northern land ;

Where the gilt Chariot never mark’d the way,  Where none learn Ombre, none e’er taste Bohea !  ere kept my Charms conceal’d from mortal Eye, Like Roses, that in Desarts bloom and die.

What mov’d my Mind with youthful Lords to rome ?



Oh had I stay’d, and said my Pray’rs at home !

’T was this, the Morning Omens did foretel ;

 rice from my trembling Hand the Patch-box fell ;  e tott’ring China shook without a W ind.



Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most Unkind !

A Sylph too warn’d me of the  reats of Fate, 

In mystic Visions, now believ’d too late !

See the poor Remnants of these slighted Hairs !

My Hands shall rend what ev’n thy Rapine spares.  ese, in two sable Ringlets taught to break,

Once gave new Beauties to the snowy Neck.

 e Sister-Lock now sits uncouth, alone,

And in its Fellow’s Fate foresees its own ;

Uncurl’d it hangs, the fatal Sheers demands ; And tempts once more thy sacrilegious Hands. Oh hadst thou, Cruel ! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any Hairs but these !





CANTO V

S

he said :  e pitying Audience melt in Tears, But Fate and Jove had stopp’d the Baron’s Ears. In vain  alestris with Reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails ?

Not half so fi x’d the Trojan could remain,  While Anna begg’d and Dido rag’d in vain.  en grave Clarissa graceful wav’d her Fan ; Silence ensu’d, and thus the Nymph began.

Say, why are Beauties prais’d and honour’d most,

 e W ise Man’s Passion, and the Vain Man’s Toast ?  Why deck’d with all that Land and Sea aff ord, Why Angels call’d, and Angel-like ador’d ? Why round our Coaches crowd the white-gloved Beaux, Why bows the Side-box from its inmost Rows ? How vain are all these Glories, all our Pains,  Unless good Sense preserve what Beauty gains :

 at Men may say, when we the Front-box grace,



Behold the fi rst in Virtue as in Face !

Oh ! if to dance all Night, and dress all Day,

Charm’d the Small-pox, or chas’d old Age away ;  Who would not scorn what Housewife’s Cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly  ing of Use ? To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint, Nor could it sure be such a Sin to paint.

But since, alas ! frail Beauty must decay, 

Curl’d or uncurl’d, since Locks will turn to grey ;

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,

And she who scorns a Man, must die a Maid ;

What then remains but well our Pow’r to use,

And keep good Humour still whate’er we lose ? 

And trust me, dear ! good Humour can prevail,

When Airs, and Flights, and Screams, and Scolding fail.

Beauties in vain their pretty Eyes may roll ;

Charms strike the Sight, but Merit wins the Soul.”

So spoke the Dame, but no Applause ensu’d ; 

Belinda frown’d,  alestris call’d her Prude. To Arms, to Arms ! the fi erce Virago cries, And swift as Lightning to the Combate fl ies.

All side in Parties, and begin th’ Attack ;

Fans clap, Silks rustle, and tough Whalebones crack ; 

Heroes and Heroines Shouts confus’dly rise,

 

And bass, and treble Voices strike the Skies.

No common Weapons in their Hands are found, Like Gods they fi ght, nor dread a mortal Wound.


So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage,

And heav’nly Breasts with human Passions rage ; ’Gainst Pallas, Mars ; Latona, Hermes, Arms ; And all Olympus rings with loud Alarms.





Jove’s  under roars, Heav’n trembles all around ;

Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing Deeps resound ; 

Earth shakes her nodding Tow’rs, the Ground gives way,

And the pale Ghosts start at the Flash of Day !

Triumphant Umbriel on a Sconce’s Height

Clapp’d his glad W ings, and sate to view the Fight,

Propp’d on the Bodkin Spears the Sprites survey  e growing Combat, or assist the Fray.

While thro’ the Press enrag’d  alestris fl ies,

And scatters Death around from both her Eyes,



A Beau and Witling perish’d in the  rong,



One dy’d in Metaphor, and one in Song. 

O cruel Nymph ! a living death I bear,



Cry’d Dapperwit, and sunk beside his Chair. A mournful Glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,  ose eyes are made so killing—was his last :


 us on Meander’s fl ow’ry Margin lies  ’ expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,

Chloe stepp’d in, and kill’d him with a Frown ; She smil’d to see the doughty Hero slain, But, at her Smile, the Beau reviv’d again.

Now Jove suspends his golden Scales in Air,

Weighs the Men’s Wits against the Lady’s Hair ;  e doubtful Beam long nods from side to side ; At length the Wits mount up, the Hairs subside.


See, fi erce Belinda on the Baron fl ies,

With more than usual Lightning in her Eyes : Nor fear’d the Chief th’ unequal Fight to try, Who sought no more than on his Foe to die. But this bold Lord with manly Strength endu’d, She with one Finger and a  umb subdu’d :

Just where the Breath of Life his Nostrils drew,









  

A charge of Snuff the wily Virgin threw ;

 e Gnomes direct, to ev’ry Atome just,

 e pungent Grains of titillating Dust.
Sudden, with starting Tears each Eye o’erfl ows, And the high Dome re-ecchoes to his Nose.

Now meet thy Fate, incens’d Belinda cry’d, And drew a deadly Bodkin from her Side.

( e same, his ancient Personage to deck,

Her great great Grandsire wore about his Neck, In three Seal-Rings ; which after melted down, Form’d a vast Buckle for his W idow’s Gown :





Her infant Grandame’s Whistle next it grew,



 e Bells she jingled, and the Whistle blew ;

 en in a Bodkin grac’d her Mother’s hairs,

Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)

Boast not my Fall (he cry’d) insulting Foe !  ou by some other shalt be laid as low,

Nor think, to die dejects my lofty Mind. All that I dread, is leaving you behind !

Rather than so, ah let me still survive,

And burn in Cupid’s Flames—but burn alive.





     

Restore the Lock ! she cries; and all around Restore the Lock ! the Vaulted Roofs rebound.

Not fi erce Othello in so loud a Strain

Roar’d for the Handkerchief that caus’d his Pain. But see how oft Ambitious Aims are cross’d,

And Chiefs contend ’till all the Prize is lost !  e Lock, obtain’d with Guilt, and kept with Pain, In ev’ry place is sought, but sought in vain :

With such a Prize no Mortal must be blest,

So Heav’n decrees ! with Heav’n who can contest ?

Some thought it mounted to the Lunar Sphere, Since all things lost on Earth are treasur’d there.  ere Heroe’s Wits are kept in pond’rous Vases, And Beau’s in Snuff -boxes and Tweezer-cases.

 ere broken Vows and Death-bed Alms are found,

And Lovers’ Hearts with Ends of Riband bound ;

 e Courtier’s Promises, and Sick Man’s Pray’rs,

 e Smiles of Harlots, and the Tears of Heirs, Cages for Gnats, and Chains to Yoak a Flea ; Dried Butterfl ies, and Tomes of Casuistry.









But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise,  o’ mark’d by none but quick Poetic eyes :

  

(So Rome’s great Founder to the Heav’ns withdrew, 

To Proculus alone confess’d in view.)

A sudden Star, it shot through liquid Air, And drew behind a radiant Trail of Hair.

Not Berenice’s Locks fi rst rose so bright,

 e Skies bespangling with dishevel’d Light.

 e Sylphs behold it kindling as it fl ies,

And pleas’d pursue its progress through the Skies.



 is the Beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with Musick its propitious Ray.

 is the blest Lover shall for Venus take,  And send up Vows from Rosamonda’s Lake.

 is Partridge soon shall view in cloudless Skies,

When next he looks through Galilæo’s Eyes ;

And hence th’ Egregious W izard shall foredoom
 e fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 

 en cease, bright Nymph ! to mourn thy ravish’d Hair, Which adds new Glory to the shining Sphere ! Not all the Tresses that fair Head can boast Shall draw such Envy as the Lock you lost.

For, after all the Murders of your Eye, 

When, after Millions slain, yourself shall die ;

     

When those fair Suns shall set, as set they must,

And all those Tresses shall be laid in dust ;

 is Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,

And ’midst the stars inscribe

Belinda’s

Name !




Notes

NOTES, INCLUDING THOSE BY THE

AUTHOR

Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos ; Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.—Mart.

I

T appears by this motto that the following poem was written or published at the lady’s request. But there are some further circumstances not unworthy relating. Mr. Caryl (a gentleman who was secretary to Queen Mary, wife of James II., whose fortunes he followed into France, author of the comedy of Sir Solomon Single, and of several translations in Dryden’s miscellanies), originally proposed the subject to him, in a view of putting to an end, by this piece of ridicule, to a quarrel that was risen between two noble families, those of Lord Petre and of Mrs. Fermor, on the trifl ing occasion of his having cut a lock of her hair.  e author sent it to the lady, with whom he was acquainted ; and she took it so well as to give about copies of it.  at fi rst sketch (we learn from one of his letters) was written in less than a fortnight, in , in two Cantos only, and it was so printed ; fi rst, in a miscellany of Bernard Lintott’s, without the name of the author. But it was received so well, that he made it more considerable the next year by the addition of the machinery of the Sylphs, and extended it to fi ve Cantos. We shall give the reader the pleasure of seeing in what manner these additions were inserted, so as to seem not to be added, but to grow out of the poem.



CANTO I

V. . Caryl] In the fi rst edition, C——1.

V. -. It was in the fi rst Editions, And dwells such Rage in softest Bosoms then,

And lodge such daring Souls in Little Men ?—P.

V. , etc. stood thus in the fi rst Edition,

Sol through white Curtains did his Beams display,

And op’d those Eyes which brighter shine than they ;

Shock just had giv’n himself the rowzing Shake,

And Nymphs prepared their Chocolate to take ;  rice the wrought Slipper knock’d against the Ground, And striking Watches the tenth Hour resound.—P.

Ver. . Belinda still, etc.] All the Verses from hence to the End of the Canto were added afterwards.—P.


Ver. -. “Quae gratia currum Armorumque fuit vivus, quae cura nitentes

Pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos.” Virg. Æn. vi.—P.

Ver. . In the clear Mirror]  e Language of the Platonists, the Writers of the intelligible World of Spirits, etc.—P.


Ver. . And now unveil’d, etc.]  e Translation of these Verses, containing the Description of the Toilet, by our Author’s Friend, Dr. Parnell, deserve, for their Humour, to be here inserted.

—P.

“Et nunc dilectum speculum, pro more retectum, Emicat in mensa, quae splendet pyxidae densa :

Turn primum lympha se purgat Candida Nympha,

Jamque sine menda, ccelestis imago videnda,

Nuda caput, bellos retinet, regit, implet ocellos.

Hac stupet explorans, ceu cultus numen adorans.

Inferior claram Pythonissa apparet ad aram,

Fertque tibi caute, dicatque superbia ! laute



Dona venusta ; oris, quae cunctis, plena laboris,

Excerpta explorat, dominamque deamque decorat. Pyxide devota, se. pandit hie India tota, Et tota ex istS. transpirat Arabia cista.

Testudo hie fl ectit, dum se mea Lesbia pectit; Atque elephas lente te pectit, Lesbia, dente ; Hunc maculis ndris, nivei jacet ille coloris.

Hie jacet et munde mundus muliebris abunde ; Spinula resplendens aeris longo ordine pendens, Pulvis suavis odore, et epistola suavis amore. Induit arma ergo Veneris pulcherrima virgo,

Pulchrior in praesens tempus de tempore crescens :

Jam reparat risus, jam surgit gratia visus,

Jam promit cultu miracula latentia vultu ; Pigmina jam miscet, quo plus sua purpura gliscet, Et geminans bellis splendet mage fulgor ocellis.

Stant Lemures muti, nymphae itentique saluti,

Hie fi git zonam, capiti locat ille coronam,

Haec manicis formam, plicis dat et altera normam ; Et tibi vel Betty, tibi vel nitidissima Letty !

Gloria factorum temere conceditur horum.”

V. .  e busy Sylphs, etc.] Ancient Traditions of the Rabbi’s relate, that several of the fallen Angels became amorous of Women, and particularize some: among the rest Asael, who lay with Naamah, the wife of Noah, or of Ham ; and who, continuing impenitent, still presides over the women’s Toilets.—Bereshi Rabbi in Genes. vi. .—P.

CANTO II

V. . Launch’d on the Bosom, etc.] From hence the Poem continues, in the fi rst Edition, to ver. ,

 e rest, the Winds dispers’d in empty Air ; all after, to the End of the Canto, being additional.—P,



V. . With a single hair] In allusion to those lines of




Hudibras, applied to the same purpose, “And tho’ it be a two foot Trout,

‘Tis with a single hair pull’d out.”—W. V. . In the Second Edition, here followed :  ere lay the Sword-knot Sylvia’s hands had sown, With Flavia’s Busk that oft had rapp’d his own : A Fan, a Garter, half a Pair of Gloves, etc.



V. .  e Pow’rs gave Ear] Virg. Æn. xi.—P.

V. . And guard with Arms]  e poet was too judicious to desire this should be understood as a compliment. He intended it for a mere piece of raillery; such as he more openly pursues on another occasion ; when he says,


“Where’s now the Star which lighted Charles to rise ? With that which followed Julius to the skies.

Angels, that watch’d the Royal Oak so well,

How chanc’d you slept when luckless Sorrel fell ? “—W.


V. . Whether the nymph, etc.]  e disaster, which makes the subject of this poem, being a trifl e, taken seriously; it naturally led the Poet into this fi ne satire on the female estimate of human mischances.

CANTO III

V. . Close by those Meads]  e First Edition continues from this Line to Ver.  of this Canto.—P.

V. , . Originally in the First Edition, In various Talk the cheerful Hours they past, Of, who was bit, or who capotted last.—P.

V. . And the long Labours of the Toilet cease] All that follows of the Game at Ombre, was added since the First Edition, till Ver. , which connected thus,


Sudden the Board with Cups and Spoons is crown’d.—P.



V. . Sudden the Board] From hence, the First Edition continues to Ver. 134.—P.

V. . And think of Scylla’s Fate ! ] Vide Ovid, Metam. viii.—P.

V. . In the First Edition it was thus,

As o’er the fragrant Stream she bends her Head.—P.

V. . First he expands the glitt’ring Forfex wide, T’ inclose the Lock ; then joins it to divide :  e meeting Points the sacred Hair dissever From the fair Head, for ever, and for ever ! All that is between was added afterwards.—P.

V. -. In the earlier Editions,


Not louder Shrieks by Dames to Heav’n are cast

When Husbands, or when Monkeys, breath their last.

V. , .


“Dum juga mentis aper, fl uvios dum piscis amabit,

Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.” Virg.—P.

V. . Atalantis] A famous book written about that time by a woman: full of Court and Party scandal ; and in a loose eff eminacy of style and sentiment, which well suited the debauched taste of the better vulgar.—W.




Mrs. Manley, the author of it, was the daughter of Sir Roger Manley, Governor of Guernsey, and the author of the fi rst volume of the famous Turkish Spy, published, from his papers, by Dr. Midgley. She was known and admired by all the wits of the times. She died in the house of Alderman Barber, Swift’s friend ; and was said to have been the mistress of the alderman.

V. . “Ille quoque eversus mons est, etc.

Quid faciant crines, cum ferro talia cedant ? ”

Catull, de com, Berenices.



CANTO IV

V. . “At regina gravi,” etc. Virg. Aen. iv.

V. . For that sad Moment] All the lines from hence to the th Verse, that describe the House of Spleen, are not in the First Edition ; instead, followed only these, W hile her rack’d Soul Repose and Peace requires,  e fi erce  alestris fans the rising Fires.


And continued at the th Verse of this Canto.—P.

V. . Homer’s Tripod walks] See Horn. Iliad, xviii., of Vulcan’s walking Tripods.—P.

V. . And there a Goose-pye talks] Alludes to a real Fact, a Lady of Distinction imagined herself in this Condition.—P.

V. . Sir Plume repairs] Sir George Brown. He was the only one of the Party who took the thing seriously. He was angry that the Poet should make him talk nothing but nonsense ; and in truth one could not well blame him.—W.


V. . But by this Lock] In allusion to Achilles’ Oath in Homer, II. i.—P.


V. . But Umbriel, hateful Gnome ! forbears not so ; He breaks the Vial whence the Sorrows fl ow.

 ese two Lines are additional; and assign the Cause of the diff erent Operation on the Passions of the two Ladies.  e Poem went on before without that Distinction, as without any Machinery, to the end of the Canto.—P.

CANTO V

V. .  en grave Clarissa] A new Character introduced into the subsequent Editions, to open more clearly the Moral of the Poem, in a Parody of the Speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in Homer.—P.



V. -.  ese lines fi rst occur in the th ed. of .

V. . So spoke the Dame] It is a Verse frequently repeated in Homer after any Speech.

“So spoke——and all the heroes applauded.”—P.

V. . To Arms, to Arms ! ] From hence the First Edition goes on to the Conclusion, except a very few short Insertions added, to keep the Machinery in View to the End of the Poem.—P.

V. . So when bold Homer] Homer, II. xx.—P.


V. . Triumphant Umbriel]  ese four Lines are added for the Reason before mentioned.

Minerva in like manner, during the Battle of Ulysses with the Suitors in the Odyss., perches on a Beam of the Roof to behold it.—P.

V. .  ose Eyes are made so killing]  e words of a Song in the Opera of Camilla.—P.




V. .  us on Meander’s fl ow’ry Margin lies]

“Sic ubi fata vocant, udis abjectus in herbis,

Ad vada Maeandri concinit albus olor.” Ovid. Ep.—P.

V. . Now Jove] Vide Homer, II. viii., and Virg. Aen. xii.—P.

V. .  e Gnomes direct]  ese two Lines added for the same Reason.—P.



V. .  e same, his ancient Personage to deck] In Imitation of the Progress of Agamemnon’s Sceptre in Homer, II. ii.—P.

V. . Since all things lost] Vide Ariosto, Canto xxxiv.—P.


V. . “Flammiferumque trahens spatioso limite crinem Stella micat.” Ovid.—P.


V. .  e Sylphs behold]  ese two Lines added for the same Reason, to keep in View the Machinery of the Poem.—P.


V. .  is Partridge] John Partridge was a ridiculous Star-gazer, who, in his Almanac, never failed to predict the Downfall of the Pope, and the King of France, then at War with the English.—P.

HENRY 4 PART 1

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Contents

From the Director of the Folger Shakespeare

Library

Front

Textual Introduction

Matter Synopsis

Characters in the Play

Scene 1

ACT 1 Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 1

Scene 2

ACT 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 1

ACT 3 Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 1

Scene 2

ACT 4

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 1

Scene 2

ACT 5 SceneScene 4 3

Scene 5

From the Director of the Folger Shakespeare Library

It is hard to imagine a world without Shakespeare. Since their composition four hundred years ago, Shakespeare’s plays and poems have traveled the globe, inviting those who see and read his works to make them their own.

Readers of the New Folger Editions are part of this ongoing process of “taking up Shakespeare,” finding our own thoughts and feelings in language that strikes us as old or unusual and, for that very reason, new. We still struggle to keep up with a writer who could think a mile a minute, whose words paint pictures that shift like clouds. These expertly edited texts are presented to the public as a resource for study, artistic adaptation, and enjoyment. By making the classic texts of the New Folger Editions available in electronic form as The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), we place a trusted resource in the hands of anyone who wants them.

The New Folger Editions of Shakespeare’s plays, which are the basis for the texts realized here in digital form, are special because of their origin. The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, is the single greatest documentary source of Shakespeare’s works. An unparalleled collection of early modern books, manuscripts, and artwork connected to Shakespeare, the Folger’s holdings have been consulted extensively in the preparation of these texts. The Editions also reflect the expertise gained through the regular performance of Shakespeare’s works in the Folger’s Elizabethan Theatre.

I want to express my deep thanks to editors Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine for creating these indispensable editions of Shakespeare’s works, which incorporate the best of textual scholarship with a richness of commentary that is both inspired and engaging. Readers who want to know more about Shakespeare and his plays can follow the paths these distinguished scholars have tread by visiting the Folger either in-person or online, where a range of physical and digital resources exists to supplement the material in these texts. I commend to you these words, and hope that they inspire.

Michael Witmore Director, Folger Shakespeare Library

Textual Introduction By Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine

Until now, with the release of The Folger Shakespeare (formerly

Folger Digital Texts), readers in search of a free online text of

Shakespeare’s plays had to be content primarily with using the Moby™ Text, which reproduces a late-nineteenth century version of the plays. What is the difference? Many ordinary readers assume that there is a single text for the plays: what Shakespeare wrote. But Shakespeare’s plays were not published the way modern novels or plays are published today: as a single, authoritative text. In some cases, the plays have come down to us in multiple published versions, represented by various Quartos (Qq) and by the great collection put together by his colleagues in 1623, called the First

Folio (F). There are, for example, three very different versions of Hamlet, two of King Lear, Henry V, Romeo and Juliet, and others. Editors choose which version to use as their base text, and then amend that text with words, lines or speech prefixes from the other versions that, in their judgment, make for a better or more accurate text.

Other editorial decisions involve choices about whether an unfamiliar word could be understood in light of other writings of the period or whether it should be changed; decisions about words that made it into Shakespeare’s text by accident through four hundred years of printings and misprinting; and even decisions based on cultural preference and taste. When the Moby™ Text was created, for example, it was deemed “improper” and “indecent” for Miranda to chastise Caliban for having attempted to rape her. (See The Tempest, 1.2: “Abhorred slave,/Which any print of goodness wilt not take,/Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee…”). All Shakespeare editors at the time took the speech away from her and gave it to her father, Prospero.

The editors of the Moby™ Shakespeare produced their text long before scholars fully understood the proper grounds on which to make the thousands of decisions that Shakespeare editors face. The Folger Library Shakespeare Editions, on which the Folger Shakespeare texts depend, make this editorial process as nearly transparent as is possible, in contrast to older texts, like the Moby™, which hide editorial interventions. The reader of the Folger Shakespeare knows where the text has been altered because editorial interventions are signaled by square brackets (for example, from Othello: “

If she in chains of magic were not bound, ”), half-square brackets (for example, from Henry V: “With

blood and sword and fire to win your right,”), or angle brackets (for example, from


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:

“O farewell, honest

soldier.

Who hath relieved/you?”). At

any point in the text, you can hover your cursor over a bracket for

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Because the Folger Shakespeare texts are edited in accord with

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and enjoyment of Shakespeare.


Henry IV, Part 1

, culminates in the battle of Shrewsbury between the

king’s army and rebels seeking his crown. The dispute begins when

Hotspur, the son of Northumberland, breaks with the king over the

fate of his brother-in-law, Mortimer, a Welsh prisoner. Hotspur,

Northumberland, and Hotspur’s uncle Worcester plan to take the

throne, later allying with Mortimer and a Welsh leader, Glendower.

As that conflict develops, Prince Hal—Henry IV’s son and heir—

carouses in a tavern and plots to trick the roguish Sir John Falstaff

and his henchmen, who are planning a highway robbery. Hal and a

companion will rob them of their loot—then wait for Falstaff’s lying

boasts. The trick succeeds, but Prince Hal is summoned to war.

In the war, Hal saves his father’s life and then kills Hotspur, actions

that help to redeem his bad reputation. Falstaff, meanwhile, cheats

his soldiers, whom he leads to slaughter, and takes credit for

Hotspur’s death.

Synopsis

KING HENRY IV

, formerly Henry Bolingbroke

PRINCE HAL

, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne (also

called Harry and Harry Monmouth)

LORD JOHN OF LANCASTER

, younger son of King Henry

EARL OF WESTMORELAND

SIR WALTER BLUNT

HOTSPUR

(Sir Henry, or Harry, Percy)

LADY PERCY

(also called Kate)

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND

, Henry Percy, Hotspur’s father

EARL OF WORCESTER

, Thomas Percy, Hotspur’s uncle

EDMUND MORTIMER

, earl of March

LADY MORTIMER

(also called “the Welsh lady”)

OWEN GLENDOWER

, a Welsh lord, father of Lady Mortimer

DOUGLAS

(Archibald, earl of Douglas)

ARCHBISHOP

(Richard Scroop, archbishop of York)

SIR MICHAEL

, a priest or knight associated with the archbishop

SIR RICHARD VERNON

, an English knight

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF

POINS

(also called Edward, Yedward, and Ned)

BARDOLPH

PETO

GADSHILL

, setter for the robbers

HOSTESS

of the tavern (also called Mistress Quickly)

VINTNER

, or keeper of the tavern

FRANCIS

, an apprentice tapster

Carriers, Ostlers, Chamberlain, Travelers, Sheriff, Servants, Lords,

Attendants, Messengers, Soldiers

Characters in the Play

KING

Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster,

and

the

Earl

of Westmoreland, with others.

So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenced in strands afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood.

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor bruise her flow’rets with the armèd hoofs

Of hostile paces. Those opposèd eyes,

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way and be no more opposed

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies.

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathèd knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulcher of Christ—

Whose soldier now, under whose blessèd cross

We are impressèd and engaged to fight—

7

ACT

1



Scene

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Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

Whose arms were molded in their mothers’ womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields

Over whose acres walked those blessèd feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose now is twelve month old, And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go.

Therefor we meet not now. Then let me hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, What yesternight our council did decree In forwarding this dear expedience.

WESTMORELAND

My liege, this haste was hot in question,

And many limits of the charge set down

But yesternight, when all athwart there came

A post from Wales loaden with heavy news,

Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against the irregular and wild Glendower,

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

A thousand of his people butcherèd,

Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,

Such beastly shameless transformation By those Welshwomen done, as may not be Without much shame retold or spoken of.

KING

It seems then that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

WESTMORELAND

This matched with other did, my gracious lord.

For more uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the north, and thus it did import:

On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there,

Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,

That ever valiant and approvèd Scot,

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At Holmedon met, where they did spend

A sad and bloody hour—

As by discharge of their artillery

And shape of likelihood the news was told,

For he that brought them, in the very heat And pride of their contention did take horse, Uncertain of the issue any way.

KING

Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend,


Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,

Stained with the variation of each soil

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours,

And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;

Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,

Balked in their own blood, did Sir Walter see

On Holmedon’s plains. Of prisoners Hotspur took

Mordake, Earl of Fife and eldest son To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Atholl, Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

And is not this an honorable spoil?

A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?

WESTMORELAND

In faith, it is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

KING

Yea, there thou mak’st me sad, and mak’st me sin

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father to so blest a son,

A son who is the theme of Honor’s tongue,

Amongst a grove the very straightest plant,

Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride;

Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,

See riot and dishonor stain the brow

Of my young Harry. O, that it could be proved That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged

In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,

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13

And called mine “Percy,” his “Plantagenet”!

Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.

But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,

Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners

Which he in this adventure hath surprised To his own use he keeps, and sends me word I shall have none but Mordake, Earl of Fife.

WESTMORELAND

This is his uncle’s teaching. This is Worcester,

Malevolent to you in all aspects,

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

KING

But I have sent for him to answer this. And for this cause awhile we must neglect Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we Will hold at Windsor. So inform the lords.

But come yourself with speed to us again, For more is to be said and to be done Than out of anger can be utterèd.

WESTMORELAND I will, my liege.

They exit.


Scene 2

Enter Prince of Wales, and Sir John Falstaff.

FALSTAFF Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

PRINCE Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues

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15

of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

FALSTAFF Indeed, you come near me now, Hal, for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that wand’ring knight so fair. And I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as God save thy Grace—Majesty, I should say, for grace thou wilt have none—

PRINCE What, none?

FALSTAFF No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

PRINCE Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly.

FALSTAFF Marry then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty. Let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon, and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

PRINCE Thou sayest well, and it holds well too, for the fortune of us that are the moon’s men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As for proof now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning, got with swearing “Lay by” and spent with crying “Bring in”; now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

FALSTAFF By the Lord, thou sayst true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

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17

PRINCE As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

FALSTAFF How now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

PRINCE Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

FALSTAFF Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

PRINCE Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

FALSTAFF No, I’ll give thee thy due. Thou hast paid all there.

PRINCE Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch, and where it would not, I have used my credit.

FALSTAFF Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent—But I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? And resolution thus fubbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father Antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

PRINCE No, thou shalt.

FALSTAFF Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.

PRINCE Thou judgest false already. I mean thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

FALSTAFF Well, Hal, well, and in some sort it jumps with my humor as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.

PRINCE For obtaining of suits?

FALSTAFF Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear.

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19

PRINCE Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.

FALSTAFF Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

PRINCE What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moorditch?

FALSTAFF Thou hast the most unsavory

similes,

and art indeed the most comparative, rascaliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I marked him not, and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not, and yet he talked wisely, and in the street, too.

PRINCE Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the streets and no man regards it.

FALSTAFF O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal, God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over. By the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain. I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.

PRINCE Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?

FALSTAFF Zounds, where thou wilt, lad. I’ll make one.

An I do not, call me villain and baffle me.

PRINCE I see a good amendment of life in thee, from praying to purse-taking.

FALSTAFF Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal. ’Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.

Enter Poins.

Poins!—Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what

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21

hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried “Stand!” to a true man.

PRINCE Good morrow, Ned.

POINS Good morrow, sweet Hal.—What says Monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack-and-Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul that thou soldest him on Good Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon’s leg?

PRINCE Sir John stands to his word. The devil shall have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs. He will give the devil his due.

POINS,
to Falstaff

Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.

PRINCE Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.

POINS But, my lads, my lads, tomorrow morning, by four o’clock early at Gad’s Hill, there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I have vizards for you all. You have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies tonight in Rochester. I have bespoke supper tomorrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns. If you will not, tarry at home and be hanged.

FALSTAFF Hear you, Yedward, if I tarry at home and go not, I’ll hang you for going.

POINS You will, chops?

FALSTAFF Hal, wilt thou make one?

PRINCE Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith.

FALSTAFF There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou cam’st not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

PRINCE Well then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.

FALSTAFF Why, that’s well said.

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23

PRINCE Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.

FALSTAFF By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor then when thou art king.

PRINCE I care not.

POINS Sir John, I prithee leave the Prince and me alone. I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go.

FALSTAFF Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion, and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false thief, for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell. You shall find me in Eastcheap.

PRINCE Farewell, thou latter spring. Farewell, Allhallown summer.
Falstaff exits.


POINS Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us tomorrow. I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff,

Peto, Bardolph,

and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already

waylaid. Yourself and I will not be there. And when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.

PRINCE How shall we part with them in setting forth?

POINS Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves, which they shall have no sooner achieved but we’ll set upon them.

PRINCE Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment to be ourselves.

POINS Tut, our horses they shall not see; I’ll tie them in the wood. Our vizards we will change after we leave them. And, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.

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25

PRINCE Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.

POINS Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I’ll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty at least he fought with, what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lives the jest.

PRINCE Well, I’ll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap. There I’ll sup. Farewell.

POINS Farewell, my lord. Poins exits.

PRINCE

I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyoked humor of your idleness.

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world,

That, when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wondered at By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapors that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work,

But when they seldom come, they wished-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

So when this loose behavior I throw off

And pay the debt I never promisèd,

By how much better than my word I am,

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;

And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

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27

I’ll so offend to make offense a skill,

Redeeming time when men think least I will.

He exits.


Scene 3

Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, and Sir Walter Blunt, with others.


KING,
to Northumberland, Worcester, and Hotspur

My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me, for accordingly You tread upon my patience. But be sure

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty and to be feared, than my condition,

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,

And therefore lost that title of respect

Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.

WORCESTER

Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be used on it,

And that same greatness too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly.

NORTHUMBERLAND My lord—

KING

Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye.

O sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet endure The moody frontier of a servant brow.

You have good leave to leave us. When we need Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

Worcester exits. You were about to speak.

NORTHUMBERLAND Yea, my good lord.

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29

Those prisoners in your Highness’ name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he says, not with such strength denied As is delivered to your Majesty.

Either envy, therefore, or misprision Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.

HOTSPUR

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new reaped Showed like a stubble land at harvest home.

He was perfumèd like a milliner,

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose and took ’t away again, Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talked. And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me, amongst the rest demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,

To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answered neglectingly I know not what— He should, or he should not; for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman

Of guns, and drums, and wounds—God save the mark!—

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31

And telling me the sovereignest thing on Earth

Was parmacety for an inward bruise,

And that it was great pity, so it was,

This villainous saltpeter should be digged

Out of the bowels of the harmless Earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly, and but for these vile guns He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answered indirectly, as I said,

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.

BLUNT

The circumstance considered, good my lord,

Whate’er Lord Harry Percy then had said

To such a person and in such a place,

At such a time, with all the rest retold,

May reasonably die and never rise

To do him wrong or any way impeach What then he said, so he unsay it now.

KING

Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,

But with proviso and exception

That we at our own charge shall ransom straight

His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer,

Who, on my soul, hath willfully betrayed

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against that great magician, damned Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, that Earl of March Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we buy treason and indent with fears When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve,

For I shall never hold that man my friend

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33

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

HOTSPUR Revolted Mortimer!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war. To prove that true

Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,

Those mouthèd wounds, which valiantly he took

When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank

In single opposition hand to hand

He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment with great Glendower.

Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood,

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, Blood-stainèd with these valiant combatants. Never did bare and rotten policy

Color her working with such deadly wounds, Nor never could the noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly.

Then let not him be slandered with revolt.

KING

Thou dost belie him, Percy; thou dost belie him.

He never did encounter with Glendower.

I tell thee, he durst as well have met the devil alone As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you.—My lord Northumberland, We license your departure with your son.— Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.

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King exits
with Blunt and others.
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35

HOTSPUR

An if the devil come and roar for them,

I will not send them. I will after straight And tell him so, for I will ease my heart, Albeit I make a hazard of my head.

NORTHUMBERLAND

What, drunk with choler? Stay and pause awhile. Here comes your uncle.

Enter Worcester.

HOTSPUR Speak of Mortimer?

Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul Want mercy if I do not join with him.

Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins

And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,

But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer

As high in the air as this unthankful king, As this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke.

NORTHUMBERLAND

Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.

WORCESTER

Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

HOTSPUR

He will forsooth have all my prisoners,

And when I urged the ransom once again

Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek looked pale, And on my face he turned an eye of death, Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

WORCESTER

I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaimed By Richard, that dead is, the next of blood?

NORTHUMBERLAND

He was; I heard the proclamation.

And then it was when the unhappy king— Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

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37

From whence he, intercepted, did return To be deposed and shortly murderèd.

WORCESTER

And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth Live scandalized and foully spoken of.

HOTSPUR

But soft, I pray you. Did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer Heir to the crown?

NORTHUMBERLAND He did; myself did hear it.

HOTSPUR

Nay then, I cannot blame his cousin king

That wished him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you that set the crown

Upon the head of this forgetful man

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murderous subornation—shall it be

That you a world of curses undergo,

Being the agents or base second means,

The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?

O, pardon me that I descend so low

To show the line and the predicament Wherein you range under this subtle king.

Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,

Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

That men of your nobility and power

Did gage them both in an unjust behalf

(As both of you, God pardon it, have done) To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

And shall it in more shame be further spoken

That you are fooled, discarded, and shook off By him for whom these shames you underwent?

No, yet time serves wherein you may redeem

Your banished honors and restore yourselves

Into the good thoughts of the world again,

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39

FTLN 0518 Revenge the jeering and disdained contempt

FTLN 0519 Of this proud king, who studies day and night

FTLN 0520 To answer all the debt he owes to you

FTLN 0521 Even with the bloody payment of your deaths. 190

FTLN 0522 Therefore I say—

FTLN 0523 WORCESTER Peace, cousin, say no more.


FTLN 0524 And now I will unclasp a secret book,

FTLN 0525 And to your quick-conceiving discontents

FTLN 0526 I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous, 195

FTLN 0527 As full of peril and adventurous spirit FTLN 0528 As to o’erwalk a current roaring loud FTLN 0529 On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

HOTSPUR

FTLN 0530 If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim!

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FTLN 0532 So honor cross it from the north to south, FTLN 0533 And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs FTLN 0534 To rouse a lion than to start a hare! NORTHUMBERLAND,
to Worcester

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HOTSPUR

FTLN 0537 By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap

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FTLN 0542 So he that doth redeem her thence might wear FTLN 0543 Without corrival all her dignities.

FTLN 0544 But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

WORCESTER

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FTLN 0547 Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

HOTSPUR

FTLN 0548 I cry you mercy.

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41

WORCESTER Those same noble Scots

That are your prisoners—

HOTSPUR I’ll keep them all.

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them.

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not. I’ll keep them, by this hand!

WORCESTER You start away

And lend no ear unto my purposes:

Those prisoners you shall keep—

HOTSPUR Nay, I will. That’s flat!

He said he would not ransom Mortimer, Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer.

But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I’ll hollo “Mortimer.”

Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but “Mortimer,” and give it him To keep his anger still in motion.

WORCESTER Hear you, cousin, a word.

HOTSPUR

All studies here I solemnly defy,

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke.

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales—

But that I think his father loves him not

And would be glad he met with some mischance— I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale.

WORCESTER

Farewell, kinsman. I’ll talk to you

When you are better tempered to attend.

NORTHUMBERLAND,
to Hotspur

Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Art thou to break into this woman’s mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

HOTSPUR

Why, look you, I am

whipped

and scourged with rods,

Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear

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43

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard’s time—what do you call the place?

A plague upon it! It is in Gloucestershire.

’Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept, His uncle York, where I first bowed my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke.

’Sblood, when you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.

NORTHUMBERLAND At Berkeley Castle.

HOTSPUR You say true.

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me: “Look when his infant fortune came to age,”

And “gentle Harry Percy,” and “kind cousin.” O, the devil take such cozeners!—God forgive me! Good uncle, tell your tale. I have done.

WORCESTER

Nay, if you have not, to it again.

We will stay your leisure.

HOTSPUR I have done, i’ faith.

WORCESTER

Then once more to your Scottish prisoners:

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas’ son your only mean

For powers in Scotland, which, for divers reasons

Which I shall send you written, be assured

Will easily be granted.—You, my lord,

Your son in Scotland being thus employed,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate well beloved, The Archbishop.

HOTSPUR Of York, is it not?

WORCESTER True, who bears hard

His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation,

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45

As what I think might be, but what I know

Is ruminated, plotted, and set down,

And only stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

HOTSPUR

I smell it. Upon my life it will do well.

NORTHUMBERLAND

Before the game is afoot thou still let’st slip.

HOTSPUR

Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot. And then the power of Scotland and of York To join with Mortimer, ha?

WORCESTER And so they shall.

HOTSPUR

In faith, it is exceedingly well aimed.

WORCESTER

And ’tis no little reason bids us speed

To save our heads by raising of a head,

For bear ourselves as even as we can,

The King will always think him in our debt, And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay us home. And see already how he doth begin

To make us strangers to his looks of love.

HOTSPUR

He does, he does. We’ll be revenged on him.

WORCESTER

Cousin, farewell. No further go in this Than I by letters shall direct your course.

When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,

I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer,

Where you and Douglas and our powers at once,

As I will fashion it, shall happily meet

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

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47

NORTHUMBERLAND

HOTSPUR

They exit.

Farewell, good brother. We shall thrive, I trust.

Uncle, adieu. O, let the hours be short

Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport.

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FIRST CARRIER

OSTLER

FIRST CARRIER

SECOND CARRIER

FIRST CARRIER

SECOND CARRIER

FIRST CARRIER

SECOND CARRIER

Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand.

Heigh-ho! An it be not four by the day,

I’ll be hanged. Charles’s Wain is over the new

chimney, and yet our horse not packed.—What,

ostler!

,

within

Anon, anon.

I prithee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle. Put a

few flocks in the point. Poor jade is wrung in the

withers out of all cess.

Enter another Carrier,

with

a lantern.

Peas and beans are as dank here as a

dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the

bots. This house is turned upside down since Robin

ostler died.

Poor fellow never joyed since the price

of oats rose. It was the death of him.

I think this be the most villainous

house in all London road for fleas. I am stung like a

tench.

Like a tench? By the Mass, there is

ne’er a king christen could be better bit than I have

been since the first cock.

Why, they will allow us ne’er a jordan,

51

ACT

2



Scene

1



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ACT 2. SC. 1

and then we leak in your chimney, and your chamber-lye breeds fleas like a loach.

53

FIRST CARRIER

FIRST CARRIER

GADSHILL

GADSHILL

FIRST CARRIER

GADSHILL

GADSHILL

GADSHILL

first.

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What, ostler, come away and be

hanged. Come away. 25

SECOND CARRIER I have a gammon of bacon and two races of ginger to be delivered as far as Charing Cross.

God’s body, the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.—What, ostler! A plague on thee! 30 Hast thou never an eye in thy head? Canst not hear? An ’twere not as good deed as drink to break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged. Hast no faith in thee?

Enter Gadshill.

Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock? 35

FIRST CARRIER I think it be two o’clock.

I prithee, lend me thy lantern to see my gelding in the stable.

Nay, by God, soft. I know a trick worth

two of that, i’ faith. 40

, to Second Carrier

I pray thee, lend me thine.

SECOND CARRIER Ay, when, canst tell? “Lend me thy lantern,” quoth he. Marry, I’ll see thee hanged

45 Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

SECOND CARRIER Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbor Mugs, we’ll call up the gentlemen. They will along with 50 company, for they have great charge.

Carriers
exit. What ho, chamberlain!

Enter Chamberlain.

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55 ACT 2. SC. 1

CHAMBERLAIN At hand, quoth pickpurse.

GADSHILL That’s even as fair as “at hand, quoth the Chamberlain,” for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from laboring: thou layest the plot how.

CHAMBERLAIN Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight: there’s a franklin in the Wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold. I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper—a kind of auditor, one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already and call for eggs and butter. They will away presently.

GADSHILL Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’ clerks, I’ll give thee this neck.

CHAMBERLAIN No, I’ll none of it. I pray thee, keep that for the hangman, for I know thou worshipest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may.

GADSHILL What talkest thou to me of the hangman? If I hang, I’ll make a fat pair of gallows, for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he is no starveling. Tut, there are other Troyans that thou dream’st not of, the which for sport sake are content to do the profession some grace, that would, if matters should be looked into, for their own credit sake make all whole. I am joined with no foot-land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms,

but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers, such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray, and yet, zounds, I lie, for they pray continually to their saint the commonwealth, or rather not pray to her but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her and make her their boots.

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CHAMBERLAIN What, the commonwealth their boots?

Will she hold out water in foul way?

GADSHILL She will, she will. Justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cocksure. We have the receipt of fern seed; we walk invisible.

CHAMBERLAIN Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern seed for your walking invisible.

GADSHILL Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man.

CHAMBERLAIN Nay, rather let me have it as you are a false thief.

GADSHILL Go to. Homo is a common name to all men.

Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable.

Farewell, you muddy knave.

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They exit.
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POINS Come, shelter, shelter! I have removed Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.

PRINCE Stand close.
Poins, Bardolph, and Peto exit.

Enter Falstaff.

FALSTAFF Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

PRINCE Peace, you fat-kidneyed rascal. What a brawling dost thou keep!

FALSTAFF Where’s Poins, Hal?

PRINCE He is walked up to the top of the hill. I’ll go seek him.
Prince exits.

FALSTAFF I am accursed to rob in that thief’s company. The rascal hath removed my horse and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the

square further afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I

5

10

Scene 2

Enter Prince, Poins, Bardolph, and Peto.




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59

doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I ’scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two-and-twenty years, and yet I am bewitched with the rogue’s company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hanged. It could not be else: I have drunk medicines.—Poins! Hal! A plague upon you both.—Bardolph! Peto!— I’ll starve ere I’ll rob a foot further. An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me, and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough. A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another! (They whistle,
within.

) Whew! A plague upon you all!

Enter the Prince, Poins, Peto, and Bardolph.

Give me my horse, you rogues. Give me my horse and be hanged!

PRINCE Peace, you fat guts! Lie down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travelers.

FALSTAFF Have you any levers to lift me up again being down? ’Sblood, I’ll not bear my own flesh so far afoot again for all the coin in thy father’s Exchequer. What a plague mean you to colt me thus?

PRINCE Thou liest. Thou art not colted; thou art uncolted.

FALSTAFF I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king’s son.

PRINCE Out, you rogue! Shall I be your ostler?

FALSTAFF Hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta’en, I’ll peach for this. An I have

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61







FTLN 0795 not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy

FTLN 0796 tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison—when a jest

FTLN 0797 is so forward, and afoot too! I hate it. 50

Enter Gadshill.

FTLN 0798 GADSHILL Stand.

FTLN 0799 FALSTAFF So I do, against my will.

FTLN 0800 POINS O, ’tis our setter. I know his voice.

FTLN 0801BARDOLPH What news?

FTLN 0802GADSHILL Case you, case you. On with your vizards. 55 FTLN 0803 There’s money of the King’s coming down the hill.

FTLN 0804 ’Tis going to the King’s Exchequer.

FTLN 0805 FALSTAFF You lie, you rogue. ’Tis going to the King’s

FTLN 0806 Tavern.

FTLN 0807 GADSHILL There’s enough to make us all. 60

FTLN 0808 FALSTAFF To be hanged.

FTLN 0809 PRINCE Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow FTLN 0810 lane. Ned Poins and I will walk lower. If they ’scape FTLN 0811 from your encounter, then they light on us.

FTLN 0812 PETO How many be there of them? 65

FTLN 0813 GADSHILL Some eight or ten.

FTLN 0814 FALSTAFF Zounds, will they not rob us?

FTLN 0815 PRINCE What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

FTLN 0816 FALSTAFF Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather,

FTLN 0817 but yet no coward, Hal. 70

FTLN 0818 PRINCE Well, we leave that to the proof.

FTLN 0819 POINS Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge.

FTLN 0820 When thou need’st him, there thou shalt find him.

FTLN 0821 Farewell and stand fast.

FTLN 0822 FALSTAFF Now cannot I strike him, if I should be 75

FTLN 0823 hanged.

FTLN 0824 PRINCE, aside to Poins Ned, where are our disguises?



FTLN 0825 POINS, aside to Prince Here, hard by. Stand close.

The Prince and Poins exit.

FTLN 0826 FALSTAFF Now, my masters, happy man be his dole,

FTLN 0827say I. Every man to his business. 80

They step aside.

Enter the Travelers.

FTLN 0828 FIRST TRAVELER Come, neighbor, the boy shall lead FTLN 0829 our horses down the hill. We’ll walk afoot awhile FTLN 0830 and ease our legs.

63

THIEVES

TRAVELERS

FALSTAFF

TRAVELERS

FALSTAFF

PRINCE

POINS

FALSTAFF




FTLN 0831 , advancing

Stand!

FTLN 0832 Jesus bless us! 85

FTLN 0833 Strike! Down with them! Cut the villains’

FTLN 0834 throats! Ah, whoreson caterpillars, bacon-fed FTLN 0835 knaves, they hate us youth. Down with them!

FTLN 0836 Fleece them!

FTLN 0837 O, we are undone, both we and ours 90

FTLN 0838 forever!

FTLN 0839 Hang, you gorbellied knaves! Are you undone?

FTLN 0840 No, you fat chuffs. I would your store were

FTLN 0841 here. On, bacons, on! What, you knaves, young men FTLN 0842 must live. You are grandjurors, are you? We’ll jure 95

FTLN 0843 you, faith.

Here they rob them and bind them. They all exit.


Enter the Prince and Poins,
disguised.

FTLN 0844 The thieves have bound the true men. Now

FTLN 0845 could thou and I rob the thieves and go merrily to

FTLN 0846 London, it would be argument for a week, laughter

FTLN 0847 for a month, and a good jest forever. 100

FTLN 0848 Stand close, I hear them coming.

They step aside.

Enter the Thieves again.

FTLN 0849 Come, my masters, let us share, and then to FTLN 0850 horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not FTLN 0851 two arrant cowards, there’s no equity stirring.

FTLN 0852 There’s no more valor in that Poins than in a wild 105

FTLN 0853 duck.

As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them.

65

FTLN 0854 PRINCE Your money!


FTLN 0855 POINS Villains!

They all run away, and Falstaff, after a blow or two, runs away too, leaving the booty behind them.

PRINCE

FTLN 0856 Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse.

FTLN 0857 The thieves are all scattered, and possessed with 110

FTLN 0858 fear

FTLN 0859 So strongly that they dare not meet each other.

FTLN 0860 Each takes his fellow for an officer.

FTLN 0861 Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death,

FTLN 0862 And lards the lean earth as he walks along. 115

FTLN 0863 Were ’t not for laughing, I should pity him.

FTLN 0864 POINS How the fat rogue roared!

They exit.

Scene 3

Enter Hotspur alone, reading a letter.

FTLN 0865 HOTSPUR

But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be

FTLN 0866 well contented to be there, in respect of the love I

FTLN 0867 bear your house. He could be contented; why is he

FTLN 0868 not, then? In respect of the love he bears our

FTLN 0869 house—he shows in this he loves his own barn 5

FTLN 0870 better than he loves our house. Let me see some FTLN 0871 more. The purpose you undertake is dangerous.

FTLN 0872 Why, that’s certain. ’Tis dangerous to take a cold,

FTLN 0873 to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my Lord Fool, out

FTLN 0874 of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 10

FTLN 0875 The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends

FTLN 0876 you have named uncertain, the time itself unsorted, FTLN 0877 and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise FTLN 0878 of so great an opposition. Say you so, say you so?

FTLN 0879 I say unto you again, you are a shallow, cowardly 15

FTLN 0880 hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By

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67

the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid, our friends true and constant—a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month, and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this—an infidel! Ha, you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself and go to buffets for moving such a dish of skim milk with so honorable an action! Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared. I will set forward tonight.

Enter his Lady.

How now, Kate? I must leave you within these two hours.

LADY PERCY

O my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offense have I this fortnight been A banished woman from my Harry’s bed?

Tell me, sweet lord, what is ’t that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth And start so often when thou sit’st alone?

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks And given my treasures and my rights of thee To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watched,

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69

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,

Cry “Courage! To the field!” And thou hast talked

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain, And all the currents of a heady fight.

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

And thus hath so bestirred thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow

Like bubbles in a late-disturbèd stream,

And in thy face strange motions have appeared,

Such as we see when men restrain their breath

On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, And I must know it, else he loves me not.

HOTSPUR

What, ho!

Enter a Servant.

Is Gilliams with the packet gone? SERVANT He is, my lord, an hour ago.

HOTSPUR

Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

SERVANT

One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

HOTSPUR

What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is it not?


SERVANT

It is, my lord.

HOTSPUR That roan shall be my throne.

Well, I will back him straight. O, Esperance!

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

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Servant exits.

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71

LADY PERCY But hear you, my lord.

HOTSPUR What say’st thou, my lady?

LADY PERCY What is it carries you away?

HOTSPUR Why, my horse, my love, my horse. LADY PERCY Out, you mad-headed ape!

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

As you are tossed with. In faith,

I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will.

I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir

About his title, and hath sent for you

To line his enterprise; but if you go—

HOTSPUR

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

LADY PERCY

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly unto this question that I ask.

In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

HOTSPUR Away!

Away, you trifler. Love, I love thee not.

I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips.

We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,

And pass them current too.—Gods me, my horse!—

What say’st thou, Kate? What wouldst thou have with me?

LADY PERCY

Do you not love me? Do you not indeed? Well, do not then, for since you love me not, I will not love myself. Do you not love me?

Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.

HOTSPUR Come, wilt thou see me ride? And when I am a-horseback I will swear

I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate, I must not have you henceforth question me Whither I go, nor reason whereabout.

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73

Whither I must, I must; and to conclude This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. I know you wise, but yet no farther wise

Than Harry Percy’s wife; constant you are,

But yet a woman; and for secrecy

No lady closer, for I well believe

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know, And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

LADY PERCY How? So far?

HOTSPUR

Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate, Whither I go, thither shall you go too.

Today will I set forth, tomorrow you. Will this content you, Kate?

LADY PERCY It must, of force.

They exit.


Scene 4

Enter Prince and Poins.

PRINCE Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

POINS Where hast been, Hal?

PRINCE With three or four loggerheads amongst three or fourscore hogsheads. I have sounded the very bass string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their Christian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy, and tell me flatly I am no proud jack, like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy—by the Lord, so they call me—and when I am king of England, I shall command all the good lads in

Eastcheap. They call drinking deep “dyeing scarlet,”

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FTLN 1004 and when you breathe in your watering, they

FTLN 1005 cry “Hem!” and bid you “Play it off!” To conclude, I

FTLN 1006 am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour

FTLN 1007 that I can drink with any tinker in his own language

FTLN 1008 during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much 20

FTLN 1009 honor that thou wert not with me in this action; but,

FTLN 1010 sweet Ned—to sweeten which name of Ned, I give

FTLN 1011 thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now

FTLN 1012 into my hand by an underskinker, one that never

FTLN 1013 spake other English in his life than “Eight shillings 25

FTLN 1014 and sixpence,” and “You are welcome,” with this

FTLN 1015 shrill addition, “Anon, anon, sir.—Score a pint of

FTLN 1016 bastard in the Half-moon,” or so. But, Ned, to

FTLN 1017 drive away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee, do

FTLN 1018 thou stand in some by-room while I question my 30

FTLN 1019 puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar, and

FTLN 1020 do thou never leave calling “Francis,” that his tale

FTLN 1021 to me may be nothing but “Anon.” Step aside, and

FTLN 1022 I’ll show thee a precedent.

Poins exits.



FTLN 1023 POINS,
within Francis! 35


FTLN 1024 PRINCE Thou art perfect. FTLN 1025 POINS, within

Francis!

Enter
Francis, the
Drawer.

FTLN 1026 FRANCIS Anon, anon, sir.—Look down into the Pomgarnet,

FTLN 1027 Ralph.

FTLN 1028 PRINCE Come hither, Francis. 40

FTLN 1029 FRANCIS My lord?

FTLN 1030 PRINCE How long hast thou to serve, Francis? FTLN 1031 FRANCIS Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—

FTLN 1032 POINS,
within

Francis!

FTLN 1033 FRANCIS Anon, anon, sir. 45

FTLN 1034 PRINCE Five year! By ’r Lady, a long lease for the

FTLN 1035 clinking of pewter! But, Francis, darest thou be

FTLN 1036 so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture,

FTLN 1037 and show it a fair pair of heels, and run

FTLN 1038 from it? 50

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FRANCIS O Lord, sir, I’ll be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart— POINS,
within

Francis!

FRANCIS Anon, sir.

PRINCE How old art thou, Francis?

FRANCIS Let me see. About Michaelmas next, I shall be—

POINS,
within

Francis!

FRANCIS Anon, sir.—Pray, stay a little, my lord.

PRINCE Nay, but hark you, Francis, for the sugar thou gavest me—’twas a pennyworth, was ’t not?

FRANCIS O Lord, I would it had been two!

PRINCE I will give thee for it a thousand pound. Ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

POINS,
within

Francis!

FRANCIS Anon, anon.

PRINCE Anon, Francis? No, Francis. But tomorrow, Francis; or, Francis, o’ Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis—

FRANCIS My lord?

PRINCE Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter,

smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch— FRANCIS O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

PRINCE Why then, your brown bastard is your only drink, for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully. In Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much. FRANCIS What, sir?

POINS,
within

Francis!

PRINCE Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them call?

Here they both call him. The Drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go.

Enter Vintner.

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VINTNER What, stand’st thou still and hear’st such a calling? Look to the guests within.
Francis exits.

My lord, old Sir John with half a dozen more are at the door. Shall I let them in?

PRINCE Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.
Vintner exits.

Poins!

Enter Poins.

POINS Anon, anon, sir.

PRINCE Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door. Shall we be merry?

POINS As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark you, what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer. Come, what’s the issue?

PRINCE I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of Goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock at midnight.

Enter Francis, in haste.

What’s o’clock, Francis?

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FRANCIS Anon, anon, sir.
Francis exits.

PRINCE That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the north, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife “Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.” “O my sweet Harry,” says she, “how many hast thou killed today?”

“Give my roan horse a drench,” says he, and answers

“Some fourteen,” an hour after. “A trifle, a

trifle.” I prithee, call in Falstaff. I’ll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. “Rivo!” says the drunkard. Call in Ribs, call in Tallow.

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Enter Falstaff,
Gadshill, Peto, Bardolph; and Francis, with wine.

POINS Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?

FALSTAFF A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! Marry and amen!—Give me a cup of sack, boy.—Ere I lead this life long, I’ll sew netherstocks

and mend them, and foot them too. A plague

of all cowards!—Give me a cup of sack, rogue!—Is there no virtue extant? He drinketh.

PRINCE Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter—pitiful-hearted Titan!—that melted at the sweet tale of the sun’s? If thou didst, then behold that compound.

FALSTAFF,
to Francis

You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too.—There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man, yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villainous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack. Die when thou wilt. If manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the Earth, then am I a shotten herring. There lives not three good men unhanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows old, God help the while. A bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver. I could sing psalms, or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still.

PRINCE How now, woolsack, what mutter you?

FALSTAFF A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You, Prince of Wales!

PRINCE Why, you whoreson round man, what’s the matter?

FALSTAFF Are not you a coward? Answer me to that— and Poins there?

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FTLN 1137 POINS Zounds, you fat paunch, an you call me coward,




FTLN 1138 by the Lord, I’ll stab thee. 150

FTLN 1139 FALSTAFF I call thee coward? I’ll see thee damned ere

FTLN 1140 I call thee coward, but I would give a thousand

FTLN 1141 pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are

FTLN 1142 straight enough in the shoulders you care not who

FTLN 1143 sees your back. Call you that backing of your 155

FTLN 1144 friends? A plague upon such backing! Give me them FTLN 1145 that will face me.—Give me a cup of sack.—I am a FTLN 1146 rogue if I drunk today.

FTLN 1147 PRINCE O villain, thy lips are scarce wiped since thou

FTLN 1148 drunk’st last. 160

FTLN 1149 FALSTAFF All is one for that. (He drinketh.) A plague of FTLN 1150 all cowards, still say I.

FTLN 1151 PRINCE What’s the matter?

FTLN 1152 FALSTAFF What’s the matter? There be four of us here

FTLN 1153 have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning. 165

FTLN 1154 PRINCE Where is it, Jack, where is it?

FTLN 1155 FALSTAFF Where is it? Taken from us it is. A hundred FTLN 1156 upon poor four of us.

FTLN 1157 PRINCE What, a hundred, man?

FTLN 1158 FALSTAFF I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword 170

FTLN 1159 with a dozen of them two hours together. I have

FTLN 1160 ’scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through

FTLN 1161 the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler

FTLN 1162 cut through and through, my sword hacked like

FTLN 1163 a handsaw. Ecce signum! I never dealt better since 175

FTLN 1164 I was a man. All would not do. A plague of

FTLN 1165 all cowards! Let them speak.
Pointing to Gadshill,

FTLN 1166 Bardolph, and Peto.
If they speak more or

FTLN 1167 less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of

FTLN 1168 darkness. 180

FTLN 1169PRINCE Speak, sirs, how was it?



FTLN 1170BARDOLPH We four set upon some dozen.

FTLN 1171 FALSTAFF Sixteen at least, my lord.

FTLN 1172 BARDOLPH

And bound them.

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FTLN 1173 PETO No, no, they were not bound. 185


FTLN 1174 FALSTAFF You rogue, they were bound, every man of FTLN 1175 them, or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. FTLN 1176 BARDOLPH

As we were sharing, some six or seven

FTLN 1177 fresh men set upon us.

FTLN 1178 FALSTAFF And unbound the rest, and then come in the 190

FTLN 1179 other.

FTLN 1180 PRINCE What, fought you with them all?

FTLN 1181 FALSTAFF All? I know not what you call all, but if I

FTLN 1182 fought not with fifty of them I am a bunch of

FTLN 1183 radish. If there were not two- or three-and-fifty 195 FTLN 1184 upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged

FTLN 1185 creature.

FTLN 1186 PRINCE Pray God you have not murdered some of

FTLN 1187 them.

FTLN 1188 FALSTAFF Nay, that’s past praying for. I have peppered 200

FTLN 1189 two of them. Two I am sure I have paid, two rogues

FTLN 1190 in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a

FTLN 1191 lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my

FTLN 1192 old ward. Here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four

FTLN 1193 rogues in buckram let drive at me. 205

FTLN 1194 PRINCE What, four? Thou said’st but two even now.

FTLN 1195 FALSTAFF Four, Hal, I told thee four.

FTLN 1196 POINS Ay, ay, he said four.

FTLN 1197 FALSTAFF These four came all afront, and mainly

FTLN 1198 thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all 210 FTLN 1199 their seven points in my target, thus.

FTLN 1200 PRINCE Seven? Why there were but four even now.

FTLN 1201 FALSTAFF In buckram?

FTLN 1202 POINS Ay, four in buckram suits.

FTLN 1203 FALSTAFF Seven by these hilts, or I am a villain else. 215

FTLN 1204 PRINCE,
to Poins

Prithee, let him alone. We shall have

FTLN 1205 more anon.

FTLN 1206 FALSTAFF Dost thou hear me, Hal?

FTLN 1207 PRINCE Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

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FALSTAFF Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of— PRINCE So, two more already.

FALSTAFF Their points being broken— POINS Down fell their hose.

FALSTAFF Began to give me ground, but I followed me close, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

PRINCE O monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two!

FALSTAFF But as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back, and let drive at me, for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

PRINCE These lies are like their father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou claybrained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou

whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-catch—

FALSTAFF What, art thou mad? Art thou mad? Is not the truth the truth?

PRINCE Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason. What sayest thou to this?

POINS Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

FALSTAFF What, upon compulsion? Zounds, an I were at the strappado or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion? If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

PRINCE I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-backbreaker, this huge hill of flesh—

FALSTAFF ’Sblood, you starveling, you elfskin, you dried neat’s tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stockfish!

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O, for breath to utter what is like thee! You tailor’s yard, you sheath, you bowcase, you vile standing

tuck—

PRINCE Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again, and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

POINS Mark, Jack.

PRINCE We two saw you four set on four, and bound them and were masters of their wealth. Mark now how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it, yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still run and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

POINS Come, let’s hear, Jack. What trick hast thou now?

FALSTAFF By the Lord, I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, hear you, my masters, was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules, but beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life— I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.—Hostess, clap to the doors.—Watch tonight,

pray tomorrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you. What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore?

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PRINCE Content, and the argument shall be thy running away.

FALSTAFF Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.

Enter Hostess.

HOSTESS O Jesu, my lord the Prince—

PRINCE How now, my lady the hostess, what sayst thou to me?

HOSTESS Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door would speak with you. He says he comes from your father.

PRINCE Give him as much as will make him a royal man and send him back again to my mother.

FALSTAFF What manner of man is he?

HOSTESS An old man.

FALSTAFF What doth Gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall I give him his answer?

PRINCE Prithee do, Jack.

FALSTAFF Faith, and I’ll send him packing. He exits.

PRINCE Now, sirs.
To Gadshill.

By ’r Lady, you fought fair.—So did you, Peto.—So did you, Bardolph.— You are lions too. You ran away upon instinct. You will not touch the true prince. No, fie!

BARDOLPH Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

PRINCE Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff’s sword so hacked?

PETO Why, he hacked it with his dagger and said he would swear truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like.

BARDOLPH Yea, and to tickle our noses with speargrass to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before: I blushed to hear his monstrous devices.

PRINCE O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen

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93

years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire

and sword on thy side, and yet thou ran’st away.

What instinct hadst thou for it?

BARDOLPH My lord, do you see these meteors? Do you behold these exhalations?

PRINCE I do.

BARDOLPH What think you they portend?

PRINCE Hot livers and cold purses.

BARDOLPH Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. PRINCE No. If rightly taken, halter.

Enter Falstaff.

Here comes lean Jack. Here comes bare-bone.— How now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long is ’t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?

FALSTAFF My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon in the waist. I could have crept into any alderman’s thumb-ring. A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder. There’s villainous news abroad. Here was Sir John Bracy from your father. You must to the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook—what a plague call you him?

POINS

Owen

Glendower.

FALSTAFF Owen, Owen, the same, and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs a-horseback up a hill perpendicular—

PRINCE He that rides at high speed, and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying.

FALSTAFF You have hit it.

PRINCE So did he never the sparrow.

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FALSTAFF Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him. He will not run.

PRINCE Why, what a rascal art thou then to praise him so for running?

FALSTAFF A-horseback, you cuckoo, but afoot he will not budge a foot.

PRINCE Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

FALSTAFF I grant you, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester is stolen away tonight. Thy father’s beard is turned white with the news. You may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.

PRINCE Why then, it is like if there come a hot June, and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hobnails, by the hundreds.

FALSTAFF By the Mass, thou sayest true. It is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? Thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?

PRINCE Not a whit, i’ faith. I lack some of thy instinct.

FALSTAFF Well, thou wilt be horribly chid tomorrow when thou comest to thy father. If thou love me, practice an answer.

PRINCE Do thou stand for my father and examine me upon the particulars of my life.

FALSTAFF Shall I? Content.
He sits down.

This chair shall be my state, this dagger my scepter, and this cushion my crown.

PRINCE Thy state is taken for a joined stool, thy golden scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown.

FALSTAFF Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved.—Give me a cup of

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97

sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept, for I must speak in passion,

and I will do it in King Cambyses’ vein.

PRINCE,
bowing
Well, here is my leg.

FALSTAFF And here is my speech.
As King.

Stand aside, nobility.

HOSTESS O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i’ faith!

FALSTAFF,
as King

Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.

HOSTESS O the Father, how he holds his countenance!

FALSTAFF,
as King

For God’s sake, lords, convey my

tristful

queen, For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes.

HOSTESS O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see.

FALSTAFF Peace, good pint-pot. Peace, good tickle-brain.—
As King.
Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, so youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point: why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries? A question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses? A question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch. This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion;

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not in words only, but in woes also. And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

PRINCE What manner of man, an it like your Majesty?

FALSTAFF,
as King
A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage, and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by ’r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me, for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then peremptorily I speak it: there is virtue in that

Falstaff; him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me where hast thou been this month?

PRINCE Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I’ll play my father.

FALSTAFF,
rising
Depose me? If thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter’s hare.

PRINCE,
sitting down
Well, here I am set.

FALSTAFF And here I stand.—Judge, my masters.

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grievous.

FALSTAFF,
as Prince

’Sblood, my lord, they are false.

—Nay, I’ll tickle you for a young prince, i’ faith. PRINCE,
as King

Swearest thou? Ungracious boy, henceforth ne’er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace. There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man. A tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humors, that bolting-hutch of beastliness,

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FTLN 1443 PRINCE, as King Now, Harry, whence come you? 455







FTLN 1444 FALSTAFF, as Prince My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

FTLN 1445 PRINCE, as King The complaints I hear of thee are

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him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity; his white hairs do witness it. But that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked. If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord, banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company. Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.


PRINCE I do, I will.

A loud knocking, and Bardolph, Hostess, and Francis exit.

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that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that gray iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning but in craft? Wherein crafty but in villainy? Wherein villainous but in all things? Wherein worthy but in nothing?

FALSTAFF,
as Prince

I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your Grace?

PRINCE,
as King

That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

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FTLN 1469 FALSTAFF, as Prince My lord, the man I know.







FTLN 1470 PRINCE, as King I know thou dost.

FTLN 1471 FALSTAFF, as Prince But to say I know more harm in

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103

Enter Bardolph running.

BARDOLPH O my lord, my lord, the Sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.

FALSTAFF Out, you rogue.—Play out the play. I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

Enter the Hostess.

HOSTESS O Jesu, my lord, my lord—

PRINCE Heigh, heigh, the devil rides upon a fiddlestick. What’s the matter?

HOSTESS The Sheriff and all the watch are at the door. They are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?

FALSTAFF Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit. Thou art essentially made without seeming so.

PRINCE And thou a natural coward without instinct.

FALSTAFF I deny your major. If you will deny the Sheriff, so; if not, let him enter. If I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up. I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.

PRINCE,
standing

Go hide thee behind the arras. The rest walk up above.—Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

FALSTAFF Both which I have had, but their date is out;

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and therefore I’ll hide me.
He hides.

PRINCE Call in the Sheriff.

All but the Prince and Peto exit.

Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.

PRINCE

Now, Master Sheriff, what is your will with me?

SHERIFF

First pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry

Hath followed certain men unto this house.

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FTLN 1516 PRINCE What men? SHERIFF


FTLN 1517 One of them is well known, my gracious lord.

FTLN 1518 A gross fat man. 530

FTLN 1519 CARRIER As fat as butter. PRINCE

FTLN 1520 The man I do assure you is not here,

FTLN 1521 For I myself at this time have employed him.

FTLN 1522 And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee

FTLN 1523 That I will by tomorrow dinner time 535

FTLN 1524 Send him to answer thee or any man

FTLN 1525 For anything he shall be charged withal.

FTLN 1526 And so let me entreat you leave the house.

SHERIFF

FTLN 1527 I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen

FTLN 1528 Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks. 540

PRINCE

FTLN 1529 It may be so. If he have robbed these men, FTLN 1530 He shall be answerable; and so farewell.

FTLN 1531 SHERIFF Good night, my noble lord. PRINCE

FTLN 1532 I think it is good morrow, is it not?

SHERIFF

FTLN 1533 Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock. 545

He exits
with the Carrier.

FTLN 1534 PRINCE This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s. Go

FTLN 1535 call him forth.

FTLN 1536 PETO Falstaff!—Fast asleep behind the arras, and FTLN 1537 snorting like a horse.

FTLN 1538 PRINCE Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his 550 FTLN 1539 pockets. (He searcheth his pocket, and findeth certain FTLN 1540 papers.) What hast thou found?

FTLN 1541 PETO Nothing but papers, my lord.

FTLN 1542 PRINCE Let’s see what they be. Read them.

PETO reads

FTLN 1543 Item, a capon,…2s. 2d. 555 107


FTLN 1544 Item, sauce,…4d.

FTLN 1545 Item, sack, two gallons,…5s. 8d.

FTLN 1546 Item, anchovies and sack after supper,…2s. 6d.

FTLN 1547 Item, bread,…ob.

FTLN 1548 PRINCE

O monstrous! But one halfpennyworth of 560

FTLN 1549 bread to this intolerable deal of sack? What there is FTLN 1550 else, keep close. We’ll read it at more advantage.

FTLN 1551 There let him sleep till day. I’ll to the court in the

FTLN 1552 morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place

FTLN 1553 shall be honorable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a 565

FTLN 1554 charge of foot, and I know his death will be a march

FTLN 1555 of twelve score. The money shall be paid back again FTLN 1556 with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning, FTLN 1557 and so good morrow, Peto.

FTLN 1558 PETO Good morrow, good my lord. 570

They exit.

MORTIMER

HOTSPUR

GLENDOWER

HOTSPUR

GLENDOWER

HOTSPUR

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Lord Mortimer,

and

Owen

Glendower.

These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Lord Mortimer and cousin Glendower,

Will you sit down? And uncle Worcester—

A plague upon it, I have forgot the map.

No, here it is. Sit, cousin Percy,

Sit, good cousin Hotspur, for by that name

As oft as Lancaster doth speak of you

His cheek looks pale, and with a rising sigh

He wisheth you in heaven.

And you in hell,

As oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

I cannot blame him. At my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets, and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the Earth

Shaked like a coward.

Why, so it would have done

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ACT

3



Scene

1





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113

At the same season if your mother’s cat

Had but kittened, though yourself had never been born.

GLENDOWER

I say the Earth did shake when I was born.

HOTSPUR

And I say the Earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

GLENDOWER

The heavens were all on fire; the Earth did tremble.

HOTSPUR

O, then the Earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseasèd nature oftentimes breaks forth

In strange eruptions; oft the teeming Earth

Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed

By the imprisoning of unruly wind

Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving,

Shakes the old beldam Earth and topples down

Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth Our grandam Earth, having this distemp’rature, In passion shook.

GLENDOWER Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave

To tell you once again that at my birth

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.

These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipped in with the sea

That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, Which calls me pupil or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman’s son Can trace me in the tedious ways of art

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

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HOTSPUR

I think there’s no man speaks better Welsh. I’ll to dinner.

MORTIMER

Peace, cousin Percy. You will make him mad.

GLENDOWER

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

HOTSPUR

Why, so can I, or so can any man,

But will they come when you do call for them?

GLENDOWER

Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.

HOTSPUR

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil By telling truth. Tell truth and shame the devil.

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,

And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

MORTIMER

Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

GLENDOWER

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottomed Severn have I sent him Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

HOTSPUR

Home without boots, and in foul weather too! How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name?

GLENDOWER

Come, here is the map. Shall we divide our right According to our threefold order ta’en?

MORTIMER

The Archdeacon hath divided it Into three limits very equally:

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117

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,

By south and east is to my part assigned;

All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,

And all the fertile land within that bound

To Owen Glendower; and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward lying off from Trent.

And our indentures tripartite are drawn,

Which being sealèd interchangeably— A business that this night may execute—

Tomorrow, cousin Percy, you and I

And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish power, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.

My father Glendower is not ready yet,

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.

To Glendower.
Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends, and neighboring gentlemen.

GLENDOWER

A shorter time shall send me to you, lords,

And in my conduct shall your ladies come,

From whom you now must steal and take no leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives and you.

HOTSPUR,
looking at the map

Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quantity equals not one of yours.

See how this river comes me cranking in

And cuts me from the best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous

cantle

out.

I’ll have the current in this place dammed up, And here the smug and silver Trent shall run In a new channel, fair and evenly. It shall not wind with such a deep indent To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

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GLENDOWER

Not wind? It shall, it must. You see it doth.

MORTIMER,
to Hotspur

Yea, but mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side,

Gelding the opposèd continent as much As on the other side it takes from you.

WORCESTER

Yea, but a little charge will trench him here And on this north side win this cape of land, And then he runs straight and even.

HOTSPUR

I’ll have it so. A little charge will do it.

GLENDOWER I’ll not have it altered.

HOTSPUR Will not you?

GLENDOWER No, nor you shall not.

HOTSPUR Who shall say me nay? GLENDOWER Why, that will I.

HOTSPUR

Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.

GLENDOWER

I can speak English, lord, as well as you,

For I was trained up in the English court,

Where being but young I framèd to the harp

Many an English ditty lovely well

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament— A virtue that was never seen in you.

HOTSPUR

Marry, and I am glad of it with all my heart.

I had rather be a kitten and cry “mew”

Than one of these same

meter

balladmongers.

I had rather hear a brazen can’stick turned,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree,

And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry.

’Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.

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GLENDOWER Come, you shall have Trent turned.

HOTSPUR

I do not care. I’ll give thrice so much land

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark you me, I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be gone?

GLENDOWER

The moon shines fair. You may away by night.

I’ll haste the writer, and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence.

I am afraid my daughter will run mad,

So much she doteth on her Mortimer. He exits.

MORTIMER

Fie, cousin Percy, how you cross my father!

HOTSPUR

I cannot choose. Sometime he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,

And of a dragon and a finless fish,

A clip-winged griffin and a moulten raven,

A couching lion and a ramping cat,

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I tell you what—

He held me last night at least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils’ names

That were his lackeys. I cried “Hum,” and “Well, go to,”

But marked him not a word. O, he is as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife,

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer house in Christendom.

MORTIMER

In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,

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123

Exceedingly well read and profited

In strange concealments, valiant as a lion, And wondrous affable, and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? He holds your temper in a high respect

And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come cross his humor. Faith, he does. I warrant you that man is not alive

Might so have tempted him as you have done Without the taste of danger and reproof. But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

WORCESTER,
to Hotspur

In faith, my lord, you are too willful-blame, And, since your coming hither, have done enough To put him quite besides his patience.

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault.

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood—

And that’s the dearest grace it renders you— Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,

Defect of manners, want of government,

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain,

The least of which, haunting a nobleman,

Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation.

HOTSPUR

Well, I am schooled. Good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

Enter Glendower with the Ladies.

MORTIMER

This is the deadly spite that angers me:

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

GLENDOWER

My daughter weeps; she’ll not part with you.

She’ll be a soldier too, she’ll to the wars.

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MORTIMER

Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.

GLENDOWER

She is desperate here, a peevish self-willed harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon.

The Lady speaks in Welsh.

MORTIMER

I understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh

Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in, and but for shame

In such a parley should I answer thee.

The Lady
speaks
again in Welsh.
They kiss.

I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,

And that’s a feeling disputation;

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learned thy language; for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penned, Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.

GLENDOWER

Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

The Lady speaks again in Welsh.

MORTIMER

O, I am ignorance itself in this!

GLENDOWER

She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,

And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,

And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,

Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep

As is the difference betwixt day and night

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127

The hour before the heavenly harnessed team Begins his golden progress in the east.

MORTIMER

With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing.

By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

GLENDOWER

Do so, and those musicians that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, And straight they shall be here. Sit and attend.

HOTSPUR

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down.

Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

LADY PERCY Go, you giddy goose.

The music plays.

HOTSPUR

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh, And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous.

By ’r Lady, he is a good musician.

LADY PERCY Then should you be nothing but musical, for you are altogether governed by humors. Lie still, you thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

HOTSPUR I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in

Irish.

LADY PERCY Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

HOTSPUR No.

LADY PERCY Then be still.

HOTSPUR Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault.

LADY PERCY Now God help thee!

HOTSPUR To the Welsh lady’s bed.

LADY PERCY What’s that?

HOTSPUR Peace, she sings.

Here the Lady sings a Welsh song.

HOTSPUR Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.

LADY PERCY Not mine, in good sooth.

HOTSPUR Not yours, in good sooth! Heart, you swear

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129

like a comfit-maker’s wife! “Not you, in good sooth,” and “as true as I live,” and “as God shall

mend me,” and “as sure as day”—

And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths As if thou never walk’st further than Finsbury.

Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath, and leave “in sooth,” And such protest of pepper-gingerbread To velvet-guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing.

LADY PERCY I will not sing.

HOTSPUR ’Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I’ll away within these two hours, and so come in when you will. He exits.

GLENDOWER

Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as slow As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book is drawn. We’ll but seal, And then to horse immediately.

MORTIMER With all my heart.

They exit.


Scene 2

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others.

KING

Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I

Must have some private conference, but be near at hand,

For we shall presently have need of you.

Lords exit.

I know not whether God will have it so

For some displeasing service I have done,

That, in His secret doom, out of my blood

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131

He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me.

But thou dost in thy passages of life

Make me believe that thou art only marked

For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven

To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires,

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society

As thou art matched withal, and grafted to, Accompany the greatness of thy blood,

And hold their level with thy princely heart?

PRINCE

So please your Majesty, I would I could

Quit all offenses with as clear excuse

As well as I am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal. Yet such extenuation let me beg

As, in reproof of many tales devised,

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,

By smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers,

I may for some things true, wherein my youth Hath faulty wandered and irregular, Find pardon on my true submission.

KING

God pardon thee. Yet let me wonder, Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.

Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost,

Which by thy younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the court and princes of my blood.

The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruined, and the soul of every man Prophetically do forethink thy fall.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

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133

So common-hackneyed in the eyes of men,

So stale and cheap to vulgar company,

Opinion, that did help me to the crown,

Had still kept loyal to possession And left me in reputeless banishment, A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir

But like a comet I was wondered at,

That men would tell their children “This is he.”

Others would say “Where? Which is Bolingbroke?”

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dressed myself in such humility

That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts, Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, Even in the presence of the crownèd king.

Thus did I keep my person fresh and new, My presence, like a robe pontifical,

Ne’er seen but wondered at, and so my state, Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast And won by rareness such solemnity.

The skipping king, he ambled up and down

With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,

Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,

Mingled his royalty with cap’ring fools,

Had his great name profanèd with their scorns,

And gave his countenance, against his name,

To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative;

Grew a companion to the common streets,

Enfeoffed himself to popularity,

That, being daily swallowed by men’s eyes,

They surfeited with honey and began

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much.

So, when he had occasion to be seen,

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135

He was but as the cuckoo is in June,

Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes

As, sick and blunted with community,

Afford no extraordinary gaze

Such as is bent on sunlike majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes,

But rather drowsed and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face, and rendered such aspect

As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorged, and full.

And in that very line, Harry, standest thou,

For thou hast lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation. Not an eye

But is aweary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more, Which now doth that I would not have it do, Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

PRINCE

I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord, Be more myself.

KING For all the world

As thou art to this hour was Richard then When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh, And even as I was then is Percy now.

Now, by my scepter, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy interest to the state Than thou, the shadow of succession.

For of no right, nor color like to right,

He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, Turns head against the lion’s armèd jaws,

And, being no more in debt to years than thou, Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on To bloody battles and to bruising arms.

What never-dying honor hath he got

Against renownèd Douglas, whose high deeds, Whose hot incursions and great name in arms,

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137

Holds from all soldiers chief majority

And military title capital

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swaddling clothes,

This infant warrior, in his enterprises

Discomfited great Douglas, ta’en him once,

Enlargèd him, and made a friend of him,

To fill the mouth of deep defiance up

And shake the peace and safety of our throne.

And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,

The Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,

Capitulate against us and are up.

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee? Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, Which art my nearest and dearest enemy?

Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,

Base inclination, and the start of spleen,

To fight against me under Percy’s pay, To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns, To show how much thou art degenerate.

PRINCE

Do not think so. You shall not find it so.

And God forgive them that so much have swayed Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me.

I will redeem all this on Percy’s head,

And, in the closing of some glorious day,

Be bold to tell you that I am your son,

When I will wear a garment all of blood

And stain my favors in a bloody mask,

Which, washed away, shall scour my shame with it.

And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights, That this same child of honor and renown,

This gallant Hotspur, this all-praisèd knight,

And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.

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139

For every honor sitting on his helm,

Would they were multitudes, and on my head

My shames redoubled! For the time will come That I shall make this northern youth exchange His glorious deeds for my indignities.

Percy is but my factor, good my lord,

To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf.

And I will call him to so strict account

That he shall render every glory up,

Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.

This in the name of God I promise here,

The which if He be pleased I shall perform,

I do beseech your Majesty may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance.

If not, the end of life cancels all bands,

And I will die a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

KING

A hundred thousand rebels die in this.

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

Enter Blunt.

How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full of speed.

BLUNT

So hath the business that I come to speak of. Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word That Douglas and the English rebels met The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.

A mighty and a fearful head they are, If promises be kept on every hand, As ever offered foul play in a state.

KING

The Earl of Westmoreland set forth today,

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster, For this advertisement is five days old.—

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141

On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward.

On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting

Is Bridgenorth. And, Harry, you shall march

Through Gloucestershire; by which account,

Our business valuèd, some twelve days hence Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.

Our hands are full of business. Let’s away.

Advantage feeds him fat while men delay.

They exit.


Scene 3

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

FALSTAFF Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady’s loose gown. I am withered like an old applejohn. Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer’s horse. The inside of a church! Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.

BARDOLPH Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long.

FALSTAFF Why, there is it. Come, sing me a bawdy song, make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous enough: swore little; diced not above seven times—a week; went to a bawdy house not above once in a quarter—of an hour; paid money that I borrowed—three or four times; lived well and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

BARDOLPH Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must

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143

needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

FALSTAFF Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop, but ’tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.

BARDOLPH Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

FALSTAFF No, I’ll be sworn, I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death’s-head or a memento mori. I never see thy face but I think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple, for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face. My oath should be “By this fire, that’s God’s angel.” But thou art altogether given over, and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran’st up Gad’s Hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light. Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern, but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years, God reward me for it.


BARDOLPH ’Sblood, I would my face were in your belly!

FALSTAFF Godamercy, so should I be sure to be heartburned!

Enter Hostess.

How now, Dame Partlet the hen, have you enquired yet who picked my pocket?

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145

HOSTESS Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John, do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I have enquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.


FALSTAFF You lie, hostess. Bardolph was shaved and lost many a hair, and I’ll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go.

HOSTESS Who, I? No, I defy thee! God’s light, I was never called so in mine own house before.

FALSTAFF Go to, I know you well enough.

HOSTESS No, Sir John, you do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

FALSTAFF Dowlas, filthy dowlas. I have given them away to bakers’ wives; they have made bolters of them.

HOSTESS Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.

FALSTAFF,
pointing to Bardolph

He had his part of it. Let him pay.

HOSTESS He? Alas, he is poor. He hath nothing.

FALSTAFF How, poor? Look upon his face. What call you rich? Let them coin his nose. Let them coin his cheeks. I’ll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a seal ring of my grandfather’s worth forty mark.

HOSTESS,
to Bardolph
O Jesu, I have heard the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper.

FALSTAFF How? The Prince is a jack, a sneak-up.

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147

’Sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog if he would say so.

Enter the Prince marching,
with Peto,
and Falstaff meets him playing upon his truncheon like a fife.

How now, lad, is the wind in that door, i’ faith? Must we all march?

BARDOLPH Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

HOSTESS,
to Prince
My lord, I pray you, hear me.

PRINCE What say’st thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.

HOSTESS Good my lord, hear me.

FALSTAFF Prithee, let her alone, and list to me.

PRINCE What say’st thou, Jack?

FALSTAFF The other night I fell asleep here, behind the arras, and had my pocket picked. This house is turned bawdy house; they pick pockets.

PRINCE What didst thou lose, Jack?

FALSTAFF Wilt thou believe me, Hal, three or four bonds of forty pound apiece, and a seal ring of my grandfather’s.

PRINCE A trifle, some eightpenny matter.

HOSTESS So I told him, my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say so. And, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man, as he is, and said he would cudgel you.

PRINCE What, he did not!

HOSTESS There’s neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.

FALSTAFF There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox, and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go.

HOSTESS Say, what thing, what thing?

FALSTAFF What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on.

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149

HOSTESS I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it! I am an honest man’s wife, and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.

FALSTAFF Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.

HOSTESS Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

FALSTAFF What beast? Why, an otter.

PRINCE An otter, Sir John. Why an otter?

FALSTAFF Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her.

HOSTESS Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou.

PRINCE Thou sayst true, hostess, and he slanders thee most grossly.

HOSTESS So he doth you, my lord, and said this other day you owed him a thousand pound.

PRINCE Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

FALSTAFF A thousand pound, Hal? A million. Thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy love.

HOSTESS Nay, my lord, he called you “jack,” and said he would cudgel you.

FALSTAFF Did I, Bardolph?

BARDOLPH Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

FALSTAFF Yea, if he said my ring was copper.

PRINCE I say ’tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word now?

FALSTAFF Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare, but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp.

PRINCE And why not as the lion?

FALSTAFF The King himself is to be feared as the lion.

Dost thou think I’ll fear thee as I fear thy father?

Nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break.

PRINCE O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about

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151

thy knees! But, sirrah, there’s no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine. It is all filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou whoreson,

impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy houses, and one poor pennyworth of sugar candy to make thee long-winded, if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am a villain. And yet you will stand to it! You will not pocket up wrong! Art thou not ashamed?

FALSTAFF Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell, and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man and therefore more frailty. You confess, then, you picked my pocket.

PRINCE It appears so by the story.

FALSTAFF Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast, love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy

guests.

Thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, begone. (Hostess exits.) Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the robbery, lad, how is that answered?

PRINCE O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee. The money is paid back again.

FALSTAFF O, I do not like that paying back. ’Tis a double labor.

PRINCE I am good friends with my father and may do anything.

FALSTAFF Rob me the Exchequer the first thing thou dost, and do it with unwashed hands too.

BARDOLPH Do, my lord.

PRINCE I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.

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FALSTAFF I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously 200

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unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels. They offend none but the virtuous. I laud them; I praise them.

PRINCE Bardolph.

BARDOLPH My lord. 205

PRINCE,
handing Bardolph papers

Go, bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

To my brother John; this to my Lord of

Westmoreland.
Bardolph exits.

Go, Peto, to horse, to horse, for thou and I

Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time. 210

Peto exits.

Jack, meet me tomorrow in the Temple hall

At two o’clock in the afternoon;

There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive Money and order for their furniture.

The land is burning. Percy stands on high, 215

And either we or they must lower lie.
He exits.

FALSTAFF

Rare words, brave world!—Hostess, my breakfast, come.—

O, I could wish this tavern were my drum.

He exits.

HOTSPUR

DOUGLAS

HOTSPUR

MESSENGER

HOTSPUR

MESSENGER

Enter

Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.

Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking truth

In this fine age were not thought flattery,

Such attribution should the Douglas have

As not a soldier of this season’s stamp

Should go so general current through the world.

By God, I cannot flatter. I do defy

The tongues of soothers. But a braver place

In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself.

Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

Thou art the king of honor.

No man so potent breathes upon the ground

But I will beard him.

Do so, and ’tis well.

Enter

a

Messenger

with letters.

What letters hast thou there?

To

Douglas.

I can but

thank you.

These letters come from your father.

Letters from him! Why comes he not himself?

He cannot come, my lord. He is grievous sick.

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ACT

4



Scene

1





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His letters bears his mind, not I, my lord.


WORCESTER

I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?

MESSENGER

He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth, And, at the time of my departure thence, He was much feared by his physicians.

WORCESTER

I would the state of time had first been whole Ere he by sickness had been visited.

His health was never better worth than now.

HOTSPUR

Sick now? Droop now? This sickness doth infect The very lifeblood of our enterprise.

’Tis catching hither, even to our camp.

He writes me here that inward sickness— And that his friends by deputation

Could not so soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet

To lay so dangerous and dear a trust

On any soul removed but on his own;

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement

That with our small conjunction we should on

To see how fortune is disposed to us,

For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, Because the King is certainly possessed Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

WORCESTER

Your father’s sickness is a maim to us.

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HOTSPUR

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Zounds, how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time? Who leads his power?

Under whose government come they along?

20

MESSENGER, handing letter to Hotspur, who begins reading it


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161

HOTSPUR

A perilous gash, a very limb lopped off!

And yet, in faith, it is not. His present want

Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good

To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? To set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?

It were not good, for therein should we read

The very bottom and the soul of hope, The very list, the very utmost bound Of all our fortunes.

DOUGLAS

Faith, and so we should, where now remains A sweet reversion. We may boldly spend Upon the hope of what is to come in. A comfort of retirement lives in this.


HOTSPUR

A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the devil and mischance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

WORCESTER

But yet I would your father had been here.

The quality and hair of our attempt

Brooks no division. It will be thought

By some that know not why he is away

That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike

Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence.

And think how such an apprehension

May turn the tide of fearful faction

And breed a kind of question in our cause.

For well you know, we of the off’ring side

Must keep aloof from strict arbitrament,

And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence The eye of reason may pry in upon us.

This absence of your father’s draws a curtain

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163

That shows the ignorant a kind of fear Before not dreamt of.

HOTSPUR You strain too far.

I rather of his absence make this use:

It lends a luster and more great opinion,

A larger dare, to our great enterprise

Than if the Earl were here, for men must think

If we without his help can make a head

To push against a kingdom, with his help We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down.

Yet all goes well; yet all our joints are whole.

DOUGLAS

As heart can think. There is not such a word Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.

Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

HOTSPUR

My cousin Vernon, welcome, by my soul.

VERNON

Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, Is marching hitherwards, with him Prince John.

HOTSPUR

No harm, what more?

VERNON And further I have learned

The King himself in person is set forth, Or hitherwards intended speedily, With strong and mighty preparation.

HOTSPUR

He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,

The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, And his comrades, that daffed the world aside And bid it pass?

VERNON All furnished, all in arms,

All plumed like estridges that with the wind

Bated like eagles having lately bathed,

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165

Glittering in golden coats like images,

As full of spirit as the month of May,

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer,

Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

I saw young Harry with his beaver on,

His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed,

Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury

And vaulted with such ease into his seat

As if an angel

dropped

down from the clouds,

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

HOTSPUR

No more, no more! Worse than the sun in March This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come.

They come like sacrifices in their trim,

And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war All hot and bleeding will we offer them.

The mailèd Mars shall on his altar sit


Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire

To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh

And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse, Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt

Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales.

Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse, Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse.

O, that Glendower were come!

VERNON There is more news.

I learned in Worcester, as I rode along,

He

cannot

draw his power this fourteen days.

DOUGLAS

That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet.


WORCESTER

Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.

HOTSPUR

What may the King’s whole battle reach unto?

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FALSTAFF Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry. Fill me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We’ll to Sutton

Coldfield

tonight.

BARDOLPH Will you give me money, captain?

FALSTAFF Lay out, lay out.

BARDOLPH This bottle makes an angel.

FALSTAFF An if it do, take it for thy labor. An if it make twenty, take them all. I’ll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town’s end.

BARDOLPH I will, captain. Farewell. He exits.

FALSTAFF If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the King’s press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders,

yeomen’s

sons, inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice on the banns—such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lief hear the devil as a drum, such as fear the report of a caliver worse

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VERNON

To thirty thousand.

HOTSPUR Forty let it be.

My father and Glendower being both away, The powers of us may serve so great a day.

Come, let us take a muster speedily.

Doomsday is near. Die all, die merrily.

DOUGLAS

Talk not of dying. I am out of fear

Of death or death’s hand for this one half year.

They exit. 140

Scene 2 Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.




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169

than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I pressed me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins’ heads, and they have bought out their services, and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies—slaves as ragged as Lazarus

in the painted cloth, where the glutton’s dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded, unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers tradefallen, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dishonorable-ragged than an old feazed ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them as have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs as if they had gyves on, for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There’s not a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald’s coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Albans or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that’s all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge.

Enter the Prince
and the
Lord of Westmoreland.

PRINCE How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?

FALSTAFF What, Hal, how now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire?—My good Lord of

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171

Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I thought your Honor had already been at Shrewsbury.

WESTMORELAND Faith, Sir John, ’tis more than time that I were there and you too, but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for us all. We must away all night.

FALSTAFF Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.

PRINCE I think to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?

FALSTAFF Mine, Hal, mine.

PRINCE I did never see such pitiful rascals.

FALSTAFF Tut, tut, good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder. They’ll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

WESTMORELAND Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly.

FALSTAFF Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that, and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me.

PRINCE No, I’ll be sworn, unless you call three fingers in the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy is already in the field. He exits.

FALSTAFF What, is the King encamped?

WESTMORELAND He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long.
He exits.

FALSTAFF Well,

To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast

Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

He exits.

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173


Scene 3

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon.


HOTSPUR

We’ll fight with him tonight.

WORCESTER It may not be.

DOUGLAS

You give him then advantage.

VERNON Not a whit.

HOTSPUR

Why say you so? Looks he not for supply?

VERNON So do we.

HOTSPUR His is certain; ours is doubtful.

WORCESTER

Good cousin, be advised. Stir not tonight.

VERNON,
to Hotspur

Do not, my lord.

DOUGLAS You do not counsel well.

You speak it out of fear and cold heart.

VERNON

Do me no slander, Douglas. By my life

(And I dare well maintain it with my life),

If well-respected honor bid me on,

I hold as little counsel with weak fear

As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives. Let it be seen tomorrow in the battle Which of us fears. DOUGLAS Yea, or tonight.

VERNON Content.

HOTSPUR Tonight, say I.

VERNON

Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much,

Being men of such great leading as you are,

That you foresee not what impediments

Drag back our expedition. Certain horse

Of my cousin Vernon’s are not yet come up.

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Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but today,


And now their pride and mettle is asleep, Their courage with hard labor tame and dull, That not a horse is half the half of himself.

HOTSPUR

So are the horses of the enemy

In general journey-bated and brought low. The better part of ours are full of rest.

WORCESTER

The number of the King exceedeth ours.


For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in.

The trumpet sounds a parley.

Enter Sir Walter Blunt.

BLUNT

I come with gracious offers from the King, If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

HOTSPUR

Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt, and would to God You were of our determination.

Some of us love you well, and even those some

Envy your great deservings and good name Because you are not of our quality But stand against us like an enemy.

BLUNT

And God defend but still I should stand so, So long as out of limit and true rule You stand against anointed majesty.

But to my charge. The King hath sent to know

The nature of your griefs, and whereupon

You conjure from the breast of civil peace

Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land

Audacious cruelty. If that the King

Have any way your good deserts forgot,

Which he confesseth to be manifold,

He bids you name your griefs, and with all speed

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177

You shall have your desires with interest And pardon absolute for yourself and these Herein misled by your suggestion.

HOTSPUR

The King is kind, and well we know the King Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.

My father and my uncle and myself

Did give him that same royalty he wears,

And when he was not six-and-twenty strong,

Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low,

A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home,

My father gave him welcome to the shore;

And when he heard him swear and vow to God

He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,

To sue his livery, and beg his peace

With tears of innocency and terms of zeal, My father, in kind heart and pity moved, Swore him assistance and performed it too.

Now when the lords and barons of the realm

Perceived Northumberland did lean to him,

The more and less came in with cap and knee,

Met him in boroughs, cities, villages,

Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,

Laid gifts before him, proffered him their oaths, Gave him their heirs as pages, followed him Even at the heels in golden multitudes.

He presently, as greatness knows itself,

Steps me a little higher than his vow

Made to my father while his blood was poor Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh,

And now forsooth takes on him to reform

Some certain edicts and some strait decrees

That lie too heavy on the commonwealth,

Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep

Over his

country’s

wrongs, and by this face,

This seeming brow of justice, did he win

The hearts of all that he did angle for,

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179

Proceeded further—cut me off the heads

Of all the favorites that the absent king In deputation left behind him here When he was personal in the Irish war.

BLUNT

Tut, I came not to hear this.

HOTSPUR Then to the point.

In short time after, he deposed the King,

Soon after that deprived him of his life

And, in the neck of that, tasked the whole state.

To make that worse, suffered his kinsman March

(Who is, if every owner were well placed,

Indeed his king) to be engaged in Wales,

There without ransom to lie forfeited, Disgraced me in my happy victories,

Sought to entrap me by intelligence,

Rated mine uncle from the council board,

In rage dismissed my father from the court,

Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong,

And in conclusion drove us to seek out

This head of safety, and withal to pry Into his title, the which we find Too indirect for long continuance.

BLUNT

Shall I return this answer to the King?

HOTSPUR

Not so, Sir Walter. We’ll withdraw awhile.

Go to the King, and let there be impawned

Some surety for a safe return again, And in the morning early shall mine uncle Bring him our purposes. And so farewell.

BLUNT

I would you would accept of grace and love.

HOTSPUR

And maybe so we shall.

BLUNT Pray God you do.

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They exit.

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Hie, good Sir Michael, bear this sealèd brief

With wingèd haste to the Lord Marshal,

This to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest

To whom they are directed. If you knew

How much they do import, you would make haste.

SIR MICHAEL

My good lord, I guess their tenor.

ARCHBISHOP Like enough you do.

Tomorrow, good Sir Michael, is a day

Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men

Must bide the touch. For, sir, at Shrewsbury,

As I am truly given to understand,

The King with mighty and quick-raisèd power

Meets with Lord Harry. And I fear, Sir Michael,

What with the sickness of Northumberland,

Whose power was in the first proportion,

And what with Owen Glendower’s absence thence,

Who with them was a rated sinew too

And comes not in, o’erruled by prophecies, I fear the power of Percy is too weak To wage an instant trial with the King.

SIR MICHAEL

Why, my good lord, you need not fear.

There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer.

ARCHBISHOP No, Mortimer is not there.

SIR MICHAEL

But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there is my Lord of Worcester, and a head Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.

ARCHBISHOP

And so there is. But yet the King hath drawn The special head of all the land together:

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181 ACT 4. SC. 4

Scene 4

Enter Archbishop of York and Sir Michael.



ARCHBISHOP,
handing papers

183

ACT 4. SC. 4

SIR MICHAEL

ARCHBISHOP

They exit.

The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,

The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blunt,

And many more corrivals and dear men

Of estimation and command in arms.

Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed.

I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear;

And to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed.

For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the King

Dismiss his power he means to visit us,

For he hath heard of our confederacy,

And ’tis but wisdom to make strong against him.

Therefore make haste. I must go write again

To other friends. And so farewell, Sir Michael.

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KING

PRINCE

KING

The trumpet sounds.

Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,

Sir Walter Blunt,

and

Falstaff.

How bloodily the sun begins to peer

Above yon bulky hill. The day looks pale

At his distemp’rature.

The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.

Then with the losers let it sympathize,

For nothing can seem foul to those that win.

Enter Worcester

and

Vernon.

How now, my Lord of Worcester? ’Tis not well

That you and I should meet upon such terms

As now we meet. You have deceived our trust

And made us doff our easy robes of peace

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.

This is not well, my lord; this is not well.

What say you to it? Will you again unknit

This churlish knot of all-abhorrèd war

187

ACT

5



Scene

1



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189

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light,

And be no more an exhaled meteor,

A prodigy of fear, and a portent

Of broachèd mischief to the unborn times?

WORCESTER Hear me, my liege:

For mine own part I could be well content

To entertain the lag end of my life

With quiet hours. For I protest

I have not sought the day of this dislike.

KING

You have not sought it. How comes it then?

FALSTAFF Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it. PRINCE Peace, chewet, peace.

WORCESTER

It pleased your Majesty to turn your looks

Of favor from myself and all our house; And yet I must remember you, my lord,

We were the first and dearest of your friends. For you my staff of office did I break

In Richard’s time, and posted day and night

To meet you on the way and kiss your hand When yet you were in place and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.

It was myself, my brother, and his son

That brought you home and boldly did outdare

The dangers of the time. You swore to us,

And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,

That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state, Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right, The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster.

To this we swore our aid. But in short space

It rained down fortune show’ring on your head,

And such a flood of greatness fell on you— What with our help, what with the absent king,

What with the injuries of a wanton time,

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191

The seeming sufferances that you had borne,

And the contrarious winds that held the King

So long in his unlucky Irish wars

That all in England did repute him dead— And from this swarm of fair advantages

You took occasion to be quickly wooed

To gripe the general sway into your hand,

Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;

And being fed by us, you used us so

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird,

Useth the sparrow—did oppress our nest,

Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk

That even our love durst not come near your sight

For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing

We were enforced for safety sake to fly

Out of your sight and raise this present head,

Whereby we stand opposèd by such means

As you yourself have forged against yourself

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,

And violation of all faith and troth

Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.

KING

These things indeed you have articulate,

Proclaimed at market crosses, read in churches,

To face the garment of rebellion

With some fine color that may please the eye Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, Which gape and rub the elbow at the news Of hurlyburly innovation.

And never yet did insurrection want

Such water colors to impaint his cause, Nor moody beggars starving for a time Of pellmell havoc and confusion.

PRINCE

In both your armies there is many a soul

Shall pay full dearly for this encounter

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If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,

The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world

In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes,

This present enterprise set off his head,

I do not think a braver gentleman,

More active-valiant, or more valiant-young, More daring or more bold, is now alive To grace this latter age with noble deeds.

For my part, I may speak it to my shame,

I have a truant been to chivalry, And so I hear he doth account me too.

Yet this before my father’s majesty:

I am content that he shall take the odds Of his great name and estimation,

And will, to save the blood on either side, Try fortune with him in a single fight.

KING

And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,

Albeit considerations infinite

Do make against it.—No, good Worcester, no. We love our people well, even those we love That are misled upon your cousin’s part.

And, will they take the offer of our grace,

Both he and they and you, yea, every man Shall be my friend again, and I’ll be his. So tell your cousin, and bring me word

What he will do. But if he will not yield, Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,

And they shall do their office. So begone.

We will not now be troubled with reply.

We offer fair. Take it advisedly.

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Worcester exits
with Vernon.

PRINCE

It will not be accepted, on my life.

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together Are confident against the world in arms.

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KING

Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge, For on their answer will we set on them,

And God befriend us as our cause is just.

They exit. Prince and Falstaff remain.

FALSTAFF Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship.

PRINCE Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell.

FALSTAFF I would ’twere bedtime, Hal, and all well.

PRINCE Why, thou owest God a death.
He exits.

FALSTAFF ’Tis not due yet. I would be loath to pay Him before His day. What need I be so forward with Him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter. Honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then?

No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word

“honor”? What is that “honor”? Air. A trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ’Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.

He exits.

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WORCESTER
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O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard, The liberal and kind offer of the King.

Scene 2




Enter Worcester and Sir Richard Vernon.

VERNON

FTLN 2772 ’Twere best he did.

FTLN 2773 WORCESTER Then are we all

undone.

FTLN 2774 It is not possible, it cannot be 5

FTLN 2775 The King should keep his word in loving us. FTLN 2776 He will suspect us still and find a time FTLN 2777 To punish this offense in other faults.

197


FTLN 2778 Suspicion

all our lives shall be stuck full of

FTLN 2779 eyes, 10

FTLN 2780 For treason is but trusted like the fox,

FTLN 2781 Who, never so tame, so cherished and locked up, FTLN 2782 Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.

FTLN 2783 Look how we can, or sad or merrily,

FTLN 2784 Interpretation will misquote our looks, 15

FTLN 2785 And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, FTLN 2786 The better cherished still the nearer death.

FTLN 2787 My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot;

FTLN 2788 It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,

FTLN 2789 And an adopted name of privilege— 20

FTLN 2790 A harebrained Hotspur governed by a spleen.

FTLN 2791 All his offenses live upon my head

FTLN 2792 And on his father’s. We did train him on,

FTLN 2793 And his corruption being ta’en from us,

FTLN 2794 We as the spring of all shall pay for all. 25

FTLN 2795 Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know FTLN 2796 In any case the offer of the King.

VERNON

FTLN 2797 Deliver what you will; I’ll say ’tis so.

Enter
Hotspur, Douglas, and their army.

FTLN 2798 Here comes your cousin.

FTLN 2799 HOTSPUR,
to Douglas

My uncle is returned. 30

FTLN 2800 Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland.— FTLN 2801 Uncle, what news?

WORCESTER

FTLN 2802 The King will bid you battle presently.

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Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland.

HOTSPUR

Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so.

DOUGLAS

Marry, and shall, and very willingly. Douglas exits.

WORCESTER

There is no seeming mercy in the King.

HOTSPUR

Did you beg any? God forbid!

WORCESTER

I told him gently of our grievances,

Of his oath-breaking, which he mended thus By now forswearing that he is forsworn.

He calls us “rebels,” “traitors,” and will scourge With haughty arms this hateful name in us.

Enter Douglas.

DOUGLAS

Arm, gentlemen, to arms. For I have thrown

A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth,

And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it, Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.

WORCESTER

The Prince of Wales stepped forth before the King, And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.

HOTSPUR

O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads,

And that no man might draw short breath today But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, How showed his tasking? Seemed it in contempt?

VERNON

No, by my soul. I never in my life

Did hear a challenge urged more modestly,

Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms.

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DOUGLAS,
to Hotspur

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He gave you all the duties of a man,

Trimmed up your praises with a princely tongue,

Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, Making you ever better than his praise

By still dispraising praise valued with you,

And, which became him like a prince indeed,

He made a blushing cital of himself,

And chid his truant youth with such a grace As if he mastered there a double spirit Of teaching and of learning instantly.

There did he pause, but let me tell the world:

If he outlive the envy of this day, England did never owe so sweet a hope So much misconstrued in his wantonness.

HOTSPUR

Cousin, I think thou art enamorèd On his follies. Never did I hear

Of any prince so wild a liberty.

But be he as he will, yet once ere night

I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm

That he shall shrink under my courtesy.—

Arm, arm with speed, and, fellows, soldiers, friends,

Better consider what you have to do Than I that have not well the gift of tongue Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER My lord, here are letters for you.

HOTSPUR I cannot read them now.— O gentlemen, the time of life is short;

To spend that shortness basely were too long

If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

An if we live, we live to tread on kings;

If die, brave death, when princes die with us.

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FTLN 2860 Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair FTLN 2861 When the intent of bearing them is just.

Enter another
Messenger.

SECOND

MESSENGER

FTLN 2862 My lord, prepare. The King comes on apace.

HOTSPUR


FTLN 2863 I thank him that he cuts me from my tale,

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FTLN 2865 Let each man do his best. And here draw I a sword,

FTLN 2866 Whose temper I intend to stain FTLN 2867 With the best blood that I can meet withal FTLN 2868 In the adventure of this perilous day.

FTLN 2869 Now, Esperance! Percy! And set on. 100

FTLN 2870 Sound all the lofty instruments of war,

FTLN 2871 And by that music let us all embrace, FTLN 2872 For, heaven to Earth, some of us never shall FTLN 2873 A second time do such a courtesy.

Here they embrace. The trumpets sound.
They exit.

Scene 3

The King enters with his power, crosses the stage and exits.
Alarum to the battle. Then enter Douglas, and Sir Walter Blunt,
disguised as the King.


BLUNT,
as King

FTLN 2874 What is thy name that in the battle thus FTLN 2875 Thou crossest me? What honor dost thou seek



FTLN 2876 Upon my head?

FTLN 2877 DOUGLAS Know then my name is Douglas, FTLN 2878 And I do haunt thee in the battle thus 5

FTLN 2879 Because some tell me that thou art a king.

FTLN 2880 BLUNT,
as King

They tell thee true.

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DOUGLAS

FTLN 2881 The Lord of Stafford dear today hath bought

FTLN 2882 Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry,

FTLN 2883 This sword hath ended him. So shall it thee, 10

FTLN 2884 Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. BLUNT,
as King

FTLN 2885 I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot, FTLN 2886 And thou shalt find a king that will revenge

FTLN 2887 Lord Stafford’s death.

They fight. Douglas kills Blunt.

Then enter Hotspur.

HOTSPUR

FTLN 2888 O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, 15

FTLN 2889 I never had triumphed upon a Scot.

DOUGLAS

FTLN 2890 All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies the King.

FTLN 2891 HOTSPUR Where?

FTLN 2892 DOUGLAS Here. HOTSPUR

FTLN 2893 This, Douglas? No, I know this face full well. 20

FTLN 2894 A gallant knight he was; his name was Blunt, FTLN 2895 Semblably furnished like the King himself.

DOUGLAS, addressing Blunt’s corpse

FTLN 2896 A fool go with thy soul whither it goes!

FTLN 2897 A borrowed title hast thou bought too dear.

FTLN 2898 Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king? 25

HOTSPUR

FTLN 2899 The King hath many marching in his coats.

DOUGLAS

FTLN 2900 Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats. FTLN 2901 I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, FTLN 2902 Until I meet the King.




FTLN 2903 HOTSPUR Up and away! 30

FTLN 2904 Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.

They exit.

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207

Alarm. Enter Falstaff alone.

FALSTAFF Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here. Here’s no scoring but upon the pate.—Soft, who are you? Sir Walter Blunt. There’s honor for you. Here’s no vanity. I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me; I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered. There’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life. But who comes here?

Enter the Prince.

PRINCE

What, stand’st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword.

Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff

Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are yet unrevenged. I prithee Lend me thy sword.

FALSTAFF O Hal, I prithee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy; I have made him sure.

PRINCE

He is indeed, and living to kill thee.

I prithee, lend me thy sword.

FALSTAFF Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.

PRINCE

Give it me. What, is it in the case?

FALSTAFF Ay, Hal, ’tis hot, ’tis hot. There’s that will sack a city.

The Prince draws it out, and finds it to be a bottle of sack.

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PRINCE

What, is it a time to jest and dally now?

He throws the bottle at him and exits. FALSTAFF Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath. Give me life, which, if I can save, so: if not, honor comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.


He exits. Blunt’s body is carried off.

Scene 4

Alarm, excursions. Enter the King, the Prince, Lord John of Lancaster, and the Earl of Westmoreland.


KING

I prithee, Harry, withdraw thyself. Thou bleedest too much.

Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.

LANCASTER

Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.

PRINCE

I beseech your Majesty, make up,

Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.

KING

I will do so.—My Lord of Westmoreland, Lead him to his tent.

WESTMORELAND

Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent.

PRINCE

Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help,

And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive

The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, Where stained nobility lies trodden on,

And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres.

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LANCASTER

We breathe too long. Come, cousin Westmoreland, Our duty this way lies. For God’s sake, come.

Lancaster and Westmoreland exit.

PRINCE

By God, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster. I did not think thee lord of such a spirit. Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now I do respect thee as my soul.

KING

I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point With lustier maintenance than I did look for Of such an ungrown warrior.

PRINCE

O, this boy lends mettle to us all. He exits.

Enter Douglas.

DOUGLAS

Another king! They grow like Hydra’s heads.—

I am the Douglas, fatal to all those

That wear those colors on them. What art thou That counterfeit’st the person of a king?

KING

The King himself, who, Douglas, grieves at heart,

So many of his shadows thou hast met

And not the very king. I have two boys

Seek Percy and thyself about the field,

But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily, I will assay thee. And defend thyself.

DOUGLAS

I fear thou art another counterfeit,

And yet, in faith, thou bearest thee like a king. But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, And thus I win thee.

They fight. The King being in danger, enter Prince of Wales.

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PRINCE

Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like

Never to hold it up again. The spirits

Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms. It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, Who never promiseth but he means to pay.

They fight. Douglas flieth.

To King.
Cheerly, my lord. How fares your Grace? Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succor sent,

And so hath Clifton. I’ll to Clifton straight.

KING Stay and breathe awhile.

Thou hast redeemed thy lost opinion

And showed thou mak’st some tender of my life In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.

PRINCE

O God, they did me too much injury

That ever said I hearkened for your death. If it were so, I might have let alone

The insulting hand of Douglas over you,

Which would have been as speedy in your end As all the poisonous potions in the world, And saved the treacherous labor of your son.

KING

Make up to Clifton. I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.

King exits.

Enter Hotspur.

HOTSPUR

If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

PRINCE

Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name.

HOTSPUR

My name is Harry Percy.

PRINCE Why then I see

A very valiant rebel of the name.

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,

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FTLN 3003 To share with me in glory any more. 65

FTLN 3004 Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere, FTLN 3005 Nor can one England brook a double reign FTLN 3006 Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.

215

HOTSPUR

PRINCE

FALSTAFF

HOTSPUR

PRINCE

flesh.



FTLN 3007 Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come

FTLN 3008 To end the one of us, and would to God 70

FTLN 3009 Thy name in arms were now as great as mine.

FTLN 3010 I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee, FTLN 3011 And all the budding honors on thy crest

FTLN 3012 I’ll crop to make a garland for my head.

HOTSPUR

FTLN 3013 I can no longer brook thy vanities. They fight. 75

Enter Falstaff.

FTLN 3014 Well said, Hal! To it, Hal! Nay, you shall find FTLN 3015 no boys’ play here, I can tell you.

Enter Douglas. He fighteth with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead.
Douglas exits. The Prince killeth Percy.




FTLN 3016 O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth.

FTLN 3017 I better brook the loss of brittle life

FTLN 3018 Than those proud titles thou hast won of me. 80

FTLN 3019 They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my

FTLN 3020

FTLN 3021 But thoughts, the slaves of life, and life, time’s fool,

FTLN 3022 And time, that takes survey of all the world,

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FTLN 3024 But that the earthy and cold hand of death

FTLN 3025 Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust,

FTLN 3026 And food for—
He dies.

FTLN 3027 For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart.

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217

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!

When that this body did contain a spirit,

A kingdom for it was too small a bound,

But now two paces of the vilest earth

Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

If thou wert sensible of courtesy,

I should not make so dear a show of zeal.

But let my favors hide thy mangled face;

He covers Hotspur’s face.

And even in thy behalf I’ll thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven. Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remembered in thy epitaph.

He spieth Falstaff on the ground. What, old acquaintance, could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell.

I could have better spared a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity. Death hath not struck so fat a deer today, Though many dearer in this bloody fray.

Emboweled will I see thee by and by;

Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. He exits.

Falstaff riseth up.

FALSTAFF Emboweled? If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too tomorrow. ’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie. I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valor is discretion, in the

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219

which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure, yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I?

Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah,
stabbing him

with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.

He takes up Hotspur on his back.

Enter Prince and John of Lancaster.


PRINCE

Come, brother John. Full bravely hast thou fleshed Thy maiden sword.

LANCASTER But soft, whom have we here?

Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?

PRINCE I did; I saw him dead,

Breathless and bleeding on the ground.—Art thou alive?

Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight?

I prithee, speak. We will not trust our eyes Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st.

FALSTAFF No, that’s certain. I am not a double man. But if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a jack. There is Percy. If your father will do me any honor, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.

PRINCE

Why, Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead.

FALSTAFF Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying. I grant you, I was down and out of breath, and so was he, but we rose both at an instant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valor bear the sin upon their own heads. I’ll

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221 ACT 5. SC. 5

take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh. If the man were alive and would deny it, zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword.

LANCASTER

This is the strangest tale that ever I heard.

PRINCE

This is the strangest fellow, brother John.— Come bring your luggage nobly on your back.

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,

I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.

A retreat is sounded.

The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours. Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field To see what friends are living, who are dead.

They exit.

FALSTAFF I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him. If I do grow great, I’ll grow less, for I’ll purge and leave sack and live cleanly as a nobleman should do.

He exits
carrying Hotspur’s body.


Scene 5

The trumpets sound. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners,
and Soldiers.

KING

Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.— Ill-spirited Worcester, did not we send grace, Pardon, and terms of love to all of you? And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary, Misuse the tenor of thy kinsman’s trust?

Three knights upon our party slain today, A noble earl, and many a creature else

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223 ACT 5. SC. 5

Had been alive this hour

If, like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne Betwixt our armies true intelligence.

WORCESTER

What I have done my safety urged me to. And I embrace this fortune patiently, Since not to be avoided it falls on me.

KING

Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon too.

Other offenders we will pause upon.

Worcester and Vernon exit, under guard.

How goes the field?

PRINCE

The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw

The fortune of the day quite turned from him,

The noble Percy slain, and all his men

Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest,

And, falling from a hill, he was so bruised

That the pursuers took him. At my tent The Douglas is, and I beseech your Grace I may dispose of him.

KING With all my heart.

PRINCE

Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you This honorable bounty shall belong. Go to the Douglas and deliver him

Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free.

His valors shown upon our crests today

Have taught us how to cherish such high deeds, Even in the bosom of our adversaries.

LANCASTER

I thank your Grace for this high courtesy, Which I shall give away immediately.

KING

Then this remains, that we divide our power.

You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland,

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225 Henry IV, Part I ACT 5. SC. 5

Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed

To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop,

Who, as we hear, are busily in arms. 40

Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March. Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, Meeting the check of such another day.

And since this business so fair is done, 45

Let us not leave till all our own be won.

They exit.

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