The poetical works of Charles Lamb A new edition |
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Scene—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
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 | The poetical works of Charles Lamb |  |
Scene—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.
John Woodvil—alone.
(Reading Parts of a Letter.)
“When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honourable shelter. The course I have taken (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured, tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.
“MARGARET.”
And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
And shew red eyes at parting. Who bids “farewell”
In the same tone he cries “God speed you, Sir?”
Or tells of joyful victories at sea,
Where he hath ventures? does not rather muffle
His organs to emit a leaden sound,
To suit the melancholy dull “farewell,”
Which they in Heaven not use?—
So peevish, Margaret?
But 'tis the common error of your sex,
When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,
(As who of woman born can keep his faculty
Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,
For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure
Make it renewable, as some appetites are,
As, namely, Hunger, Thirst?—) this being the case,
They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,
Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,
Which into maxims pass, and apothegms
To be retailed in ballads.—
They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive
More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart
Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here
For more disturbers of my sleep than one.
Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,
Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;
Yet Love not be excluded.—Foolish wench,
I could have lov'd her twenty years to come,
And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,
Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow! I'll try
To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance sake.
I shall not grudge so much.—
To him enters Lovel.
LOVEL.
Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping.
WOODVIL.
Nothing is the matter, only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.
LOVEL.
I cannot conceive you.
WOODVIL.
Margaret is flown.
LOVEL.
Upon what pretence?
WOODVIL.
Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.
Then you confess the charge?
WOODVIL.
To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side idolatry.
LOVEL.
As all good Christian's should, I think.
WOODVIL.
I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.
LOVEL.
A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.
WOODVIL.
We should have made excellent man and wife in time.
LOVEL.
A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.
WOODVIL.
While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.
Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.
WOODVIL.
Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.
LOVEL.
What made you neglect her, then?
WOODVIL.
Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men, physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.
(A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.)
LOVEL.
Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours.
(Enter one drunk.)
Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.
WOODVIL.
And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?
DRUNKEN MAN.
I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question.
Is it not his Majesty's birth-day? the day, of
all days in the year, on which King Charles the second
was graciously pleased to be born.
(Sings.)
“Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but
once a year.”
LOVEL.
Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!
DRUNKEN MAN.
And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, bully?
WOODVIL.
Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.
DRUNKEN MAN.
I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender
nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a
cup to encourage it.
(Sings)
“Ale that will make
“Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valour burgeon in tall men.”—But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.
WOODVIL.
Who are they?
DRUNKEN MAN.
Gentleman, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me.
(Exit singing.)
WOODVIL.
This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.
(Enter, at another door, Three calling for Harry Freeman.)
He is not here. Let us go look for him.
Where is Freeman?
Where is Harry?
WOODVIL.
Did you ever see such gentry?
(laughing)
These
LOVEL.
Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?
WOODVIL.
No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will shew you the Vandyke I have purchased. “The late King taking leave of his children.”
LOVEL.
I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.
(Exit Lovel.)
JOHN WOODVIL,
alone.
Now Universal England getteth drunk
For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
And weareth now a suit of morris bells,
With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
The common-wealthsman, and state machinist,
The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
Who heareth of these visionaries now?
Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
Who live by observation, note these changes
Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
I to myself am chief.—I know,
Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place,
And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods,
Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
In place of worship at the royal masques,
Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
For none of these,
Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
Do I affect the favours of the court.
I would be great, for greatness hath great power,
And that's the fruit I reach at.—
Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
(Exit.)
| The poetical works of Charles Lamb | |