Fore. Well, but they are not mad, that is, not lunatic? Ben. I don't know what you may call madness; but she's mad for a husband, and he's horn mad, I think, or they'd ne'er make a match together. Here they come. SCENE IX. FORESIGHT, SCANDAL, Mrs. FORESIGHT, BEN, Sir SAMPSON, ANGELICA, and BUCKRAM. Sir Samp. Where is this old soothsayer? this uncle of mine elect?-Aha! old Foresight, uncle Foresight, wish me joy, uncle Foresight, double joy, both as uncle and astrologer; here's a conjunction that was not foretold in all your Ephemeris. The brightest star in the blue firmamentis shot from above in a jelly of love, and so forth; and I'm lord of the ascendant. Odd, you're an old fellow, Foresight, uncle I mean; a very old fellow, uncle Foresight; and yet you shall live to dance at my wedding, faith and troth you shall. Odd, we'll have the music of the spheres for thee, old Lilly, that we will, and thou shalt lead up a dance in via lactea! Fore. I'm thunderstruck !-You are not married to my niece? Sir Samp. Not absolutely married, uncle; but very near it, within a kiss of the matter, as you see. [Kisses ANGELICA. Ang. 'Tis very true, indeed, uncle; I hope you'll be my father, and give me. Sir Samp. That he shall, or I'll burn his globes. Body o'me, he shall be thy father, I'll make him thy father, and thou shalt make me a father, and I'll make thee a mother, and we'll beget sons and daughters enough to put the weekly bills out of countenance. Scan. Death and hell! where's Valentine? SCENE X. Sir SAMPSON, ANGELICA, FORESIGHT, Mrs. FORESIGHT, BEN, and BUCKRAM, Mrs. Fore. This is so surprising— Sir Samp. How! what does my aunt say? Surprising, aunt! not at all, for a young couple to make a match in winter: not at all.-It's a plot to undermine cold weather, and destroy that usurper of a bed called a warming-pan. Mrs. Fore. I'm glad to hear you have so much fire in you, sir Sampson. Ben. Mess, I fear his fire's little better than tinder: mayhap it will only serve to light up a match for somebody else. The young woman's a handsome young woman, I can't deny it; but father, if I might be your pilot in this case, you should not marry her. It's just the same thing, as if so be you should sail so far as the Straits without provision. Sir Samp. Who gave you authority to speak, sirrah? To your element, fish! be mute, fish, and to sea! rule your helm, sirrah, don't direct me. Ben. Well, well, take you care of your own helm, or you mayn't keep your new vessel steady. Sir Samp. Why, you impudent tarpaulin! sirrah, do you bring your forecastle jests upon your father? but I shall be even with you, I won't give you a groat.-Mr. Buckram, is the conveyance so worded that nothing can possibly descend to this scoundrel? I would not so much as have him have the prospect of an estate; though there were no way to come to it but by the north-east passage. Buck. Sir, it is drawn according to your directions, there is not the least cranny of the law unstopped. Ben. Lawyer, I believe there's many a cranny and leak unstopped in your conscience.-If so be that one had a pump to your bosom, I believe we should discover a foul hold. They say a witch will sail in a sieve, - but I believe the devil would not venture aboard o'your conscience. And that's for you. Sir Samp. Hold your tongue, sirrah!-How now? who's here? Tat. Suddenly-before we knew where we were -that villain Jeremy, by the help of disguises," tricked us into one another. Fore. Why, you told me just now, you went hence in haste to be married. Ang. But I believe Mr. Tattle meant the favour to me: I thank him. Tat. I did, as I hope to be saved, madam; my intentions were good.-But this is the most cruel thing, to marry one does not know how, nor why, nor wherefore. The devil take me if ever I was so much concerned at anything in my life! Ang. 'Tis very unhappy, if you don't care for one another. Tal. The least in the world; that is, for my part; I speak for myself. Gad, I never had the least thought of serious kindness :-I never liked anybody less in my life. Poor woman! gad, I'm sorry for her, too; for I have no reason to hate her neither; but I believe I shall lead her a damned sort of a life. Mrs. Fore. [Aside to Mrs. FRAIL.] He's better than no husband at all-though he's a coxcomb. Frail. [Aside to Mrs. FORESIGHT.] Ay, ay, it's well it's no worse.-[Aloud.] Nay, for my part I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things; nothing but his being my husband could have made me like him less. Tat. Look you there, I thought as much!--Pox on't, I wish we could keep it secret! why I don't believe any of this company would speak of it. Frail. But, my dear, that's impossible; the parson and that rogue Jeremy will publish it. Tat. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say. Ang. O you'll agree very well in a little time; custom will make it easy to you. Tat. Easy! pox on't! I don't believe I shall sleep to-night. Sir Samp. Sleep, quotha! no; why you would not sleep o' your wedding night! I'm an older fellow than you, and don't mean to sleep. Ben. Why, there's another match now, as tho'f a couple of privateers were looking for a prize, and should fall foul of one another. I'm sorry for the young man with all my heart. Look you, friend, if I may advise you, when she's going, for that you must expect, I have experience of her, when she's going, let her go. For no matrimony is tough enough to hold her, and if she can't drag her anchor along with her, she'll break her cable, I can tell you that.-Who's here? the madman? SCENE XII. VALENTINE, SCANDAL, Sir SAMPSON, ANGELICA, FORESIGHT, Mrs. FORESIGHT, TATTLE, Mrs. FRAIL, BEN, JEREMY, and BUCKRAM. Val. No; here's the fool; and, if occasion be, I'll give it under my hand. Sir Samp. How now! Val. Sir, I'm come to acknowledge my errors, and ask your pardon. Sir Samp. What, have you found your senses at last then? in good time, sir. Val. You were abused, sir, I never was distracted. Fore. How, not mad! Mr. Scandal? Scan. No, really, sir; I'm his witness, it was all counterfeit. Val. I thought I had reasons. But it was a poor contrivance; the effect has shown it such. Sir Samp. Contrivance! what, to cheat me? to cheat your father? sirrah, could you hope to prosper? Val. Indeed, I thought, sir, when the father endeavoured to undo the son, it was a reasonable return of nature. Sir Samp. Very good, sir!—Mr. Buckram, are you ready? [To VALENTINE.] Come, sir, will you sign and seal? Val. If you please, sir; but first I would ask this lady one question. Sir Samp. Sir, you must ask me leave first.That lady! no, sir; you shall ask that lady no questions, till you have asked her blessing, sir; that lady is to be my wife. Val. I have heard as much, sir; but I would have it from her own mouth. Sir Samp. That's as much as to say, I lie, sir, and you don't believe what I say. Val. Pardon me, sir. But I reflect that I very lately counterfeited madness; I don't know but the frolic may go round. Sir Samp. Come, chuck, satisfy him, answer him.-Come, come, Mr. Buckram, the pen and ink. Buck. Here it is, sir, with the deed; all is ready. [VALENTINE goes to ANGELICA. Ang. 'Tis true, you have a great while pretended love to me; nay, what if you were sincere; still you must pardon me, if I think my own inclina tions have a better right to dispose of my person, than yours. Sir Samp. Are you answered now, sir? Sir Samp. Where's your plot, sir? and your contrivance now, sir? Will you sign, sir? come, will you sign and seal? Scan. 'Sdeath, you are not mad indeed, to ruin yourself? Val. I have been disappointed of my only hope; and he that loses hope may part with anything. I never valued fortune, but as it was subservient to my pleasure; and my only pleasure was to please this lady; I have made many vain attempts, and find at last that nothing but my ruin can effect it; which, for that reason, I will sign to.-Give me the paper. Ang. Generous Valentine! [Aside. Val. But where is the bond, by which I am obliged to sign this? Buck. Sir Sampson, you have it. Ang. No, I have it; and I'll use it, as I would everything that is an enemy to Valentine. [Tears the paper. Sir Samp. How now! Val. Ha! Ang. [To VALENTINE.] Had I the world to give you, it could not make me worthy of so generous and faithful a passion; here's my hand, my heart was always yours, and struggled very hard to make this utmost trial of your virtue. Val. Between pleasure and amazement, I am lost. But on my knees I take the blessing. Sir Samp. Oons, what is the meaning of this? Ben. Mess, here's the wind changed again! Father, you and I may make a voyage together now. Ang. Well, sir Sampson, since I have played you a trick, I'll advise you how you may avoid such another. Learn to be a good father, or you'll never get a second wife. I always loved your son, and hated your unforgiving nature. I was resolved to try him to the utmost; I have tried you too, and know you both. You have not more faults than he has virtues; and 'tis hardly more pleasure to me, that I can make him and myself happy, than that I can punish you. Val. If my happiness could receive addition, this kind surprise would make it double. Sir Samp. Oons, you're a crocodile ! Fore. Really, sir Sampson, this is a sudden eclipse. Sir Samp. You're an illiterate old fool, and I'm another! [Exit. Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of a wife, I can spare him mine.-[To JEREMY.] Oh, are you there, sir? I'm indebted to you for my happiness. Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons ; 'twas an arrant mistake.-You see, sir, my master was never mad, or anything like it :-then how could it be otherwise? Val. Tattle, I thank you, you would have inter posed between me and heaven; but Providence laid purgatory in your way :-you have but justice. Scan. I hear the fiddles that sir Sampson provided for his own wedding; methinks 'tis pity they should not be employed when the match is so much mended.-Valentine, though it be morning, we may have a dance. Val. Anything, my friend, everything that looks like joy and transport. Scan. Call 'em, Jeremy. Ang. I have done dissembling now, Valentine ; and if that coldness which I have always worn before you, should turn to an extreme fondness, you must not suspect it. Val. I'll prevent that suspicion :-for I intend to dote to that immoderate degree, that your fondness shall never distinguish itself enough If ever you seem to to be taken notice of. love too much, it must be only when I can't love enough. Ang. Have a care of promises; you know you are apt to run more in debt than you are able to A Dance. Scan. Well, madam, you have done exemplary The miracle to-day is, that we find EPILOGUE SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. SURE Providence at first design'd this place And wanting ready cash to pay for hearts, Or in this very house, for aught we know, I vow, I don't much like this transmigration, Whom, as I think, they call'd-Py-Pythagories;- Grant, Heaven, we don't return to our first station! I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em, I know not what these think, but, for my part, I can't reflect without an aching heart, And some here know I have a begging face. MADAM,-That high station which by your birth you hold above the people, exacts from every one, as a duty, whatever honours they are capable of paying to your Royal Highness: but that more exalted place to which your virtues have raised you above the rest of princes, makes the tribute of our admiration and praise rather a choice more immediately preventing that duty. The public gratitude is ever founded on a public benefit; and what is universally blessed, is always a universal blessing. Thus from yourself we derive the offerings which we bring; and that incense which arises to your name, only returns to its original, and but naturally requites the parent of its being. From hence it is that this poem, constituted on a moral whose end is to recommend and to encourage virtue, of consequence has recourse to your Royal Highness's patronage; aspiring to cast itself beneath your feet, and declining approbation, till you shall condescend to own it, and vouchsafe to shine upon it as on a creature of your influence. It is from the example of princes that virtue becomes a fashion in the people; for even they who are averse to instruction will yet be fond of imitation. But there are multitudes who never can have means nor opportunities of so near an access, as to partake of the benefit of such examples. And to these Tragedy, which distinguishes itself from the vulgar poetry by the dignity of its characters, may be of use and information. For they who are at that distance from original greatness as to be deprived of the happiness of contemplating the perfections and real excellences of your Royal Highness's person in your court, may yet behold some small sketches and imagings of the virtues of your mind, abstracted and represented on the theatre. Thus poets are instructed, and instruct; not alone by precepts which persuade, but also by examples which illustrate. Thus is delight interwoven with instruction; when not only virtue is prescribed, but also represented. But if we are delighted with the liveliness of a feigned representation of great and good persons and their actions, how must we be charmed with beholding the persons themselves! If one or two excelling qualities, barely touched in the single action and small compass of a play, can warm an audience, with a concern and regard even for the seeming success and prosperity of the actor: with what zeal must the hearts of all be filled for the continued and increasing happiness of those who are the true and living instances of elevated and persisting virtue! Even the vicious themselves must have a secret veneration for those peculiar graces and endowments which are daily so eminently conspicuous in your Royal Highness; and, though repining, feel a pleasure which, in spite of envy, they perforce approve. If in this piece, humbly offered to your Royal Highness, there shall appear the resemblance of any of those many excellences which you so promiscuously possess, to be drawn so as to merit your least approbation, it has the end and accomplishment of its design. And however imperfect it may be in the whole, through the inexperience or incapacity of the author, yet, if there is so much as to convince your Royal Highness, that a play may be with industry so disposed (in spite of the licentious practice of the modern theatre) as to become sometimes an innocent, and not unprofitable entertainment; it will abundantly gratify the ambition, and recompense the endeavours of your Royal Highness's most obedient, and most humbly devoted servant, WILLIAM CONGREVE. SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON. THE time has been when plays were not so plenty, Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse; Good wits, forgive this liberty we take, ACT I. SCENE I-A Room of State in the Palace. The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers Alm. Music has charms to soothe a savage To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. Leon. Dear madam, cease, cause, And misery eternal will succeed. Thou canst not tell-thou hast indeed no cause. Have softly whisper'd, and inquired his health; Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance; For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer. Alm. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature, That thus couldst melt to see a stranger's wrongs. O Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo, How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings! Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion. Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause, My love of you begot my grief for him; For I had heard that when the chance of war Had bless'd Anselmo's arms with victory, And the rich spoil of all the field, and you, The glory of the whole, were made the prey Of his success; that then, in spite of hate, Revenge, and that hereditary feud Between Valentia's and Granada's kings, He did endear himself to your affection, By all the worthy and indulgent ways His most industrious goodness could invent; Proposing by a match between Alphonso His son, the brave Valentia prince, and you, To end the long dissension, and unite The jarring crowns. Alm. Alphonso! O Alphonso! Thou too art quiet-long hast been at peaceBoth, both-father and son are now no more. Then why am I? O when shall I have rest? Why do I live to say you are no more? Why are all these things thus ?--Is it of force? Is there necessity I must be miserable? Is it of moment to the peace of heaven That I should be afflicted thus ?—If not, Why is it thus contrived? Why are things laid |