we would mind 'em; but-what! melancholy at your daughter's wedding, sir? Gripe. How deplorable is my condition! Dap. Nay, if you will rob me of my wench, sir, can you blame me for robbing you of your daughter? I cannot be without a woman. Yet Gripe. My daughter, my reputation, and my money gone!-but the last is dearest to me. at once I may retrieve that, and be revenged for the loss of the other; and all this by marrying Lucy here I shall get my five hundred pounds again, and get heirs to exclude my daughter and frustrate Dapperwit; besides, 'tis agreed on all hands, 'tis cheaper keeping a wife than a wench. [Aside. Dap. If you are so melancholy, sir, we will have the fiddles and a dance to divert you; come! A Dance. Gripe. Indeed, you have put me so upon a merry pin, that I resolve to marry too. Flip. Nay, if my brother come to marrying once, I may too; I swore I would, when he did, little thinking Sir Sim, I take you at your word, madam. Flip. Well, but if I had thought you would have been so quick with me Gripe. Where is your parson? Dap. What! you would not revenge yourself upon the parson? Gripe. No, I would have the parson revenge me upon you; he should marry me. Dap. I am glad you are so frolic, sir; but who would you marry? Gripe. That innocent lady? [Pointing to LUCY. Gripe. Nay, I am impatient, Mrs. Joyner; pray fetch him up if he be yet in the house. Dap. We were not married here:-but you cannot be in earnest. Gripe. You'll find it so; since you have robbed Cros. Upon my repute he never saw her before: -but will your worship marry my daughter then? Gripe. I promise her and you, before all this good company, to-morrow I will make her my wife. Dap. How! Ran. Our ladies, sir, I suppose, expect the Dap. But will you marry her to-morrow?— Gripe. I will, verily. Dap. I am undone then! ruined, let me perish! Sir Sim. No, you may hire a little room in Covent Garden, and set up a coffee-house :-you and your wife will be sure of the wits' custom. Dap. Abused by him I have abused !→ Fortune our foe we cannot overwit ; By none but thee our projects are cross-bit. Val. Come, dear madam, what, yet angry?— jealousy sure is much more pardonable before marriage than after it; but to-morrow, by the help of the parson, you'll put me out of all my fears. Chri. I am afraid then you would give me my revenge, and make me jealous of you; and I had rather suspect your faith than you should mine. Ran. Cousin Lydia, I had rather suspect your faith too, than you should mine; therefore let us e'en marry to-morrow, that I may have my turn of watching, dogging, standing under the window, at the door, behind the hanging, or Lyd. But if I could be desperate now and give you up my liberty, could you find in your heart to quit all other engagements, and voluntarily turn yourself over to one woman, and she a wife too? could you away with the insupportable bondage of matrimony? Ran. You talk of matrimony as irreverently as my lady Flippant: the bondage of matrimony! no The end of marriage now is liberty, And two are bound-to set each other free. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY DAPPERWIT: Now, my brisk brothers of the pit, you'll say NEWLY AFTER THE REMOVAL OF THE DUKE'S COMPANY FROM LINCOLN'S-INN-FIELDS TO THEIR NEW THEATRE NEAR SALISBURY-COURT. OUR author (like us) finding 'twould scarce do Where punk in vizor dare not rant and tear And never was it heard of, that the city But still with claps opposed the hissing faction. Prue. Nor to drink a pint of wine with a friend at the Prince in the Sun! Hip. Nor to hear a fiddle in good company!— Prue. Nor to hear the organs and tongs at the Gun in Moorfields ! Hip. Nay, not suffered to go to church, because the men are sometimes there !-Little did I think I should ever have longed to go to church. they talk of; where, they say, there will be no hopes of coming near a man. Prue. But you can marry nobody but your cousin, miss: your father you expect to-night; and be certain his Spanish policy and wariness, whicn has kept you up so close ever since you came from Hackney school, will make sure of you within a day or two at farthest. Hip. Then 'tis time to think how to prevent Prue. Or I either;-but between two maids-him-stay- Prue. Nor come near a man!- Prue. No, miss; but to be denied a man! and to have no use at all of a man! Hip. Hold, hold!—your resentment is as much greater than mine, as your experience has been greater. But all this while, what do we make of my cousin, my husband elect, as my aunt says? We have had his company these three days; is he no man? But Prue. No, faith, he's but a monsieur. you'll resolve yourself that question within these three days; for by that time he'll be your husband, if your father come to-night Hip. Or if I provide not myself with another in the mean time: for fathers seldom choose well; and I will no more take my father's choice in a husband, than I would in a gown, or a suit of knots. So that if that cousin of mine were not an ill-contrived, ugly, freakish fool, in being my father's choice I should hate him. Besides, he has almost made me out of love with mirth and good-humour; for he debases it as much as a jack-pudding, and civility and good breeding more than a city dancing master. Prue. What! won't you marry him then, madam? Hip. Would'st thou have me marry a fool, an idiot? Prue. Lord! 'tis a sign you have been kept up indeed, and know little of the world, to refuse a man for a husband only because he's a fool! Methinks he's a pretty apish kind of a gentleman, like other gentlemen, and handsome enough to lie with in the dark, when husbands take their privileges; and for the day-times, you may take the privilege of a wife. Hip. Excellent governess! you do understand the world, I see. Prue. Then you should be guided by me. Hip. Art thou in earnest then, damned jade? -would'st thou have me marry him?-Well, there are more poor young women undone, and married to filthy fellows by the treachery and evil counsel of chambermaids, than by the obstinacy and covetousness of parents. Prue. Does not your father come on purpose out of Spain to marry you to him? Can you release yourself from your aunt or father any other way? Have you a mind to be shut up as long as you live? For my part, though you can hold out upon the lime from the walls here, salt, old shoes, and oatmeal, I cannot live so I must confess my patience is worn out. Hip. Alas, alas, poor Prue! your stomach lies another way: I will take pity of you, and get me a husband very suddenly, who may have a servant at your service. But rather than marry my cousin, I will be a nun in the new protestant nunnery Prue. In vain, vain, miss! Hip. If we knew but any man, any man, though he were but a little handsomer than the devil, so that he were a gentleman! Prue. What if you did know any man? if you had an opportunity, could you have confidence to speak to a man first? but if you could, how could you come to him, or he to you? nay, how could you send to him? for though you could write, which your father in his Spanish prudence would never permit you to learn, who should carry the letter?-But we need not be concerned for that, since we know not to whom to send it. Hip. Stay- it must be so I'll try how ever - Enter MONSIEUR DE PARIS. Mons. Serviteur! serviteur! la cousine; I come to give the bon soir, as the French say. Hip. O, cousin! you know him; the fine gentleman they talk of so much in town. Prue. What! will you talk to him of any man else? Mons. Monsieur Taileur, Monsieur Esmit, Monsieur Hip. These are Frenchmen Mons. Non, non; voud you have me say Mr. Taylor, Mr. Smith? Fi! fi! teste non!Hip. But don't you know the brave gentleman they talk of so much in town? Mons. Who? Monsieur Gerrard ? Hip. What kind of man is that Mr. Gerrard ? and then I'll tell you. Mons. Why he is truly a pretty man, a pretty man-a pretty so so-kind of man, for an Englishman. Hip. How a pretty man? Mons. Why, he is conveniently tall—but— Mons. And not ill-shaped-but Hip. But what? Mons. And handsome, as 'tis thought, butHip. But! what are your exceptions to him? Mons. I can't tell you, because they are innumerable, innumerable, mon foy! Hip. Has he wit? 1 1 88 38 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. Mons. And yet this man has been abroad as much as any man, and does not make the least show of it, but a little in his mien, not at all in his discour, jarnie! He never talks so much as of St. Peter's church at Rome, the Escurial, or Madrid; nay, not so much as of Henry IV., of Pont-neuf, Paris, and the new Louvre, nor of the Grand Roy. Hip. 'Tis for his commendation, if he does not talk of his travels. Mons. Auh! auh!-cousine-he is conscious to himself of his wants, because he is very envious; for he cannot endure me. Hip. [Aside.] He shall be my man then for that.-Ay, ay! 'tis the same, Prue.-[Aloud.] No, I know he can't endure you, cousin. Mons. How do you know it who never stir out? teste non ! Hip. Well-dear cousin,-if you will promise me never to tell my aunt, I'll tell you. Mons. I won't, I won't, jarnie ! Hip. Nor to be concerned yourself, so as to make a quarrel of it. Mons. Non, non Hip. Upon the word of a gentleman? Mons. Foy de chevalier, I will not quarrel. Prue. Lord, miss! I wonder you won't believe him without more ado. Hip. Then he has the hatred of a rival for you. Mons. Mal a peste ! Hip. You know my chamber is backward, and has a door into the gallery which looks into the back yard of a tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once spying me at the window, has often since attempted to come in at that window by the help of the leads of a low building adjoining; and, indeed, 'twas as much as my maid and I could do to keep him out. Mons. Au, le coquin ! Hip. But nothing is stronger than aversion; for I hate him perfectly, even as much as I love you Prue. I believe so, faith!—but what design have we now on foot? [Aside. Hip. This discovery is an argument, sure, of my love to you. Mons. Ay, ay, say no more, cousin, I doubt not your amour for me, because I doubt not your judgment. But what's to be done with this fanfaron?-I know where he eats to-night-I'll go find him out, ventre bleu ! Hip. O, my dear cousin, you will not make a quarrel of it? I thought what your promise would ACT I. be afraid of losing your mistress? To show such a fear to your rival, were for his honour, and not for yours, sure. Mons. Nay, cousin, I'd have you know I was never afraid of losing my mistress in earnest.-Let me see the man can get my mistress from me, jarnie! But he that loves must seem a little jealous. Hip. Not to his rival: those that have jealousy hide it from their rivals. Mons. But there are some who say, jealousy is no more to be hid than a cough :-but it should never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is not French at all-ventre bleu ! Hip. No, you should rally your rival, and rather make a jest of your quarrel to him; and that, I suppose, is French too. Mons. 'Tis so, 'tis so, cousine; 'tis the veritable French method; for your Englis, for want of wit, drive every thing to a serious grum quarrel, and then would make a jest on't, when 'tis too late, when they can't laugh, jarnie! Hip. Yes, yes, I would have you rally him soundly do not spare him a jot.-But shall you see him to-night? Mons. Ay, ay. Hip. Yes; pray be sure to see him for the jest's sake. Mons. I will-for I love a jest as well as any bel esprit of 'em all-da! Hip. Ay, and rally him soundly; be sure you rally him soundly, and tell him just thus :-that the lady he has so long courted, from the great window of the Ship tavern, is to be your wife tomorrow, unless he come at his wonted hour of six in the morning to her window to forbid the bans; for 'tis the first and last time of asking; and if he come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away, and hold his tongue. Mons. Ha ha! ha! a very good jest, teste bleu ! Hip. And if the fool should come again, I would tell him his own, I warrant you, cousin. My gentleman should be satisfied for good and all, I'd secure him. Mons. Ha ha! ha! cousine, dou art a merry grig, ma foy!—I long to be with Gerrard; and I am the best at improving a jest-I shall have such divertisement to-night, teste bleu! Hip. He'll deny, may be, at first, that he ever courted any such lady. Mons. Nay, I am sure he'll be ashamed of it, I shall make him look so sillily, teste non !—I long to find him out.-Adieu, adieu, la cousine. Hip. Shall you be sure to find him? Mons. Indubitablement, I'll search the town over, but I'll find him: ha! ha! ha!-[Exit MONSIEUR, and returns.]-But I'm afraid, cousine, if I should tell him you are to be my wife to-morrow, he would not come: now, I am for having him come for the jest's sake, ventre ! Hip. So am I, cousin, for having him come too, for the jest's sake. ha! Mons. Well, well, leave it to me:-ha! ha! SCENE II. THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. Enter Mrs. CAUTION, Mrs. Caut. What's all this giggling here? Mons. Hey! do you tinke we'll tell you? no, fait, I warrant you, teste non!-ha! ha! ha! Hip. My cousin is overjoyed, I suppose, that my father is to come to-night. Mrs. Caut. I am afraid he will not come tonight :-but you'll stay and see, nephew? Mons. Non, non: I am to sup at t'other end of the town to-night-La, la, la-Ra, ra, ra— [Exit singing. Mrs. Caut. I wish the French levity of this young man may agree with your father's Spanish gravity. Hip. Just as your crabbed old age and my youth agree. Mrs. Caut. Well, malapert, I know you hate me, because I have been the guardian of your reputation: but your husband may thank me one day." Hip. If he be not a fool, he would rather be obliged to me for my virtue than to you, since, at long run, he must, whether he will or no. Mrs. Caut. Yes, yes, when I cannot sleep. Hip. Ha ha!-I believe it. But know, I have had those thoughts sleeping and waking; for I have dreamt of a man. Mrs. Caut. No matter, no matter, so that it was but a dream : I have dreamt myself. For you must know, widows are mightily given to dream; insomuch that a dream is waggishly called the Widow's Comfort. Hip. But I did not only dream in- [Sighs. Mrs. Caut. How, how! did you more than dream? speak, young harlotry! confess; did you more than dream? How could you do more than dream in this house? speak, confess! Hip. Well, I will then. Indeed, aunt, I did not only dream, but I was pleased with my dream when I awaked. Mrs. Caut. Oh, is that all?-Nay, if a dream only will please you, you are a modest young woman still but have a care of a vision. Hip. Ay; but to be delighted when we wake with a naughty dream, is a sin, aunt; and I am so very scrupulous, that I would as soon consent to a naughty man as to a naughty dream. Mrs. Caut. I do believe you. Hip. I am for going into the throng of temptations. Mrs. Caut. There I believe you again. 39 Hip. And making myself so familiar with them, that I would not be concerned for 'em a whit. Mrs. Caut. There I do not believe you. Hip. And would take all the innocent liberty of the town :-to tattle to your men under a vizard in the playhouses, and meet 'em at night in masquerade. Mrs. Caut. There I do believe you again; I know you would be masquerading: but worse would come on't, as it has done to others who have been in a masquerade, and are now virgins but in masquerade, and will not be their own women again as long as they live. The children of this age must be wise children indeed if they know their fathers, since their mothers themselves cannot inform 'em! O, the fatal liberty of this masquerading age! when I was a young woman— Hip. Come, come, do not blaspheme this masquerading age, like an ill-bred city-dame, whose husband is half broke by living in Covent-garden, or who has been turned out of the Temple or Lincoln's-Inn upon a masquerading night. By what I've heard, 'tis a pleasant, well-bred, complaisant, free, frolic, good-natured, pretty age: and if you do not like it, leave it to us that do. Mrs. Caut. Lord, how impudently you talk, niece! I'm sure I remember when I was a maidHip. Can you remember it, reverend aunt? Mrs. Caut. Yes, modest niece, that a raw young thing, though almost at woman's estate, (that was then at thirty or thirty-five years of age,) would not so much as have looked upon a man Hip. Above her father's butler or coachman. Mrs. Caut. Still taking me up! Well, thou art a mad girl; and so good night. We may go to bed; for I suppose now your father will not come to-night. [Exit. Hip. I'm sorry for it; for I long to see him.— [Aside.] But I lie: I had rather see Gerrard here; and yet I know not how I shall like him. If he has wit, he will come; and if he has none, he would not be welcome. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The French-House.-A Table, Bottles, and Candles. Enter Mr. GERRARD, MARTIN, and MONSIEUR DE PARIS. Mons. "Tis ver veritable, jarnie! what the French say of you Englis: you use the debauch so much, it cannot have with you the French operation; you are never enjoyee. But come, let us for once be enfinement galliard, and sing a French sonnet. [Sings,-La boutelle, la boutelle, glou, glou. Mar. [To GERRARD.] What a melodious fop it is! Mons. Auh! you have no complaisance. Ger. No, we can't sing; but we'll drink to you the lady's health, whom (you say) I have so long courted at her window. Mons. Ay, there is your complaisance: all your Englis complaisance is pledging complaisance, ventre! But if I do you reason here, [takes the glass.]-will you do me reason to a little French chanson à boire I shall begin to you ?—La boutelle, la boutelle, la[Sings. Mar. [To GERRARD.] I had rather keep company with a set of wide-mouthed, drunken cathedral choristers. Were |