Page images
PDF
EPUB

Then all bad poets, we are sure, are foes,
And how their number's swelled, the town well
knows;

In shoals I've marked 'em judging in the pit,
Though they're on no pretence for judgment fit,
But that they have been damned for want of wit;
Since when, they, by their own offences taught,
Set up for spies on plays, and finding fault.
Others there are whose malice we'd prevent;
Such, who watch plays with scurrilous intent
To mark out who by characters are meant:
And though no perfect likeness they can trace,
Yet each pretends to know the copied face.
These with false glosses feed their own ill na-

[blocks in formation]

May such malicious fops this fortune find,
To think themselves alone the fools designed;
If any are so arrogantly vain,
To think they singly can support a scene,
And furnish fool enough to entertain!
For well the learned and the judicious know,
That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low,
As any one abstracted fop to show;
For, as, when painters form a matchless face,
They from each fair one catch some different
grace,

And shining features in one portrait blend,
To which no single beauty must pretend;
So poets oft do in one piece expose

Whole belles assemblées of coquettes and beaux.

THE

PROVOKED WIFE.

BY

VANBURGH.

PROLOGUE.

SINCE 'tis the intent and business of the stage
To copy out the follies of the age;
To hold to every man a faithful glass,
And shew him of what species he's an ass;
I hope the next that teaches in the school
Will shew our author he's a scribbling fool:
And that the satire may be sure to bite,
Kind Heav'n! inspire some venom'd priest to
write,

And grant some ugly lady may indite;
For I would have him lash'd, by Heav'n! I wou'd,
Till his presumption swam away in blood.
Three plays at once proclaim a face of brass;
No matter what they are; that's not the case:
To write three plays, e'en that's to be an ass.
But what I least forgive, he knows it too,
For to his cost he lately has known you.

Experience shews, to many a writer's smart,
You hold a court where mercy ne'er had part;
So much of the old serpent's sting you have,
You love to damn, as Heav'n delights to save.
In foreign parts, let a bold volunteer,
For public good, upon the stage appear,
He meets ten thousand smiles to dissipate his
fear.

All tickle on th' adventuring young beginner,
And only scourge the incorrigible sinner;
They touch, indeed, his faults, but with a hand
So gentle, that his merits still may stand;
Kindly they buoy the follies of his pen,
That he may shun 'em when he writes again.
But 'tis not so in this good-natur❜d town,
All's one, an ox, a poet, or a crown:

Old England's play was always knocking down.

[blocks in formation]

SCENE I-Sir JOHN BRUTE'S House.

Enter Sir JOHN solus.

ACT I.

Sir John. What cloying meat is love-when matrimony's the sauce to it! Two years marriage has debauched my five senses. Every thing I see, every thing I hear, every thing I feel, every thing I smell, and every thing I taste-methinks has wife in't.-No boy was ever so weary of his tutor, no girl of her bib, no nun of doing penance, or old maid of being chaste, as I am of being married. Sure there's a secret curse entailed upon the very name of wife. My lady is a young lady, a fine lady, a witty lady, a virtuous lady-and yet I hate her. There is but one thing on earth I loathe beyond her: that's fighting. Would my courage come up to a fourth part of my ill nature, I'd stand buff to her relations, and thrust her out of doors. But marriage has sunk me down to such an ebb of resolution, I dare not draw my sword, though even to get rid of my wife. But here she comes.

Enter Lady BRUTE.

L. Brute. Do you dine at home to-day, Sir John?

Sir John. Why, do you expect I should tell you what I don't know myself?

L. Brute. I thought there was no harm in asking you.

Sir John. If thinking wrong were an excuse for impertinence, women might be justified in most things they say or do.

L. Brute. I am sorry I have said any thing to displease you.

Sir John. Sorrow for things past, is of as little importance to me, as my dining at home or abroad ought to be to you.

L. Brute. My inquiry was only that I might have provided what you liked.

Sir John. Six to four you had been in the wrong there again; for what I liked yesterday I don't like to-day, and what I like to-day, 'tis odds I mayn't like to-morrow.

L. Brute. But if I had asked you what you liked? Sir John. Why, then there would be more asking about it than the thing is worth.

L. Brute. I wish I did but know how I might please you.

Sir John. Ay, but that sort of knowledge is not a wife's talent.

L. Brute. Whate'er my talent is, I'm sure my will has ever been to make you easy.

Sir John. If women were to have their wills, the world would be finely governed.

L. Brute. What reason have I given you to use me as you do of late? It once was otherwise: you married me for love.

Sir John. And you me for money; so you have your reward, and I have mine.

L. Brute. What is it that disturbs you?
Sir John. A parson.

L. Brute. Why, what has he done to you?
Sir John. He has married me, and be damned
to him.
[Exit.
L. Brute. The devil's in the fellow, I think.-
I was told before I married him, that thus it would
be; but I thought I had charms enough to govern
him, and that where there was an estate, a wo-
man must needs be happy; so my vanity has de-
ceived me, and my ambition has made me uneasy.
But there is some comfort still: if one would be
revenged of him, these are good times; a woman
may have a gallant, and a separate maintenance
too. The surly puppy-yet he's a fool for❜t; for
hitherto he has been no monster; but who knows
how far he may provoke me? I never loved him,
yet I have been ever true to him, and that in
spite of all the attacks of art and nature upon a
poor weak woman's heart, in favour of a tempting
lover. Methinks so noble a defence as I have
made should be rewarded with a better usage-
Or who can tell?-Perhaps a good part of what I
suffer from my husband may be a judgment upon
me for my cruelty to my lover. But hold-let
me go no further-I think I have a right to arm
this surly brute of mine-but if I know my heart,
it will never let me go so far as to injure him.
Enter BELINDA.

L. Brute. Good morrow, dear cousin. Bel. Good morrow, madam; you look pleased this morning.

L. Brute. I am so.

Bel. With what, pray?

L. Brute. With my husband.

Bel. Drown husbands; for yours is a provoking fellow. As he went out just now, I prayed him to tell me what time of day it was, and he asked me if I took him for the church clock, that was obliged to tell all the parish.

L. Brute. He has been saying some good obliging things to me too. In short, Belinda, he has used me so barbarously of late, that I could almost resolve to play the downright wife-and cuckold him.

Bel. That would be downright indeed.

L. Brute. Why, after all, there's more to be said for't than you'd imagine, child. He is the first aggressor, not I.

Bel. Ah, but you know we must return good for evil.

L. Brute. That may be a mistake in the translation. Pr'ythee, be of my opinion, Belinda; for I'm positive I'm in the right, and if you'll keep up the prerogative of a woman, you'll likewise be positive you are in the right, whenever you do

[blocks in formation]

L. Brute. Alas, my dear, I have no secrets. My heart could ne'er yet confine my tongue.

Bel. Your eyes, you mean, for I am sure I have seen them gadding, when your tongue has been locked up safe enough.

L. Brute. My eyes gadding! Pr'ythee after who, child?

Bel. Why, after one that thinks you hate him, as much as I know you love him.

L. Brute. Constant, you mean.
Bel. I do so.

L. Brute. Lord, what should put such a thing into your head?

Bel. That which puts things into most people's heads,-observation.

L. Brute. Why, what have you observed, in the name of wonder?

Bel. I have observed you blush when you met him; force yourself away from him; and then be out of humour with every thing about you: in a word, never was a poor creature so spurr'd on by desire, or so reined in with fear.

L. Brute. How strong is fancy!
Bel. How weak is woman!

L. Brute. Pr'ythee, niece, have a better opinion of your aunt's inclination.

Bel. Ďear aunt, have a better opinion of your nie's understanding.

L. Brute. You'll make me angry.

Bel. You'll make me laugh.

L. Brute. Then you are resolved to persist?
Bel. Positively.

L. Brute. And all I can say

Bel. Will signify nothing.

L. Brute. Though I should swear it were false

Bel. I should think it truc.

L. Brute. Then let us forgive, [Kissing her,] for we have both offended: I, in making a secret; you, in discovering it.

Bel. Good nature may do much ; but you have more reason to forgive one, than I have to pardon t'other.

L. Brute. 'Tis true, Belinda, you have given me so many proofs of your friendship, that my reserve has been, indeed, a crime; but that you may more easily forgive me, remember, child, that when our nature prompts us to a thing our honour and religion forbid us, we would (were it possible) conceal, even from the soul itself, the knowledge of the body's weakness.

Bel. Well, I hope, to make your friend amends, you'll hide nothing from her for the future, though the body should still grow weaker and weaker.

L. Brute. No, from this moment I have no more reserve; and as proof of my repentance, I own, Belinda, I am in danger. Merit and wit assault me from without, nature and love solicit me within; my husband's barbarous usage piques

me to revenge; and Satan, catching the fair occasion, throws in my way that vengeance, which of all vengeance pleases women best.

Bel. 'Tis well Constant don't know the weakness of the fortification; for, o' my conscience, he'd soon on to the assault.

L. Brute. Ay, and I'm afraid carry the town too. But whatever you may have observed, I have dissembled so well as to keep him ignorant. So you see I'm no coquette, Belinda; and if you'll follow my advice, you'll never be one neither. 'Tis true, coquetry is one of the main ingredients in the natural composition of a woman; and I, as well as others, could be well enough pleased to see a crowd of young fellows ogling, and glancing, and watching all occasions to do forty foolish officious things; nay, should some of 'em push on, even to hanging or drowning, why-faithif I should let pure woman alone, I should e'en be too well pleased with it.

Bel. I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely.

L. Brute. But, after all, 'tis a vicious practice in us to give the least encouragement but where we design to come to a conclusion; for 'tis an unreasonable thing to engage a man in a disease, which we before-hand resolve we will never apply a cure to.

Bel. 'Tis true; but then a woman must abandon one of the supreme blessings of her life; for I am fully convinced, no man has half that pleasure in gallanting a mistress, as a woman has in jilting a gallant.

L. Brute. The happiest woman then on earth must be our neighbour.

Bel. Oh, the impertinent composition! She has vanity and affectation enough to make her a ridiculous original, and in spite of all that art and nature ever furnished to any of her sex before her.

L. Brute. She concludes all men her captives; and whatever course they take, it serves to con firm her in that opinion.

Bel. If they shun her, she thinks 'tis modesty, and takes it for a proof of their passion.

L. Brute. And if they are rude to her, 'tis conduct, and done to prevent town-talk.

Bel. When her folly makes 'em laugh, she thinks they are pleased with her wit.

L. Brute. And when her impertinence makes 'em dull, concludes they are jealous of her favours. Bel. All their actions and their words, she takes for granted, aim at her.

L. Brute. And pities all other women, because she thinks they envy her.

Bel. Pray, out of pity to ourselves, let us find a better subject, for I'm weary of this.-Do you think your husband inclined to jealousy?

L. Brute, O no; he does not love me well enough for that. Lord, how wrong men's maxims are! They are seldom jealous of their wives, unless they are very fond of 'em; whereas they ought to consider the women's inclinations, for there depends their fate. Well, men may talk, but they are not so wise as we, that's certain. Bel. At least in our affairs.

L. Brute. Nay, I believe we should outdo 'em

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

L. Fan. How do I look this morning?
Cor. Your ladyship looks very ill, truly.

L. Fan. Lard, how ill-natured thou art, Cornet, to tell me so, though the thing should be true. Don't you know that I have humility enough to be but too easily out of conceit with myself? Hold the glass; I dare say that will have mo. e manners than you have. Mademoiselle, let me have your opinion too.

Madem. My opinion pe, matam, dat your ladyship never look so well in your life.

L. Fan. Well, the French are the prettiest obliging people; they say the most acceptable, well-mannered things-and never flatter.

Madem. Ah, matam, I wish I was fine gentleman for your sake! I do all de ting in de world to get a little way into your heart. I make song, I make verse, I give you de serenade, I give great many present to Mademoiselle; I no eat, I no sleep, I be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. Ah, ma chere dame, que je vous aimerois ! [Embracing her.

L. Fan. Well, the French have strange obliging ways with 'em ; you may take those two pair of gloves, Mademoiselle.

Madem. Me humbly tank my sweet lady.

Enter Servant with a letter.

Serv. Madam, here's a letter for your ladyship.

L. Fun. 'Tis thus I am importuned every morning, Mademoiselle. Pray, how do the French ladies when they are thus accablées ?

Madem. Matam, dey never complain. Au contraire, when one Frense laty have got a hundred lover, den she do all she can-to get a hundred

more.

L. Fun. Well, let me die, I think they have le gout bon. For 'tis an unutterable pleasure to be adored by all the men, and envied by all the women- -Yet I'll swear I'm concerned at the torture I give 'em. Lard, why was I formed to make the whole creation uneasy? But let me read my letter. [Reads.

Madem. Your ladyship say great justice inteed. L. Fan. Nay, every thing is just in my house but Cornet. The very looking-glass gives her the dementi. But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it makes me look so very engaging. 'If you have a mind to hear of your faults, in[Looking affectedly in the glass. stead of being praised for your virtues, take the Madem. Inteed, matam, your face be hand-pains to walk in the Green-walk in St James's somer den all de looking-glass in de world, croyez Park, with your woman, an hour hence. You'll there meet one, who hates you for some things, as he could love you for others, and therefore is willing to endeavour your reformation—come to the place I mention, you'll know who I am: If you don't, you never shall: so take your choice." This is strangely familiar, Mademoiselle; now have I a provoking fancy to know who this impudent fellow is.

moy.

L. Fan. But is it possible my eyes can be so languishing, and so very full of fire?

Madem. Matam, if de glass was burning-glass, I believe your eyes set de fire in de house.

L. Fan. You may take that night-gown, Mademoiselle; get out of the room, Cornet-I cann't endure you. This wench, methinks, does look so insufferably ugly.

Madem. Every ting look ugly, matam, dat stand by your latyship.

L. Fan. No, really, Mademoiselle, methinks you look mighty pretty.

Mudem. Ah, matam, de moon have no eclat,

ven de sun appear.

L. Fun. O, pretty expression! Have you ever been in love, Mademoiselle?

[blocks in formation]

L. Fan. And were you beloved again ?
Madem. No, matam.

[Sighing

L. Fan. O ye gods! what an unfortunate creature should I be in such a case! But nature has made me nice for my own defence; I'm nice, strangely nice, Mademoiselle. I believe, were the merit of all mankind bestowed upon one single person, I should still think the fellow wanted something to make it worth my while to take notice of him; and yet I could love-nay, foudly love, were it possible to have a thing made on purpose for me; for I'm not cruel, Mademoiselle, I'm only nice.

VOL III.

[ocr errors]

-If you

Madem. Den take your scarf and your mask, and go to de rendezvous. De Frense laty do justement comme ça.

L. Fan. Rendezvous! What, rendezvous with a man, Mademoiselle?

Mudem. Eh, pourquoy non?

L. Fan. What, and a man perhaps I never saw in my life?

Madem. Tant mieux : c'est donc quelque chose de nouveau.

L. Fan. Why, how do I know what designs he may have? He may intend to ravish me, for aught I know.

Madem. Ravish! Bagatelle. I would fain see one impudent rogue ravishi Mademoiselle. Oui, je le voudrois.

L. Fan. O, but my reputation, Mademoiselle, my reputation; ah, ma chere reputation!

Madem. Matam-Quand on l'a une fois per-
dus-On n'en est plus embarassée.
L. Fan, Fie, Mademoiselle, fie! reputation is a
jewel.

Madem. Qui coute bien chere, matam.
2 E

« PreviousContinue »