THE LOVE-CHASE.

by
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:
london, paris, new york & melbourne.
1887.

THE LOVE-CHASE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

(AS ORIGINALLY PERFORMED AT THE HAYMARKET, IN l837.)

SCENE—LONDON.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—The Lobby of an Inn.

[Enter Chargewell, hurriedly.]

Charg. What, hoa there! Hoa, sirrahs! More wine! Are the knaves asleep? Let not our guests cool, or we shall starve the till! Good waiting, more than viands and wine, doth help to make the inn!—George!—Richard!—Ralph!—Where are you?

[Enter George.]

George. Here am I, sir!

Charg. Have you taken in more wine to that company?

George. Yes, sir.

Charg. That’s right. Serve them as quick as they order! A fair company! I have seen them here before. Take care they come again. A choice company! That Master Waller, I hear, is a fine spirit—leads the town. Pay him much duty. A deep purse, and easy strings.

George. And there is another, sir;—a capital gentleman, though from the country. A gentleman most learned in dogs and horses! He doth talk wondrous edification:—one Master Wildrake. I wish you could hear him, sir.

Charg. Well, well!—attend to them. Let them not cool o’er the liquor, or their calls will grow slack. Keep feeding the fire while it blazes, and the blaze will continue. Look to it well!

George. I will, sir.

Charg. And be careful, above all, that you please Master Waller. He is a guest worth pleasing. He is a gentleman. Free order, quick pay!

George. And such, I’ll dare be sworn, is the other. A man of mighty stores of knowledge—most learned in dogs and horses! Never was I so edified by the discourse of mortal man.

[They go out severally.]

SCENE II.—A Room.

[Master Waller, Master Wildrake, Master Trueworth, Master Neville, and Master Humphreys, sitting round a table.]

Wal. Well, Master Wildrake, speak you of the chase!
To hear you one doth feel the bounding steed;
You bring the hounds and game, and all to view—
All scudding to the jovial huntsman’s cheer!
And yet I pity the poor crownéd deer,
And always fancy ’tis by fortune’s spite,
That lordly head of his, he bears so high—
Like Virtue, stately in calamity,
And hunted by the human, worldly hound—
Is made to fly before the pack, that straight
Burst into song at prospect of his death.
You say their cry is harmony; and yet
The chorus scarce is music to my ear,
When I bethink me what it sounds to his;
Nor deem I sweet the note that rings the knell
Of the once merry forester!

Nev. The same things
Please us or pain, according to the thought
We take of them. Some smile at their own death,
Which most do shrink from, as beast of prey
It kills to look upon. But you, who take
Such pity of the deer, whence follows it
You hunt more costly game?—the comely maid,
To wit, that waits on buxom Widow Green?

Hum. The comely maid! Such term not half the sum
Of her rich beauty gives! Were rule to go
By loveliness, I knew not in the court,
Or city, lady might not fitly serve
That lady serving-maid!

True. Come! your defence?
Why show you ruth where there’s least argument,
Deny it where there’s most? You will not plead?
Oh, Master Waller, where we use to hunt
We think the sport no crime!

Hum. I give you joy,
You prosper in your chase.

Wal. Not so! The maid
In simple honesty I must pronounce
A miracle of virtue, well as beauty.

Nev. And well do I believe you, Master Waller;
Those know I who have ventured gift and promise
But for a minute of her ear—the boon
Of a poor dozen words spoke through a chink—
And come off bootless, save the haughty scorn
That cast their bounties back to them again.

True. That warrants her what Master Waller speaks her.
Is she so very fair?

Nev. Yes, Master Trueworth;
And I believe indeed an honest maid:
But Love’s the coin to market with for love,
And that knows Master Waller. On pretence
Of sneaking kindness for gay Widow Green,
He visits her, for sake of her fair maid!
To whom a glance or word avails to hint
His proper errand; and—as glimpses only
Do only serve to whet the wish to see—
Awakens interest to hear the tale
So stintingly that’s told. I know his practice—
Luck to you, Master Waller! If you win,
You merit it, who take the way to win!

Wal. Good Master Neville!

True. I should laugh to see
The poacher snared!—the maid, for mistress sought,
Turn out a wife.

Nev. How say you, Master Waller?
Things quite as strange have fallen!

Wal. Impossible!

True. Impossible! Most possible of things—
If thou’rt in love! Where merit lies itself,
What matters it to want the name, which weighed,
Is not the worth of so much breath as it takes
To utter it! If, but from Nature’s hand,
She is all you could expect of gentle blood,
Face, form, mien, speech; with these, what to belong
To lady more behoves—thoughts delicate,
Affections generous, and modesty—
Perfectionating, brightening crown of all!—
If she hath these—true titles to thy heart—
What does she lack that’s title to thy hand?
The name of lady, which is none of these,
But may belong without? Thou mightst do worse
Than marry her. Thou wouldst, undoing her,
Yea, by my mother’s name, a shameful act
Most shamefully performed!

Wal. [Starting up and drawing.] Sir!

Nev. [And the others, interposing.] Gentlemen!

True. All’s right! Sit down!—I will not draw again.
A word with you: If—as a man—thou sayest,
Upon thy honour, I have spoken wrong,
I’ll ask thy pardon!—though I never hold
Communion with thee more!

Wal. [After a pause, putting up his sword.]
My sword is sheathed!
Wilt let me take thy hand?

True. ’Tis thine, good sir,
And faster than before—A fault confessed
Is a new virtue added to a man!
Yet let me own some blame was mine. A truth
May be too harshly told—but ’tis a theme
I am tender on—I had a sister, sir,
You understand me!—’Twas my happiness
To own her once—I would forget her now!—
I have forgotten!—I know not if she lives!—
Things of such strain as we were speaking of,
Spite of myself, remind me of her!—So!—

Nev. Sit down! Let’s have more wine.

Wild. Not so, good sirs.
Partaking of your hospitality,
I have overlooked good friends I came to visit,
And who have late become sojourners here—
Old country friends and neighbours, and with whom
I e’en take up my quarters. Master Trueworth,
Bear witness for me.

True. It is even so.
Sir William Fondlove and his charming daughter.

Wild. Ay, neighbour Constance. Charming, does he say?
Yes, neighbour Constance is a charming girl
To those that do not know her. If she plies me
As hard as was her custom in the country,
I should not wonder though, this very day,
I seek the home I quitted for a month! [Aside.]

Good even, gentlemen.

Hum. Nay, if you go,
We all break up, and sally forth together.

Wal. Be it so—Your hand again, good Master Trueworth!
I am sorry I did pain you.

True. It is thine, sir.

[They go out.]

SCENE III.—Sir William Fondlove’s House.—A Room.

[Enter Sir William Fondlove.]

Sir Wil. At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings,
Is an old child—and with a daughter, too!
Her mother held me ne’er in check so strait
As she. I must not go but where she likes,
Nor see but whom she likes, do anything
But what she likes!—A slut bare twenty-one!
Nor minces she commands! A brigadier
More coolly doth not give his orders out
Than she! Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp;
My steward adjutant; my lacqueys serjeants;
That bring me her high pleasure how I march
And counter-march—when I’m on duty—when
I’m off—when suits it not to tell it me
Herself—“Sir William, thus my mistress says!”
As saying it were enough—no will of mine
Consulted! I will marry. Must I serve,
Better a wife, my mistress, than a daughter!
And yet the vixen says, if I do marry,
I’ll find she’ll rule my wife, as well as me!

[Enter Trueworth.]

Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth!

True. Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!

Sir Wil. Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill,
’Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps;
By strides we reach the bottom. Look at me,
And guess my age.

True. Turned fifty.

Sir Wil. Ten years more!
How marvellously well I wear! I think
You would not flatter me!—But scan me close,
And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing
He means to find—What signs of age dost see?

True. None!

Sir Wil. None about the corners of the eyes?
Lines that diverge like to the spider’s joists,
Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?
They call them crow’s feet—has the ugly bird
Been perching there?—Eh?—Well?

True. There’s something like,
But not what one must see, unless he’s blind
Like steeple on a hill!

Sir Wil. [After a pause.] Your eyes are good!
I am certainly a wonder for my age;
I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?

True. A plummet from your head would find your heel.

Sir Wil. It is my make—my make, good Master Trueworth;
I do not study it. Do you observe
The hollow in my back? That’s natural.
As now I stand, so stood I when a child,
A rosy, chubby boy!—I am youthful to
A miracle! My arm is firm as ’twas
At twenty. Feel it!

True. [Feeling Sir William’s arm.] It is deal!

Sir Wil. Oak—oak,
Isn’t it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known me
Ten years and upwards. Thinkest my leg is shrunk?

True. No.

Sir Wil. No! not in the calf?

True. As big a calf
As ever!

Sir Wil. Thank you, thank you—I believe it!
When others waste, ’tis growing-time with me!
I feel it, Master Trueworth! Vigour, sir,
In every joint of me—could run!—could leap!
Why shouldn’t I marry? Knife and fork I play
Better than many a boy of twenty-five—
Why shouldn’t I marry? If they come to wine,
My brace of bottles can I carry home,
And ne’er a headache. Death! why shouldn’t I marry?

True. I see in nature no impediment.

Sir Wil. Impediment? She’s all appliances!—
And fortune’s with me, too! The Widow Green
Gives hints to me. The pleasant Widow Green
Whose fortieth year, instead of autumn, brings,
A second summer in. Odds bodikins,
How young she looks! What life is in her eyes!
What ease is in her gait!—while, as she walks,
Her waist, still tapering, takes it pliantly!
How lollingly she bears her head withal:
On this side now—now that! When enters she
A drawing-room, what worlds of gracious things
Her curtsey says!—she sinks with such a sway,
Greeting on either hand the company,
Then slowly rises to her state again!
She is the empress of the card-table!
Her hand and arm!—Gods, did you see her deal—
With curved and pliant wrist dispense the pack,
Which, at the touch of her fair fingers fly!
How soft she speaks—how very soft! Her voice
Comes melting from her round and swelling throat,
Reminding you of sweetest, mellowest things—
Plums, peaches, apricots, and nectarines—
Whose bloom is poor to paint her cheeks and lips.
By Jove, I’ll marry!

True. You forget, Sir William,
I do not know the lady.

Sir Wil. Great your loss.
By all the gods I’ll marry!—but my daughter
Must needs be married first. She rules my house;
Would rule it still, and will not have me wed.
A clever, handsome, darling, forward minx!
When I became a widower, the reins
Her mother dropped she caught,—a hoyden girl;
Nor, since, would e’er give up; howe’er I strove
To coax or catch them from her. One way still
Or t’other she would keep them—laugh, pout, plead;
Now vanquish me with water, now with fire;
Would box my face, and, ere I well could ope
My mouth to chide her, stop it with a kiss!
The monkey! What a plague she’s to me! How
I love her! how I love the Widow Green!

True. Then marry her!

Sir Wil. I tell thee, first of all
Must needs my daughter marry. See I not
A hope of that; she nought affects the sex:
Comes suitor after suitor—all in vain.
Fast as they bow she curtsies, and says, “Nay!”
Or she, a woman, lacks a woman’s heart,
Or hath a special taste which none can hit.

True. Or taste, perhaps, which is already hit.

Sir Wil. Eh!—how?

True. Remember you no country friend,
Companion of her walks—her squire to church,
Her beau whenever she went visiting—
Before she came to town?

Sir Wil. No!

True. None?—art sure?
No playmate when she was a girl?

Sir Wil. O! ay!
That Master Wildrake, I did pray thee go
And wait for at the inn; but had forgotten.
Is he come?

True. And in the house. Some friends that met him,
As he alighted, laid strong hands upon Him,
And made him stop for dinner. We had else
Been earlier with you.

Sir Wil. Ha! I am glad he is come.

True. She may be smit with him.

Sir Wil. As cat with dog!

True. He heard her voice as we did mount the stairs,
And darted straight to join her.

Sir Wil. You shall see
What wondrous calm and harmony take place,
When fire meets gunpowder!

Con. [Without.] Who sent for you?
What made you come?

Wild. [Without.] To see the town, not you! A kiss!

Con. I vow I’ll not.

Wild. I swear you shall.

Con. A saucy cub! I vow, I had as lief
Your whipper-in had kissed me.

Sir Wil. Do you hear?

True. I do. Most pleasing discords!

[Enter Constance and Wildrake.]

Con. Father, speak
To neighbour Wildrake!

Sir Wil. Very glad to see him!

Wild. I thank you, good Sir William! Give you joy
Of your good looks!

Con. What, Phœbe!—Phœbe!—Phœbe!

Sir Wil. What wantest thou with thy lap-dog?

Con. Only, sir,
To welcome neighbour Wildrake! What a figure
To show himself in town!

Sir Wil. Wilt hold thy peace?

Con. Yes; if you’ll lesson me to hold my laughter!
Wildrake.

Wild. Well?

Con. Let me walk thee in the Park—
How they would stare at thee!

Sir Wil. Wilt ne’er give o’er?

Wild. Nay, let her have her way—I heed her not!
Though to more courteous welcome I have right;
Although I am neighbour Wildrake! Reason is reason!

Con. And right is right! so welcome, neighbour Wildrake,
I am very, very, very glad to see you!
Come, for a quarter of an hour we’ll e’en
Agree together! How do your horses, neighbour?

Wild. Pshaw!

Con. And your dogs?

Wild. Pshaw!

Con. Whipper-in and huntsman?

Sir Wil. Converse of things thou knowest to talk about!

Con. And keep him silent, father, when I know
He cannot talk of any other things?
How does thy hunter? What a sorry trick
He played thee t’other day, to balk his leap
And throw thee, neighbour! Did he balk the leap?
Confess! You sportsmen never are to blame!
Say you are fowlers, ’tis your dog’s in fault!
Say you are anglers, ’tis your tackle’s wrong;
Say you are hunters, why the honest horse
That bears your weight, must bear your blunders too!
Why, whither go you?

Wild. Anywhere from thee.

Con. With me you mean.

Wild. I mean it not.

Con. You do!
I’ll give you fifty reasons for’t—and first,
Where you go, neighbour, I’ll go!

[They go out—Wildrake, pettishly—Constance laughing.]

Sir Wil. Do you mark?
Much love is there!

True. Indeed, a heap, or none!
I’d wager on the heap!

Sir Wil. Ay!—Do you think
These discords, as in the musicians’ art,
Are subtle servitors to harmony?
That all this war’s for peace? This wrangling but
A masquerade where love his roguish face
Conceals beneath an ugly visor!—Well?

True. Your guess and my conceit are not a mile
Apart. Unlike to other common flowers,
The flower of love shews various in the bud;
’Twill look a thistle, and ’twill blow a rose!
And with your leave I’ll put it to the test;
Affect myself, for thy fair daughter, love—
Make him my confidant—dilate to him
Upon the graces of her heart and mind,
Feature and form—that well may comment bear—
Till—like the practised connoisseur, who finds
A gem of heart out in a household picture
The unskilled owner held so cheap he grudged
Renewal of the chipped and tarnished frame,
But values now as priceless—I arouse him
Into a quick sense of the worth of that
Whose merit hitherto, from lack of skill,
Or dulling habit of acquaintanceship,
He has not been awake to.

Con. [Without.] Neighbour Wildrake!

Sir Wil. Hither they come. I fancy well thy game!
O to be free to marry Widow Green!
I’ll call her hence anon—then ply him well.

[Sir William goes out.]

Wild. [Without.] Nay, neighbour Constance!

True. He is high in storm.

[Enter Wildrake and Constance.]

Wild. To Lincolnshire, I tell thee.

Con. Lincolnshire!
What, prithee, takes thee off to Lincolnshire?

Wild. Too great delight in thy fair company.

True. Nay, Master Wildrake, why away so soon?
You are scarce a day in town!—Extremes like this,
And starts of purpose, are the signs of love.
Though immatured as yet. [Aside.]

Con. He’s long enough
In town! What should he here? He’s lost in town:
No man is he for concerts, balls, or routs!
No game he knows at cards, save rare Pope Joan!
He ne’er could master dance beyond a jig;
And as for music, nothing to compare
To the melodious yelping of a hound,
Except the braying of his huntsman’s horn!
Ask him to stay in town!

Sir Wil. [Without.] Hoa, Constance!

Con. Sir!—
Neighbour, a pleasant ride to Lincolnshire!
Good-bye!

Sir Wil. [Without.] Why, Constance!

Con. Coming, sir. Shake hands!
Neighbour, good-bye! Don’t look so woe-begone;
’Tis but a two-days’ ride, and thou wilt see
Rover, and Spot, and Nettle, and the rest
Of thy dear country friends!

Sir Wil. [Without.] Constance! I say.

Con. Anon!—Commend me to the gentle souls,
And pat them for me!—Will you, neighbour Wildrake?

Sir Wil. [Without.] Why, Constance! Constance!

Con. In a moment, sir!
Good-bye!—I’d cry, dear neighbour—if I could!
Good-bye!—A pleasant day when next you hunt!
And, prithee, mind thy horse don’t balk his leap!
Good-bye!—and, after dinner, drink my health!
“A bumper, sirs, to neighbour Constance!”—Do!—
And give it with a speech, wherein unfold
My many graces, more accomplishments,
And virtues topping either—in a word,
How I’m the fairest, kindest, best of neighbours!

[They go out severally.—Trueworth trying to pacify Wildrake—Constance laughing.]

ACT II.

SCENE I.—A Room in Sir William’s House.

[Enter Trueworth and Wildrake.]

Wild. Nay, Master Trueworth, I must needs be gone!
She treats me worse and worse! I am a stock,
That words have none to pay her. For her sake
I quit the town to-day. I like a jest,
But hers are jests past bearing. I am her butt,
She nothing does but practise on! A plague!—
Fly her shafts ever your way?

True. Would they did!

Wild. Art mad?—or wishest she should drive thee so?

True. Thou knowest her not.

Wild. I know not neighbour Constance?
Then know I not myself, or anything
Which as myself I know!

True. Heigh ho!

Wild. Heigh ho!
Why what a burden that for a man’s song!
Would fit a maiden that was sick for love.
Heigh ho! Come ride with me to Lincolnshire,
And turn thy “Heigh ho!” into “hilly ho!”

True. Nay, rather tarry thou in town with me.
Men sometimes find a friend’s hand of avail,
When useless proves their own. Wilt lend me thine?

Wild. Or may my horse break down in a steeple-chase!

True. A steeple-chase. What made thee think of that?
I’m for the steeple—not to ride a race,
Only to get there!—nor alone, in sooth,
But in fair company.

Wild. Thou’rt not in love!

True. Heigh ho!

Wild. Thou wouldst not marry!

True. With your help.

Wild. And whom, I prithee?

True. Gentle Mistress Constance!

Wild. What!—neighbour Constance?—Never did I dream
That mortal man would fall in love with her. [Aside.]
In love with neighbour Constance!—I feel strange
At thought that she should marry!—[Aside.] Go to church
With neighbour Constance! That’s a steeple-chase
I never thought of. I feel very strange!
What seest in neighbour Constance?

True. Lovers’ eyes
See with a vision proper to themselves;
Yet thousand eyes will vouch what mine affirm.
First, then, I see in her the mould express
Of woman—stature, feature, body, limb—
Breathing the gentle sex we value most,
When most ’tis at antipodes with ours!

Wild. You mean that neighbour Constance is a woman.
Why, yes; she is a woman, certainly.

True. So much for person. Now for her complexion.
What shall we liken to her dainty skin?
Her arm, for instance?—

Wild. Snow will match it.

True. Snow!
It is her arm without the smoothness on’t;
Then is not snow transparent. ’Twill not do.

Wild. A pearl’s transparent!

True. So it is, but yet
Yields not elastic to the thrilléd touch!
I know not what to liken to her arm
Except her beauteous fellow! Oh! to be
The chosen friend of two such neighbours!

Wild. Would
His tongue would make a halt. He makes too free
With neighbour Constance! Can’t he let her arms
Alone! I trust their chosen friend
Will ne’er be he! I’m vexed. [Aside.]

True. But graceful things
Grow doubly graceful in the graceful use!
Hast marked her ever walk the drawing-room?

Wild. [Snappishly.] No.

True. No! Why, where have been your eyes?

Wild. In my head!
But I begin to doubt if open yet. [Aside.]

True. Yet that’s a trifle to the dance; down which
She floats as though she were a form of air;
The ground feels not her foot, or tells not on’t;
Her movements are the painting of the strain,
Its swell, its fall, its mirth, its tenderness!
Then is she fifty Constances!—each moment
Another one, and each, except its fellow,
Without a peer! You have danced with her!

Wild. I hate
To dance! I can’t endure to dance!—Of course
You have danced with her?

True. I have.

Wild. You have?

True. I have.

Wild. I do abominate to dance!—could carve
Fiddlers and company! A dancing man
To me was ever like a dancing dog!
Save less to be endured.—Ne’er saw I one
But I bethought me of the master’s whip.

True. A man might bear the whip to dance with her!

Wild. Not if I had the laying of it on!

True. Well; let that pass. The lady is the theme.

Wild. Yes; make an end of it!—I’m sick of it. [Aside.]

True. How well she plays the harpsichord and harp!
How well she sings to them! Whoe’er would prove
The power of song, should hear thy neighbour sing,
Especially a love-song!

Wild. Does she sing
Such songs to thee?

True. Oh, yes, and constantly.
For such I ever ask her.

Wild. Forward minx! [Aside.]
Maids should not sing love-songs to gentlemen!
Think’st neighbour Constance is a girl to love?

True. A girl to love?—Ay, and with all her soul!

Wild. How know you that?

True. I have studied close the sex.

Wild. You town-rakes are the devil for the sex! [Aside.]

True. Not your most sensitive and serious maid
I’d always take for deep impressions. Mind
The adage of the bow. The pensive brow
I have oft seen bright in wedlock, and anon
O’ercast in widowhood; then, bright again,
Ere half the season of the weeds was out;
While, in the airy one, I have known one cloud
Forerunner of a gloom that ne’er cleared up—
So would it prove with neighbour Constance. Not
On superficial grounds she’ll ever love;
But once she does, the odds are ten to one
Her first love is her last!

Wild. I wish I ne’er
Had come to town! I was a happy man
Among my dogs and horses. [Aside.] Hast thou broke
Thy passion to her?

True. Never.

Wild. Never?

True. No.
I hoped you’d act my proxy there.

Wild. I thank you.

True. I knew ’twould be a pleasure to you.

Wild. Yes;
A pleasure!—an unutterable pleasure!

True. Thank you! You make my happiness your own.

Wild. I do.

True. I see you do. Dear Master Wildrake!
Oh, what a blessing is a friend in need!
You’ll go and court your neighbour for me?

Wild. Yes.

True. And says she “nay” at first, you’ll press again?

Wild. Ay, and again!

True. There’s one thing I mistrust—yea, most mistrust,
That of my poor deserts you’ll make too much.

Wild. Fear anything but that.

True. ’Twere better far
You slightly spoke of them.

Wild. You think so?

True. Yes.
Or rather did not speak of them at all.

Wild. You think so?

True. Yes.

Wild. Then I’ll not say a word
About them.

True. Thank you! A judicious friend
Is better than a zealous: you are both!
I see you’ll plead my cause as ’twere your own;
Then stay in town, and win your neighbour for me;
Make me the envy of a score of men
That die for her as I do. Make her mine,
And when the last “Amen!” declares complete
The mystic tying of the holy knot,
And ’fore the priest a blushing wife she stands,
Be thine the right to claim the second kiss
She pays for change from maidenhood to wifehood.

[Goes out.]

Wild. Take that thyself! The first be mine, or none!
A man in love with neighbour Constance! Never
Dreamed I that such a thing could come to pass!
Such person, such endowments, such a soul!
I never thought to ask myself before
If she were man or woman! Suitors, too,
Dying for her! I’ll e’en make one among ’em!
Woo her to go to church along with him,
And for my pains the privilege to take
The second kiss? I’ll take the second kiss,
And first one too—and last! No man shall touch
Her lips but me. I’ll massacre the man
That looks upon her! Yet what chance have I
With lovers of the town, whose study ’tis
To please your lady belles!—who dress, walk, talk,
To hit their tastes—what chance, a country squire
Like me? Yet your true fair, I have heard, prefers
The man before his coat at any time;
And such a one may neighbour Constance be.
I’ll show a limb with any of them! Silks
I’ll wear, nor keep my legs in cases more.
I’ll learn to dance town-dances, and frequent
Their concerts! Die away at melting strains,
Or seem to do so—far the easier thing,
And as effective quite; leave naught undone
To conquer neighbour Constance.

[Enter Lash.]

Lash. Sir.

Wild. Well, sir?

Lash. So please you, sir, your horse is at the door.

Wild. Unsaddle him again and put him up.
And, hark you, get a tailor for me, sir—
The rarest can be found.

Lash. The man’s below, sir,
That owns the mare your worship thought to buy.

Wild. Tell him I do not want her, sir.

Lash. I vow
You will not find her like in Lincolnshire.

Wild. Go to! She’s spavined.

Lash. Sir!

Wild. Touched in the wind.

Lash. I trust my master be not touched in the head!
I vow, a faultless beast! [Aside.]

Wild. I want her not,
And that’s your answer. Go to the hosier’s, sir,
And bid him send me samples of his gear,
Of twenty different kinds.

Lash. I will, sir.—Sir!

Wild. Well, sir.

Lash. Squire Brush’s huntsman’s here, and says
His master’s kennel is for sale.

Wild. The dogs
Are only fit for hanging!—

Lash. Finer bred—

Wild. Sirrah, if more to me thou talkest of dogs,
Horses, or aught that to thy craft belongs,
Thou mayst go hang for me!—A cordwainer
Go fetch me straight—the choicest in the town.
Away, sir! Do thy errands smart and well
As thou canst crack thy whip! [Lash goes out.]
Dear neighbour Constance,
I’ll give up horses, dogs, and all for thee!

[Goes out.]

SCENE II.

[Enter Widow Green and Lydia.]

W. Green. Lydia, my gloves. If Master Waller calls,
I shall be in at three; and say the same
To old Sir William Fondlove. Tarry yet!—
What progress, think you, make I in the heart
Of fair young Master Waller? Gods, my girl,
It is a heart to win and man as well!
How speed I, think you? Didst, as I desired,
Detain him in my absence when he called,
And, without seeming, sound him touching me?

Lydia. Yes.

W. Green. And effects he me, or not? How guess you?
What said he of me? Looked he balked, or not,
To find me not at home? Inquired he when
I would be back, as much he longed to see me?
What did he—said he? Come!—Is he in love,
Or like to fall into it? Goes well my game,
Or shall I have my labour for my pains?

Lydia. I think he is in love.—O poor evasion!
O to love truth, and yet not dare to speak it! [Aside.]

W. Green. You think he is in love—I’m sure of it.
As well have asked you has he eyes and ears,
And brain and heart to use them? Maids do throw
Trick after trick away, but widows know
To play their cards! How am I looking, Lydia?

Lydia. E’en as you ever look.

W. Green. Handsome, my girl?
Eh? Clear in my complexion? Eh?—brimful
Of spirits? not too much of me, nor yet
Too little?—Eh?—A woman worth a man?
Look at me, Lydia! Would you credit, girl,
I was a scarecrow before marriage?

Lydia. Nay!—

W. Green. Girl, but I tell thee “yea.” That gown of thine—
And thou art slender—would have hung about me!
There’s something of me now! good sooth, enough!
Lydia, I’m quite contented with myself;
I’m just the thing, methinks, a widow should be.
So, Master Waller, you believe, affects me?
But, Lydia, not enough to hook the fish;
To prove the angler’s skill, it must be caught;
And lovers, Lydia, like the angler’s prey—
Which, when he draws it near the landing-place,
Takes warning and runs out the slender line,
And with a spring perchance jerks off the hold—
When we do fish for them, and hook, and think
They are all but in the creel, will make the dart
That sets them free to roam the flood again!

Lydia. Is’t so?

W. Green. Thou’lt find it so, or better luck
Than many another maid! Now mark me, Lydia:
Sir William Fondlove fancies me. ’Tis well!
I do not fancy him! What should I do
With an old man?—Attend upon the gout,
Or the rheumatics! Wrap me in the cloud
Of a darkened chamber—’stead of shining out,
The sun of balls, and routs, and gala-days!
But he affects me, Lydia; so he may!
Now take a lesson from me—Jealousy
Had better go with open, naked breast,
Than pin or button with a gem. Less plague,
The plague-spot; that doth speedy make an end
One way or t’other, girl. Yet, never love
Was warm without a spice of jealousy.
Thy lesson now—Sir William Fondlove’s rich,
And riches, though they’re paste, yet being many,
The jewel love we often cast away for.
I use him but for Master Waller’s sake.
Dost like my policy?

Lydia. You will not chide me?

W. Green. Nay, Lydia, I do like to hear thy thoughts,
They are such novel things—plants that do thrive
With country air! I marvel still they flower,
And thou so long in town! Speak freely, girl!

Lydia. I cannot think love thrives by artifice,
Or can disguise its mood, and show its face.
I would not hide one portion of my heart
Where I did give it and did feel ’twas right,
Nor feign a wish, to mask a wish that was,
Howe’er to keep it. For no cause except
Myself would I be loved. What were’t to me,
My lover valued me the more, the more
He saw me comely in another’s eyes,
When his alone the vision I would show
Becoming to? I have sought the reason oft,
They paint Love as a child, and still have thought,
It was because true love, like infancy,
Frank, trusting, unobservant of its mood,
Doth show its wish at once, and means no more!

W. Green. Thou’lt find out better when thy time doth come.
Now wouldst believe I love not Master Waller?
I never knew what love was, Lydia;
That is, as your romances have it. First,
I married for a fortune. Having that,
And being freed from him that brought it me,
I marry now, to please my vanity,
A man that is the fashion. O the delight
Of a sensation, and yourself the cause!
To note the stir of eyes, and ears, and tongues,
When they do usher Mistress Waller in,
Late Widow Green, her hand upon the arm
Of her young, handsome husband!—How my fan
Will be in requisition—I do feel
My heart begin to flutter now—my blood
To mount into my cheek! My honeymoon
Will be a month of triumphs!—“Mistress Waller!”
That name, for which a score of damsels sigh,
And but the widow had the wit to win!
Why, it will be the talk of east to west,
And north and south!—The children loved the man,
And lost him so—I liked, but there I stopped;
For what is it to love, but mind and heart
And soul upon another to depend?
Depend upon another? Nothing be
But what another wills? Give up the rights
Of mine own brain and heart? I thank my stars
I never came to that extremity.

[Goes out.]

Lydia. She never loved, indeed! She knows not love,
Except what’s told of it! She never felt it.
To stem a torrent, easy, looking at it;
But once you venture in, you nothing know
Except the speed with which you’re borne away,
Howe’er you strive to check it. She suspects not
Her maid, not she, brings Master Waller hither.
Nor dare I undeceive her. Well might she say
Her young and handsome husband! Yet his face
And person are the least of him, and vanish
When shines his soul out through his open eye!
He all but says he loves me! His respect
Has vanquished me! He looks the will to speak
His passion, and the fear that ties his tongue—
The fear? He loves not honestly, and yet
I’ll swear he loves—I’ll swear he honours me!
It is but my condition is a bar,
Denies him give me all. But knew he me
As I do know myself! Whate’er his purpose,
When next we speak, he shall declare it to me.

[Goes out.]

SCENE III.—Sir William Fondlove’s.

[Enter Constance, dressed for riding, and Phœbe.]

Con. Well, Phœbe, would you know me? Are those locks
That cluster on my forehead and my cheek,
Sufficient mask? Show I what I would seem,
A lady for the chase? My darkened brows
And heightened colour, foreign to my face,
Do they my face pass off for stranger too?
What think you?

Phœbe. That he’ll ne’er discover you.

Con. Then send him to me. Say a lady wants
To speak with him, unless indeed it be
A man in lady’s gear; I look so bold
And speak so gruff. Away! [Phœbe goes out.] That I am glad
He stays in town, I own, but if I am,
’Tis only for the tricks I’ll play upon him,
And now begin, persuading him his fame
Hath made me fancy him, and brought me hither
On visit to his worship. Soft, his foot!
This he? Why, what has metamorphosed him,
And changed my sportsman to fine gentleman?
Well he becomes his clothes! But, check my wonder,
Lest I forget myself. Why, what an air
The fellow hath. A man to set a cap at!

[Enter Wildrake.]

Wild. Kind lady, I attend your fair commands.

Con. My veiléd face denies me justice, sir,
Else would you see a maiden’s blushing cheek
Do penance for her forwardness; too late,
I own, repented of. Yet if ’tis true,
By our own hearts of others we may judge,
Mine in no peril lies that’s shown to you,
Whose heart, I’m sure, is noble. Worthy sir,
Souls attract souls when they’re of kindred vein.
The life that you love, I love. Well I know,
’Mongst those who breast the feats of the bold chase,
You stand without a peer; and for myself
I dare avow ’mong such, none follows them
With heartier glee than I do.

Wild. Churl were he
That would gainsay you, madam.

Con. [Curtseying.] What delight
To back the flying steed, that challenges
The wind for speed!—seems native more of air
Than earth!—whose burden only lends him fire!—
Whose soul, in his task, turns labour into sport;
Who makes your pastime his! I sit him now!
He takes away my breath! He makes me reel!
I touch not earth—I see not—hear not. All
Is ecstasy of motion!

Wild. You are used,
I see, to the chase.

Con. I am, sir. Then the leap,
To see the saucy barrier, and know
The mettle that can clear it! Then, your time
To prove you master of the manège. Now
You keep him well together for a space,
Both horse and rider braced as you were one,
Scanning the distance—then you give him rein,
And let him fly at it, and o’er he goes
Light as a bird on wing.

Wild. ’Twere a bold leap,
I see, that turned you, madam.

Con. [Curtseying.] Sir, you’re good!
And then the hounds, sir! Nothing I admire
Beyond the running of the well-trained pack.
The training’s everything! Keen on the scent!
At fault none losing heart!—but all at work!
None leaving his task to another!—answering
The watchful huntsman’s cautions, check, or cheer.
As steed his rider’s rein! Away they go!
How close they keep together! What a pack!
Nor turn, nor ditch, nor stream divides them—as
They moved with one intelligence, act, will!
And then the concert they keep up!—enough
To make one tenant of the merry wood,
To list their jocund music!

Wild. You describe
The huntsman’s pastime to the life.

Con. I love it!
To wood and glen, hamlet and town, it is
A laughing holiday! Not a hill-top
But’s then alive! Footmen with horsemen vie,
All earth’s astir, roused with the revelry
Of vigour, health, and joy! Cheer awakes cheer,
While Echo’s mimic tongue, that never tires,
Keeps up the hearty din! Each face is then
Its neighbour’s glass—where Gladness sees itself,
And at the bright reflection grows more glad!
Breaks into tenfold mirth!—laughs like a child!
Would make a gift of its heart, it is so free!
Would scarce accept a kingdom, ’tis so rich!
Shakes hands with all, and vows it never knew
That life was life before!

Wild. Nay, every way
You do fair justice, lady, to the chase;
But fancies change.

Con. Such fancy is not mine.

Wild. I would it were not mine, for your fair sake.
I have quite given o’er the chase.

Con. You say not so!

Wild. Forsworn, indeed, the sportsman’s life, and grown,
As you may partly see, town-gentleman.
I care not now to mount a steed, unless
To amble ’long the street; no paces mind,
Except my own, to walk the drawing-room,
Or in the ball-room to come off with grace;
No leap for me, to match the light coupé;
No music like the violin and harp,
To which the huntsman’s dog and horn I find
Are somewhat coarse and homely minstrelsy:
Then fields of ill-dressed rustics, you’ll confess,
Are well exchanged for rooms of beaux and belles;
In short, I’ve ta’en another thought of life—
Become another man!

Con. The cause, I pray?

Wild. The cause of causes, lady.

Con. He’s in love! [Aside.]

Wild. To you, of women, I would name it last;
Yet your frank bearing merits like return;
I, that did hunt the game, am caught myself
In chase I never dreamed of!

[Goes out.]

Con. He is in love!
Wildrake’s in love! ’Tis that keeps him in town,
Turns him from sportsman to town-gentleman.
I never dreamed that he could be in love!
In love with whom?—I’ll find the vixen out!
What right has she to set her cap at him?
I warrant me, a forward, artful minx;
I hate him worse than ever. I’ll do all
I can to spoil the match. He’ll never marry—
Sure he will never marry! He will have
More sense than that! My back doth ope and shut—
My temples throb and shoot—I am cold and hot!
Were he to marry, there would be an end
To neighbour Constance—neighbour Wildrake—why,
I should not know myself!

[Enter Trueworth.]

Dear Master Trueworth,
What think you!—neighbour Wildrake is in love!
In love! Would you believe it, Master Trueworth?
Ne’er heed my dress and looks, but answer me.
Knowest thou of any lady he has seen
That’s like to cozen him?

True. I am not sure—
We talked to-day about the Widow Green!

Con. Her that my father fancies. Let him wed her!
Marry her to-morrow—if he will, to-night.
I can’t spare neighbour Wildrake—neighbour Wildrake!
Although I would not marry him myself,
I could not hear that other married him!
Go to my father—’tis a proper match!
He has my leave! He’s welcome to bring home
The Widow Green. I’ll give up house and all!
She would be mad to marry neighbour Wildrake;
He would wear out her patience—plague her to death,
As he does me. She must not marry him!

[They go out.]

ACT III.

SCENE I.—A Room in Widow Green’s.

[Enter Master Waller, following Lydia.]

Wal. But thou shalt hear me, gentle Lydia.
Sweet maiden, thou art frightened at thyself!
Thy own perfections ’tis that talk to thee.
Thy beauty rich!—thy richer grace!—thy mind,
More rich again than that, though richest each!
Except for these, I had no tongue for thee,
Eyes for thee!—ears!—had never followed thee!—
Had never loved thee, Lydia! Hear me!—

Lydia. Love
Should seek its match. No match am I for thee.