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PLAYS,

WRITTEN BY

Sir John Vanbrugh.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

Volume the First.

CONTAINING,

• [The Relapse; Or, Virtue in Danger.]
• [The Provok'd Wife, with a new Scene.]
• [Æsop, in two Parts.]
• [The False Friend.]

LONDON:

Printed for J. Rivington, T. Longman, T. Lowndes, S. Caslon, C. Corbett, S. Bladon, W. Nicoll, T. Evans, and M. Waller.

MDCCLXXVI.

[AN]
ACCOUNT
OF THE
LIFE and WRITINGS
OF THE
AUTHOR.

Sir John Vanbrugh, an eminent dramatic Writer, Son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh, of London, Merchant, was born in the Parish of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, in 1666. The Family of Vanbrugh were for many Years Merchants of great Credit and Reputation, at Antwerp, and came into England in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, on account of the Persecution for Religion.

Sir John received a very liberal Education, and at the Age of nineteen, was sent by his Father to France, where he continued some Years: He became very eminent for his Poetry, to which he discovered an early propension. And, pity it is, that this agreeable Writer had not discovered his Wit, without any Mixture of that Licentiousness, which, tho' it pleased, tended to corrupt the Audience.

The Relapse was the first Play our Author produced, but not the first he had written; for he had at that Time by him, all the Scenes of The Provok'd Wife; but being then doubtful whether he should ever trust it to the Stage, he flung it by, and thought no more of it: Why the last written Play was first acted, and for what Reason they were given to different Stages, what follows will explain.

Upon our Author's first Step into public Life, when he was but an Ensign in the Army, and had a Heart greatly above his Income, he happened somewhere at his Winter Quarters, upon a slender Acquaintance with Sir Thomas Skipwith, to receive a particular Obligation from him; and many Years afterwards, when Sir Thomas's Interest in a Theatrical Patent (which he had a large Share in, though he little concerned himself in the Conduct of it) was rising but very slowly, Sir John thought that to give it a lift by a new Comedy, might be the handsomest Return he could make to those his former Favours; accordingly he soon after finished The Relapse, or, Virtue in Danger, which was acted at the Theatre in Drury-Lane, in 1696, with universal Applause.

Upon the Success of The Relapse, the late Lord Hallifax, who was a favourer of Betterton's Company, having formerly heard some Scenes of The Provok'd Wife read to him, engaged Sir John Vanbrugh to revise it, and give it to that Company. This was a Request not to be refused to so eminent a Patron of the Muses as Lord Hallifax, who was equally a Friend and Admirer of Sir John himself; nor was Sir Thomas Skipwith in the least disobliged by so reasonable a Compliance. The Provok'd Wife was accordingly acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's Inn-Fields in 1697, with great Success.

Tho' this Play met with so favourable a Reception, yet it was not without its Enemies: People of the graver Sort blamed the looseness of the Scenes, and the unguarded freedom of the Dialect; and indeed Sir John himself appears to have been sensible of the immorality of his Scenes; for in the Year 1725, when this Play was revived, he thought proper to substitute a new Scene in the fourth Act, in place of another, in which, in the wantonness of his Wit, he had made a Rake talk like a Rake, in the Habit of a Clergyman; to avoid which Offence, he put the same Debauchee into the Undress of a Woman of Quality; by which means the Follies he exposed in the Petticoat, appeared to the Audience innocent and entertaining; which new Scene is now for the first Time printed at the End of the Play.

Soon after the Success of The Provok'd Wife, Sir John produced the Comedy of Esop, in two Parts, which was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury Lane, in 1697. This was originally written in French by Mr. Boursaut, about six Years before; but the Scenes of Sir Polydorus Hogstye, the Players, and the Beau, were added by our Author. This Play contains a great deal of general Satire, and useful Morality; notwithstanding which, it met with but a cold Reception from the Audience, and its run ended in about nine Days. This seemed the more surprizing, as the French Comedy was played to crowded Audiences for a Month together. The little Success this Piece met with on the English Stage, cannot be better accounted for than in the Words of Mr. Cibber, who, speaking of this Play, makes the following Observation: "The Character that delivers Precepts of Wisdom, is in some sort severe upon the Auditor, for shewing him one wiser than himself; but when Folly is his Object, he applauds himself for being wiser than the Coxcomb he laughs at; and who is not more pleased with an Occasion to commend, than to accuse himself?"

The next Play our Author wrote, was The False Friend, a Comedy, which was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury Lane, in 1702.

In 1703, Sir John formed a Project of building a stately Theatre in the Haymarket, for which he had interest enough to get a Subscription of thirty Persons of Quality, at one hundred Pounds each, in consideration whereof, every Subscriber was for his own Life to be admitted to whatever Entertainments should be publicly performed there, without any farther Payment for Entrance.

In 1706, when this House was finished, Mr. Betterton and his Co-partners, who then acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's Inn-Fields, dissolved their Agreement, and put themselves under the direction of Sir John Vanbrugh and Mr. Congreve, imagining, perhaps, that the Conduct of two such eminent Authors might give a more prosperous turn to their Affairs; that the Plays it would now be their interest to write for them, would soon recover the Town to a true Taste, and be an Advantage that no other Company could hope for; and that till such Plays could be written, the Grandeur of their House, as it was a new spectacle, might allure the Crowd to support them: But, if these were their Views, they soon found their Dependance upon them was too sanguine; for though Sir John was a very expeditious Writer, yet Mr. Congreve was too judicious to let any Thing come unfinished from his Pen. Besides, every proper Convenience of a good Theatre had been sacrificed to shew the Audience a vast triumphal Piece of Architecture, in which, by Means of the spaciousness of the Dome, plays could not be successfully represented, because the Actors could not be distinctly heard.

Not long before this Time, the Italian Opera began to steal into England, but in as rude a Disguise as possible: notwithstanding which, the new Monster pleased, though it had neither Grace, Melody, nor Action, to recommend it. To strike in therefore with the prevailing Fashion, Sir John and Mr. Congreve opened their New Theatre with a translated Opera, set to Italian Music, called The Triumph of Love; but it met with a very cool Reception, being performed only three Times—to thin Houses.

Immediately upon the Failure of this Opera, Sir John Vanbrugh brought on his Comedy, called The Confederacy, taken, but very greatly improved, from Les Bourgeoises à la Mode, of Monsieur D'Ancourt. The Success of this Play was not equal to its Merit; for it is written with an uncommon Vein of Wit and Humour; which plainly shews that the difficulty of hearing, distinctly, in that large Theatre, was no small Impediment to the Applause that might have followed the same Actors on any other Stage; and indeed every Play acted there before the House was altered, seemed to suffer greatly from the same Inconvenience; for what few could plainly hear, it was not likely many could applaud. In a Word, the Prospect of Profits from this Theatre was so very barren, that Mr. Congreve, in a few Months, gave up his Share in it wholly to Sir John Vanbrugh; who, as he had a happier Talent of throwing the English Spirit into his Translations, than any other Author who had borrowed from them, he in the same Season produced The Mistake, a Comedy, taken from Le D'epit Amoureux, of Moliere; and The Country House, a Farce, translated from The French, which has been acted at all the Theatres with general Applause.

Sir John soon afterwards, thoroughly tired of Theatrical Affairs, determined to get rid of his Patent on the best Terms he could; he accordingly made an Offer to Mr. Owen Swiney of his House, Clothes, and Scenes, with the Queen's Licence to employ them, upon Payment of the Rent of five Pounds upon every acting Day, and not to exceed 700 l. in the Year; with which Proposal Mr. Swiney soon complied, and managed that Stage for some Time after.

Sir John is not a little to be admired for his Spirit, and readiness in producing Plays so fast upon the Neck of one another; for, notwithstanding his quick Dispatch, there is a clear and lively Simplicity in his Wit, that neither wants the Ornaments of Learning, nor has the least Smell of the Lamp, as the Face of a fine Woman, with her Locks loose about her, may then be in its greatest Beauty; such were his Productions, only adorned by Nature. And there is, besides, something so catching to the Ear, and so easy to the Memory, in all he writ, that it has been observed by all the Actors of those Times, the Stile of no Author whatsoever gave their Memory less Trouble, than that of Sir John Vanbrugh. And indeed his Wit and Humour was so little laboured, that his most entertaining Scenes seem to be no more than his common Conversation committed to Paper. As his Conceptions were so full of Life and Humour, it is not much to be wondered at, if his Muse should be sometimes too warm to wait the slow Pace of Judgment, or to endure the Drudgery of forming a regular Fable to them.

Besides the Plays already mentioned, Sir John left behind him Part of a Comedy, called A Journey to London, which has since been made an entire Play of by Mr. Cibber, and called The Provoked Husband, and was acted at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury Lane, in 1727, for twenty-eight Nights successively, with universal Applause.

In 1703, he was appointed Clarencieux King of Arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the Habit and Ensigns of the Order of the Garter to King George the First, then at Hanover; he was likewise Comptroller-General of the Board of Works, and Surveyor of the Gardens and Waters. In the Year 1714, he received the Order of Knighthood; and in 1719 he married Henrietta Maria, Daughter of Colonel Yarborough, of Haslington, near York, by whom he had three Children; Charles the eldest was killed at the Battle of Fontenoy, the other two died young.

Sir John died at his House in Scotland-Yard, the 26th of March, 1726, and is interred in the Family Vault, under the Church of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook.

[THE]
RELAPSE:
OR,
VIRTUE in DANGER:
A
COMEDY.

Being the Sequel of The Fool in Fashion.

[THE]
PREFACE.

To go about to excuse half the Defects this abortive Brat is come into the World with, would be to provoke the Town with a long useless Preface, when it is, I doubt, sufficiently soured already by a tedious Play.

I do therefore (with all the Humility of a repenting Sinner) confess, it wants every thing——but length; and in that, I hope, the severest Critick will be pleas'd to acknowledge I have not been wanting. But my Modesty will sure atone for every thing, when the World shall know it is so great, I am even to this Day insensible of those two shining Graces in the Play (which some part of the Town is pleas'd to compliment me with) Blasphemy and Bawdy.

For my part, I cannot find them out: If there were any obscene Expressions upon the Stage, here they are in the Print; for I have dealt fairly, I have not sunk a Syllable, that cou'd (though by racking of Mysteries) be rang'd under that Head; and yet I believe with a steady Faith, there is not one Woman of a real Reputation in Town, but when she has read it impartially over in her Closet, will find it so innocent, she will think it no Affront to her Prayer-Book, to lay it upon the same Shelf. So to them (with all manner of Deference) I entirely refer my cause; and I am confident they will justify me against those Pretenders to Good-manners, who at the same time have so little Respect for the Ladies, they wou'd extract a bawdy Jest from an Ejaculation, to put them out of countenance. But I expect to have these well-bred Persons always my Enemies, since I am sure I shall never write any thing lewd enough to make them my Friends.

As for the Saints (your thorough-pac'd ones, I mean, with skrew'd Faces and wry Mouths) I despair of them; for they are Friends to nobody: They love nothing but their Altars and themselves; they have too much Zeal to have any Charity; they make Debauches in Piety, as Sinners do in Wine; and are as quarrelsome in their Religion, as other People are in their Drink: so I hope nobody will mind what they say. But if any Man (with flat plod Shoes, a little Band, greasy Hair, and a dirty Face, who is wiser than I, at the Expence of being forty Years older), happens to be offended at a Story of a Cock and a Bull, and a Priest and a Bull-dog, I beg his pardon with all my Heart; which, I hope, I shall obtain, by eating my Words, and making this publick Recantation. I do therefore, for his Satisfaction, acknowledge I lyed, when I said, they never quit their hold; for in that little time I have liv'd in the World, I thank God I have seen them forc'd to it more than once; but next time I will speak with more Caution and Truth, and only say, they have very good Teeth.

If I have offended any honest Gentleman of the Town, whose Friendship or good Word is worth the having, I am very sorry for it; I hope they will correct me as gently as they can, when they consider I have had no other Design, in running a very great Risk, than to divert (if possible) some part of their Spleen, in spite of their Wives and their Taxes.

One Word more about the Bawdy, and I have done. I own the first Night this thing was acted, some Indecencies had like to have happened; but it was not my Fault.

The fine Gentleman of the Play, drinking his Mistress's Health in Nants Brandy, from six in the Morning to the time he waddled on upon the Stage in the Evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch of Vigour, I confess I once gave Amanda for gone, and am since (with all due respect to Mrs. Rogers) very sorry she escaped; for I am confident a certain Lady (let no one take it to herself that is handsome) who highly blames the Play, for the Barrenness of the Conclusion, would then have allowed it a very natural Close.

[PROLOGUE.]

Spoken by Miss Cross.

Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ,
To be o'ercharg'd with either Plot or Wit;
'Twas got, conceiv'd, and born in six Weeks Space,
And Wit, you know, 's as slow in Growth——as Grace.
Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your Taste;
I doubt 'twill prove our Author bred too fast:
For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry,
They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry.
'Tis the hard Fate of those who are big with Rhyme,
Still to be brought-to-bed before their Time.
Of our late Poets, Nature few has made;
The greatest part——are only so by Trade.
Still want of something brings the scribbling Fit;
For want of Money some of 'em have writ,
And others do't, you see—for want of Wit.
Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write,
So out they lug in resty Nature's spight,
As some of you spruce Beaux do—when you fight.
Yet let the Ebb of Wit be ne'er so low,
Some Glimpse of it a Man may hope to show,
Upon a Theme so ample——as a Beau.
So, howsoe'er true Courage may decay,
Perhaps there's not one Smock-Face here to-day,
But's bold as Cæsar—to attack a Play.
Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted Face, }
To do the Thing with more heroick Grace, }
'Tis six to four y' attack the strongest Place. }
You are such Hotspurs in this kind of Venture,
Where there's no Breach, just there you needs must enter.
But be advis'd——
E'en give the Hero and the Critique o'er, }
For Nature sent you on another score; }
She formed her Beau, for nothing but her Whore. }

[Dramatis Personæ.]

THE
RELAPSE;
OR,
VIRTUE in DANGER.

[ACT I. SCENE I.]

Enter Loveless, reading.

How true is that Philosophy which says
Our Heaven is seated in our Minds!
Through all the roving Pleasures of my Youth,
(Where Nights and Days seem all consum'd in Joy,
Where the false Face of Luxury
Display'd such Charms,
As might have shaken the most holy Hermit,
And made him totter at his Altar)
I never knew one Moment's Peace like this.
Here—in this little soft Retreat,
My thoughts unbent from all the Cares of Life,
Content with Fortune,
Eas'd from the grating Duties of Dependence,
From Envy free, Ambition under foot,
The raging Flame of wild destructive Lust
Reduc'd to a warm pleasing Fire of lawful Love,
My Life glides on, and all is well within.

Enter Amanda.

Lov. meeting her kindly.

How does the happy Cause of my Content, my dear Amanda?
You find me musing on my happy State,
And full of grateful Thoughts to Heaven, and you.

Aman. Those grateful Offerings Heaven can't receive
With more Delight than I do:
Would I cou'd share with it as well
The Dispensations of its Bliss,
That I might search its choicest Favours out,
And shower 'em on your Head for ever.

Lov. The largest Boons that Heaven thinks fit to grant
To Things it has decreed shall crawl on Earth,
Are in the Gift of Woman form'd like you.
Perhaps when Time shall be no more,
When the aspiring Soul shall take its Flight,
And drop this pond'rous Lump of Clay behind it,
It may have Appetites we know not of,
And Pleasures as refin'd as its Desires—
But till that Day of Knowledge shall instruct me,
The utmost Blessing that my Thought can reach,
[Taking her in his Arms.] Is folded in my Arms, and rooted in my Heart.

Aman. There let it grow for ever.

Lov. Well said, Amanda—let it be for ever.—
Wou'd Heaven grant that—

Aman. 'Twere all the Heaven I'd ask.
But we are clad in black Mortality,
And the dark Curtain of eternal Night
At last must drop between us.

Lov. It must: that mournful Separation we must see.
A bitter Pill it is to all; but doubles its ungrateful Taste,
When Lovers are to swallow it;

Aman. Perhaps that Pain may only be my Lot,
You possibly may be exempted from it;
Men find out softer ways to quench their Fires.

Lov. Can you then doubt my Constancy, Amanda?
You'll find 'tis built upon a steady Basis——
The Rock of Reason now supports my Love,
On which it stands so fix'd,
The rudest Hurricane of wild Desire
Wou'd, like the Breath of a soft slumbering Babe,
Pass by, and never shake it.

Aman. Yet still 'tis safer to avoid the Storm;
The strongest Vessels, if they put to Sea,
May possibly be lost.
Wou'd I cou'd keep you here in this calm Port for ever!
Forgive the Weakness of a Woman,
I am uneasy at your going to stay so long in Town;
I know its false insinuating Pleasures;
I know the Force of its Delusions;
I know the Strength of its Attacks;
I know the weak Defence of Nature;
I know you are a Man—and I—a Wife.

Lov. You know then all that needs to give you Rest,
For Wife's the strongest Claim that you can urge.
When you would plead your Title to my Heart,
On this you may depend; therefore be calm,
Banish your Fears, for they are Traitors to your Peace:
Beware of them, they are insinuating busy Things
That gossip to and fro, and do a World of Mischief
Where they come: But you shall soon be Mistress of 'em all,
I'll aid you with such Arms for their Destruction,
They never shall erect their Heads again.
You know the Business is indispensible, that obliges
Me to go to London, and you have no Reason, that I
Know of, to believe that I'm glad of the Occasion:
For my honest Conscience is my Witness,
I have found a due Succession of such Charms
In my Retirement here with you,
I have never thrown one roving Thought that way;
But since, against my Will, I'm dragg'd once more
To that uneasy Theatre of Noise,
I am resolv'd to make such use on't,
As shall convince you 'tis an old cast Mistress,
Who has been so lavish of her Favours,
She's now grown Bankrupt of her Charms,
And has not one Allurement left to move me.

Aman. Her Bow, I do believe, is grown so weak,
Her Arrows (at this distance) cannot hurt you,
But in approaching 'em you give 'em Strength:
The Dart that has not far to fly,
Will put the best of Armour to a dangerous Trial.

Lov. That Trial past, and y'are at ease for ever;
When you have seen the Helmet prov'd,
You'll apprehend no more for him that wears it:
Therefore to put a lasting Period to your Fears,
I am resolv'd, this once, to launch into Temptation.
I'll give you an Essay of all my Virtues;
My former boon Companions of the Bottle
Shall fairly try what Charms are left in Wine:
I'll take my Place amongst them,
They shall hem me in,
Sing Praises to their God, and drink his Glory;
Turn wild Enthusiasts for his sake,
And Beasts to do him Honour:
Whilst I, a stubborn Atheist,
Sullenly look on,
Without one reverend Glass to his Divinity.
That for my Temperance,
Then for my Constancy——

Aman. Ay, there take heed.

Lov. Indeed the Danger's small.

Aman. And yet my Fears are great.

Lov. Why are you so timorous?

Aman. Because you are so bold.

Lov. My Courage should disperse your Apprehensions.

Aman. My Apprehensions should alarm your Courage.

Lov. Fy, fy, Amanda, it is not kind thus to distrust me.

Aman. And yet my Fears are founded on my Love.

Lov. For if you can believe 'tis possible
I shou'd again relapse to my past Follies,
I must appear to you a thing
Of such an undigested Composition,
That but to think of me with Inclination,
Wou'd be a Weakness in your Taste,
Your Virtue scarce cou'd answer.

Aman. 'Twou'd be a Weakness in my Tongue,
My Prudence cou'd not answer,
If I shou'd press you farther with my Fears;
I'll therefore trouble you no longer with 'em.

Lov. Nor shall they trouble you much longer,
A little time shall shew you they were groundless;
This Winter shall be the fiery Trial of my Virtue;
Which, when it once has past,
You'll be convinc'd 'twas of no false Allay,
There all your Cares will end—

Aman. Pray Heaven they may!

[Exeunt Hand in Hand.

SCENE, Whitehall.

Enter Young Fashion, Lory, and Waterman.

Young Fash. Come, pay the Waterman, and take the Pormanteau.

Lory. Faith, Sir, I think the Waterman had as good take the Portmanteau, and pay himself.

Young Fash. Why sure there's something left in't.

Lory. But a solitary old Waistcoat, upon my Honour, Sir.

Young Fash. Why, what's become of the blue Coat, Sirrah?

Lory. Sir, 'twas eaten at Gravesend; the Reckoning came to thirty Shillings, and your Privy-Purse was worth but two Half-Crowns.

Young Fash. 'Tis very well.

Wat. Pray, Master, will you please to dispatch me?

Young Fash. Ay, here a——Canst thou change me a Guinea?

Lory. [Aside.] Good.

Wat. Change a Guinea, Master! Ha, ha, your Honour's pleas'd to compliment.

Young Fash. I'gad I don't know how I shall pay thee then, for I have nothing but Gold about me.

Lory. [Aside.]—Hum, hum.

Young Fash. What dost thou expect, Friend?

Wat. Why, Master, so far against Wind and Tide, is richly worth half a Piece.

Young Fash. Why, faith, I think thou art a good conscionable Fellow. I'gad, I begin to have so good an Opinion of thy Honesty, I care not if I leave my Portmanteau with thee, till I send thee thy Money.

Wat. Ha! God bless your Honour; I should be as willing to trust you, Master, but that you are, as a Man may say, a Stranger to me, and these are nimble Times; there are a great many Sharpers stirring. [Taking up the Portmanteau.] Well, Master, when your Worship sends the Money, your Portmanteau shall be forthcoming. My Name's Tugg, my Wife keeps a Brandy-Shop in Drab-Ally at Wapping.

Young Fash. Very well; I'll send for't to-morrow.

[Exit Wat.

Lory. So—Now, Sir, I hope you'll own yourself a happy Man, you have outliv'd all your Cares.

Young Fash. How so, Sir?

Lory. Why you have nothing left to take care of.

Young Fash. Yes, Sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still.

Lory. Sir, if you cou'd but prevail with somebody else to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for't.

Young Fash. Why, if thou canst tell me where to apply myself, I have at present so little Money, and so much Humility about me, I don't know but I may follow a Fool's Advice.

Lory. Why then, Sir, your Fool advises you to lay aside all Animosity, and apply to Sir Novelty, your elder Brother.

Young Fash. Damn my elder Brother.

Lory. With all my heart; but get him to redeem your Annuity, however.

Young Fash. My Annuity! 'Sdeath, he's such a Dog, he would not give his Powder-Puff to redeem my Soul.

Lory. Look you, Sir, you must wheedle him, or you must starve.

Young Fash. Look you, Sir, I will neither wheedle him, nor starve.

Lory. Why? what will you do then?

Young Fash. I'll go into the Army.

Lory. You can't take the Oaths; you are a Jacobite.

Young Fash. Thou may'st as well say I can't take Orders because I'm an Atheist.

Lory. Sir, I ask your Pardon; I find I did not know the Strength of your Conscience, so well as I did the Weakness of your Purse.

Young Fash. Methinks, Sir, a Person of your Experience should have known, that the Strength of the Conscience proceeds from the Weakness of the Purse.

Lory. Sir, I am very glad to find you have a Conscience able to take care of us, let it proceed from what it will; but I desire you'll please to consider, that the Army alone will be but a scanty Maintenance for a Person of your Generosity (at least as Rents now are paid); I shall see you stand in damnable need of some auxiliary Guineas for your menu Plaisirs; I will therefore turn Fool once more for your Service, and advise you to go directly to your Brother.

Young Fash. Art thou then so impregnable a Blockhead, to believe he'll help me with a Farthing?

Lory. Not if you treat him, de haut en bas, as you use to do.

Young Fash. Why, how would'st have me treat him?

Lory. Like a Trout, tickle him.

Young Fash. I can't flatter——

Lory. Can you starve?

Young Fash. Yes——

Lory. I can't; Good-by t'ye, Sir—

[Going.

Young Fash. Stay, thou wilt distract me. What would'st thou have me to say to him?

Lory. Say nothing to him, apply yourself to his Favourites; speak to his Perriwig, his Cravat, his Feather, his Snuff-box, and when you are well with them——desire him to lend you a Thousand Pounds. I'll engage you prosper.

Young Fash. 'Sdeath and Furies! Why was that Coxcomb thrust into the World before me? O Fortune—Fortune—thou art a Bitch, by Gad——

[Exeunt.

SCENE, A Dressing-Room.

Enter Lord Foppington in his Night-Gown.

Lord Fop. Page——

[Enter Page.

Page. Sir.

Lord Fop. Sir! Pray, Sir, do me the Favour to teach your Tongue the Title the King has thought fit to honour me with.

Page. I ask your Lordship's Pardon, my Lord.

Lord Fop. O, you can pronounce the Word then——I thought it would have choak'd you——D'ye hear?

Page. My Lord.

Lord Fop. Call La Varole, I wou'd dress—

[Exit Page.

Solus.

Well, 'tis an unspeakable Pleasure to be a Man of Quality——Strike me dumb——My Lord——Your Lordship——My Lord Foppington—Ah! c'est quelque chose de beau, que le Diable m'emporte——

Why the Ladies were ready to puke at me, whilst I had nothing but Sir Novelty to recommend me to 'em——Sure whilst I was but a Knight, I was a very nauseous Fellow——Well, 'tis Ten Thousand Pawnd well given——stap my Vitals——

Enter La Varole.

Me Lord, de Shoemaker, de Taylor, de Hosier, de Sempstress, de Peru, be all ready, if your Lordship please to dress.

Lord Fop. 'Tis well, admit 'em.

La Var. Hey, Messieurs, entrez.

Enter Taylor, &c.

Lord Fop. So, Gentlemen, I hope you have all taken pains to shew yourselves Masters in your Professions.

Tayl. I think I may presume to say, Sir——

La Var. My Lord——you Clawn you.

Tayl. Why, is he made a Lord?——My Lord, I ask your Lordship's Pardon; my Lord, I hope, my Lord, your Lordship will please to own, I have brought your Lordship as accomplish'd a Suit of Clothes, as ever Peer of England trode the Stage in, my Lord: Will your Lordship please to try 'em now?

Lord Fop. Ay, but let my People dispose the Glasses so, that I may see myself before and behind; for I love to see myself all raund——

[Whilst he puts on his Clothes, enter Young Fashion and Lory.

Young Fash. Hey-dey, what the Devil have we here? Sure my Gentleman's grown a Favourite at Court, he has got so many People at his Levee.

Lo. Sir, these People come in order to make him a Favourite at Court, they are to establish him with the Ladies.

Young Fash. Good God! to what an Ebb of Taste are Women fallen, that it shou'd be in the power of a lac'd Coat to recommend a Gallant to 'em——

Lo. Sir, Taylors and Perriwig-makers are now become the Bawds of the Nation, 'tis they debauch all the Women.

Young Fash. Thou sayest true; for there's that Fop now, has not by Nature wherewithal to move a Cook-maid, and by that time these Fellows have done with him, I'gad he shall melt down a Countess——But now for my Reception, I engage it shall be as cold a one, as a Courtier's to his Friend, who comes to put him in mind of his Promise.

Lord Fop. to his Taylor.] Death and eternal Tartures! Sir, I say the Packet's too high by a Foot.

Tayl. My Lord, if it had been an Inch lower, it would not have held your Lordship's Pocket-Handkerchief.

Lord Fop. Rat my Packet-Handkerchief! Have not I a Page to carry it? You may make him a Packet up to his Chin a purpose for it; but I will not have mine come so near my Face.

Tayl. 'Tis not for me to dispute your Lordship's Fancy.

Young Fash. to Lory.] His Lordship! Lory, did you observe that?

Lo. Yes, Sir; I always thought 'twould end there. Now, I hope, you'll have a little more Respect for him.

Young Fash. Respect! Damn him for a Coxcomb; now has he ruin'd his Estate to buy a Title, that he may be a Fool of the first Rate: But let's accost him——

To Lord Fop.] Brother, I'm your Humble Servant.

Lord Fop. O Lard, Tam; I did not expect you in England: Brother, I am glad to see you——

Turning to his Taylor.] Look you, Sir. I shall never be reconcil'd to this nauseous Packet; therefore pray get me another Suit with all manner of Expedition, for this is my eternal Aversion. Mrs. Callicoe, are not you of my Mind?

Semp. O, directly, my Lord, it can never be too low—

Lord Fop. You are passitively in the right on't, for the Packet becomes no part of the Body but the Knee.

Semp. I hope your Lordship is pleas'd with your Steenkirk.

Lord Fop. In love with it, stap my Vitals. Bring your Bill, you shall be paid to-marrow—

Semp. I humbly thank your Honour—

[Exit Semp.

Lord Fop. Hark thee, Shoemaker, these Shoes a'n't ugly, but they don't fit me.

Shoe. My Lord, my thinks they fit you very well.

Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the Instep.

Shoe. [Feeling his Foot.] My Lord, they don't hurt you there.

Lord Fop. I tell thee, they pinch me execrably.

Shoe. My Lord, if they pinch you, I'll be bound to be hang'd, that's all.

Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuade me I cannot feel?

Shoe. Your Lordship may please to feel what you think fit; but that Shoe does not hurt you—I think I understand my Trade——

Lord Fop. Now by all that's great and powerful, thou art an incomprehensible Coxcomb; but thou makest good Shoes, and so I'll bear with thee.

Shoe. My Lord, I have work'd for half the People of Quality in Town these Twenty Years; and 'tis very hard I should not know when a Shoe hurts, and when it don't.

Lord Fop. Well, pr'ythee, begone about thy Business.

[Exit Shoe.

[To the Hosier.] Mr. Mend Legs, a Word with you; the Calves of the Stockings are thicken'd a little too much. They make my Legs look like a Chairman's——

Mend. My Lord, my thinks they look mighty well.

Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a Judge of those things as I am, I have study'd them all my Life; therefore pray let the next be the thickness of a Crawn-piece less——[Aside.] If the Town takes notice my Legs are fallen away, 'twill be attributed to the Violence of some new Intrigue.

To the Perriwig-maker.] Come, Mr. Foretop, let me see what you have done, and then the Fatigue of the Morning will be over.

Foretop. My Lord, I have done what I defy any Prince in Europe to out-do; I have made you a Perriwig so long, and so full of Hair, it will serve you for a Hat and Cloak in all Weathers.

Lord Fop. Then thou hast made me thy Friend to Eternity: Come, comb it out.

Young Fash. Well, Lory, What do'st think on't? A very friendly Reception from a Brother after Three Years Absence!

Lory. Why, Sir, 'tis your own Fault; we seldom care for those that don't love what we love: if you wou'd creep into his Heart, you must enter into his Pleasures—Here you have stood ever since you came in, and have not commended any one thing that belongs to him.

Young Fash. Nor never shall, while they belong to a Coxcomb.

Lory. Then, Sir, you must be content to pick a hungry Bone.

Young Fash. No, Sir, I'll crack it, and get to the Marrow before I have done.

Lord Fop. Gad's Curse! Mr. Foretop, you don't intend to put this upon me for a full Perriwig?

Fore. Not a full one, my Lord! I don't know what your Lordship may please to call a full one, but I have cramm'd twenty Ounces of Hair into it.

Lord Fop. What it may be by Weight, Sir, I shall not dispute; but by Tale, there are not nine Hairs on a side.

Fore. O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! Why, as God shall judge me, your Honor's Side-Face is reduc'd to the Tip of your Nose.

Lord Fop. My Side-Face may be in an Eclipse for aught I know; but I'm sure my Full-Face is like the Full-moon.

Fore. Heaven bless my Eye-sight——[Rubbing his Eyes.] Sure I look thro' the wrong end of the Perspective; for by my Faith, an't please your Honour, the broadest place I see in your Face does not seem to me to be two Inches diameter.

Lord Fop. If it did, it would just be two Inches too broad; for a Perriwig to a Man, should be like a Mask to a Woman, nothing should be seen but his Eyes—

Fore. My Lord, I have done; if you please to have more Hair in your Wig, I'll put it in.

Lord Fop. Passitively, yes.

Fore. Shall I take it back now, my Lord?

Lord Fop. No: I'll wear it to-day, tho' it shew such a manstrous pair of Cheeks, stap my Vitals, I shall be taken for a Trumpeter.

[Exit Fore.

Young Fash. Now your People of Business are gone, Brother, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an Hour's Audience of you.

Lord Fop. Faith, Tam, I must beg you'll excuse me at this time, for I must away to the House of Lards immediately; my Lady Teaser's Case is to come on to-day, and I would not be absent for the Salvation of Mankind. Hey, Page! Is the Coach at the Door?

Page. Yes, my Lord.

Lord Fop. You'll excuse me, Brother.

[Going.

Young Fash. Shall you be back at Dinner?

Lord Fop. As Gad shall jedge me, I can't tell; for 'tis passible I may dine with some of aur Hause at Lacket's.

Young Fash. Shall I meet you there? for I must needs talk with you.

Lord Fop. That, I'm afraid, mayn't be so praper; far the Lards I commonly eat with, are a People of a nice Conversation; and you know, Tam, your Education has been a little at large: but if you'll stay here, you'll find a Family Dinner. Hey, Fellow! What is there for Dinner? There's Beef: I suppose my Brother will eat Beef. Dear Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap my Vitals.

[Exit, with his Equipage.

Young Fash. Hell and Furies, is this to be borne?

Lory. Faith, Sir, I cou'd almost have given him a knock o' th' Pate myself.

Young Fash. 'Tis enough, I will now shew you the excess of my Passion by being very calm: Come, Lory, lay your Loggerhead to mine, and in cool Blood let us contrive his Destruction.

Lory. Here comes a Head, Sir, would contrive it better than us both, if he wou'd but join in the Confederacy.

Enter Coupler.

Young Fash. By this Light, old Coupler alive still! Why, how now, Matchmaker, art thou here still to plague the World with Matrimony? You old Bawd, how have you the Impudence to be hobbling out of your Grave twenty Years after you are rotten!

Coup. When you begin to rot, Sirrah, you'll go off like a Pippin, one Winter will send you to the Devil. What Mischief brings you home again? Ha! You young lascivious Rogue, you: Let me put my Hand into your Bosom, Sirrah.

Young Fash. Stand off, old Sodom.

Coup. Nay, pr'ythee now don't be so coy.

Young Fash. Keep your Hands to yourself, you old Dog you, or I'll wring your Nose off.

Coup. Hast thou then been a Year in Italy, and brought home a Fool at last? By my Conscience, the young Fellows of this Age profit no more by their going abroad, than they do by their going to Church. Sirrah, Sirrah, if you are not hang'd before you come to my Years, you'll know a Cock from a Hen. But come, I'm still a Friend to thy Person, tho' I have a Contempt of thy Understanding; and therefore I would willingly know thy Condition, that I may see whether thou standest in need of my Assistance; for Widows swarm, my Boy, the Town's infested with 'em.

Young Fash. I stand in need of any body's Assistance, that will help me to cut my elder Brother's Throat, without the Risque of being hang'd for him.

Coup. I'gad, Sirrah, I cou'd help thee to do him almost as good a turn, without the danger of being burnt in the Hand for't.

Young Fash. Say'st thou so, old Satan? Shew me but that, and my Soul is thine.

Coup. Pox o'thy Soul! give me thy warm Body, Sirrah; I shall have a substantial Title to't when I tell thee my Project.

Young Fash. Out with it then, dear Dad, and take possession as soon as thou wilt.

Coup. Sayest thou so, my Hephestion? Why, then, thus lies the Scene: but hold; who's that? If we are heard we are undone.

Young Fash. What have you forgot Lory?

Coup. Who, trusty Lory, is it thee?

Lory. At your Service, Sir.

Coup. Give me thy Hand, old Boy; I'gad I did not know thee again; but I remember thy Honesty, tho' I did not thy Face; I think thou hadst like to have been hang'd once or twice for thy Master.

Lory. Sir, I was very near once having that Honour.

Coup. Well, live and hope; don't be discourag'd; eat with him, and drink with him, and do what he bids thee, and it may be thy Reward at last, as well as another's.

To Young Fash.] Well, Sir, you must know I have done you the Kindness to make up a Match for your Brother.

Young Fash. I am very much beholden to you, truly.

Coup. You may be, Sirrah, before the Wedding-day yet; the Lady is a great Heiress; fifteen hundred Pound a year, and a great Bag of Money; the Match is concluded, the Writings are drawn, and the Pipkin's to be crack'd in a Fortnight—Now you must know, Stripling (with Respect to your Mother), your Brother's the Son of a Whore.

Young Fash. Good.

Coup. He has given me a Bond of a Thousand Pounds for helping him to this Fortune, and has promis'd me as much more in ready Money upon the Day of Marriage; which, I understand by a Friend, he ne'er designs to pay me; if therefore you will be a generous young Dog, and secure me five thousand Pounds, I'll be a covetous old Rogue, and help you to the Lady.

Young Fash. I'gad, if thou can'st bring this about, I'll have thy Statue cast in Brass. But don't you doat, you old Pandar you, when you talk at this rate?

Coup. That your youthful Parts shall judge of: This plump Partridge, that I tell you of, lives in the Country, fifty Miles off, with her honoured Parents, in a lonely old House which nobody comes near; she never goes abroad, nor sees Company at home: To prevent all Misfortunes, she has her Breeding within Doors, the Parson of the Parish teaches her to play on the Bass-Viol, the Clerk to sing, her Nurse to dress, and her Father to dance: In short, nobody can give you admittance there but I; nor can I do it any other way, than by making you pass for your Brother.

Young Fash. And how the Devil wilt thou do that?

Coup. Without the Devil's Aid, I warrant thee. Thy Brother's Face not one of the Family ever saw; the whole Business has been manag'd by me, and all the Letters go thro' my Hands: The last that was writ to Sir Tunbelly Clumsey (for that's the old Gentleman's Name) was to tell him, his Lordship would be down in a Fortnight to consummate. Now you shall go away immediately; pretend you writ that letter only to have the romantick Pleasure of surprizing your Mistress; fall desperately in Love, as soon as you see her; make that your Plea for marrying her immediately; and when the fatigue of the Wedding-night's over, you shall send me a swinging Purse of Gold, you Dog you.

Young Fash. I'gad, old Dad, I'll put my Hand in thy Bosom now——

Coup. Ah, you young hot lusty Thief, let me muzzle you——

[Kissing.

Sirrah, let me muzzle you.

Young Fash. 'Psha, the old Letcher——

[Aside.

Coup. Well; I'll warrant thou hast not a Farthing of Money in thy Pocket now; no, one may see it in thy Face——

Young Fash. Not a Sous, by Jupiter.

Coup. Must I advance then?—Well, Sirrah, be at my Lodgings in half an Hour, and I'll see what may be done; we'll sign and seal, and eat a Pullet, and when I have given thee some farther Instructions, thou shalt hoist Sail and be gone——[Kissing.]——T'other Buss, and so adieu.

Young Fash. Um, 'psha.

Coup. Ah; you young warm Dog, you; what a delicious Night will the Bride have on't!

[Exit Coupler.

Young Fash. So, Lory; Providence, thou seest, at last takes care of Men of Merit: We are in a fair way to be great People.

Lo. Ay, Sir, if the Devil don't step between the Cup and the Lip, as he uses to do.

Young Fash. Why, faith, he has play'd me many a damn'd Trick to spoil my Fortune, and, I'gad, I'm almost afraid he's at work about it again now; but if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me.