 | The Gamesters |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE, Wilding's house.Enter Mrs. Wilding, and Barnacle.
Bar.
But has not master Hazard, in no wise, open'd
his business to you, lady, your husband, or
your fair cousin? I had his promise for it?
Mrs. Wild.
What business, good sir; I pray you speak
—This interruption is unfortunate.
[Aside.
Bar.
Thus then; I have, lady, a longing as it were,
to be more nearly connected with your family.—You must
needs know what I wou'd say.
Mrs. Wild.
Indeed I am no scholar, and this is all
Greek to me.
My nephew understands Greek, lady; ay, and
Latin too, and geography, and poetry, and philosophy;
and is withal as valiant—
Mrs. Wild.
'Tis the peculiar blessing of the times; our
young men are so learned and brave, and our old ones so
wise and virtuous, that we are the astonishment of the
whole world! 'tis the golden age, sir!—But your business.
Bar.
Vouchsafe me, lady, one plain answer to an honest
question—Has your fair kinswoman, the beauteous
Penelope, yet transferr'd her affections to any one happy
mortal?
Mrs. Wild.
If she had not, wou'd mr. Barnacle become
a purchaser?
Bar.
Me, madam! no, no, no! alas, alas, my dancing
days are over—But for my nephew—Oh, that nephew
of mine! You have seen him, and heard of him
surely—Have you not, madam?
Mrs. Wild.
My mind of late, Mr. Barnacle, has had
little attention, but to its own troubles.
Bar.
Alack, alack! I know it well—You are much
discours'd of and pitied by the world; and I'll be bold to
say, if there be any man that troubles you, or any that
you would have talk'd withal, let him be who he will—
I'll rid you of that care—He that shall offer to disturb you
but in a thought, do you mark me, madam? I'll take
an order with him—
Mrs. Wild.
What will you do, sir?
Bar.
Don't mistake me, I'll do nothing—But I'll send
my nephew—He shall work him, and jerk him, I warrant
you—You don't know how my nephew is improv'd
since he came from the university; he is a perfect knight
errant, the very St. George for England!—Why, madam,
he has had a pluck at the very flower of chivalry, ay,
and cropt it too—the very Donzel del Phebo of the time,
and all the roaring blades lower their top-sails to him—
I'll say no more—Name but the man, whom you but
frown upon, and I'll send my nephew to him.
I thank you, sir, I have no enemy to exercise
his prowess upon, my discontents are known to flow
from a nearer person—I am asham'd to say—
Bar.
Your husband—Say but the word, and I'll send
my nephew to him; and he were ten husbands he should
mollify him—Don't spare him—Had you but seen him
baffle a squire this morning!
Mrs. Wild.
These praises of your nephew, mr. Barnacle,
are thrown away upon me; 'tis my cousin must
be warm'd with 'em—And here she comes; so I shall
leave your eloquence to present the flower of chivalry to
her, which I think would be an ornament to the fairest
bosom in the kingdom.
Bar.
Madam, you do my nephew honor, and when
you are in the humour to have any man beaten, either
in your own family, or in the kingdom—I'll send my nephew
to him.
Enter Penelope.
Mrs. Wild.
Dear Pen, dispatch this old fool as fast as
you can, and in the mean time, I'll dispatch my page,
to fetch my wand'ring turtle home.
[Exit.
Bar.
Fair lady, I am your servant.
[Bows.
Pen.
Good Sir, I am yours.
[Curtseys.
Bar.
I fear my visit may offend.
Pen.
I am but ill at ease, indeed, sir, and most unfit
for company.
Bar.
What, so young, and melancholy—O, 'tis a pity.
Pen.
It is, indeed, and yet I am melancholy.
Bar.
And for what, fair lady?
Pen.
For a gentleman—What wou'd you have a fair
lady melancholy for?
Bar.
I'll send my nephew to him—
Pen.
To bring him to me?
Ay, bring him, and swing him, if you desire
it—You can make him do any thing, madam—Say you
but the word and he'll take the great Turk by the
whiskers—O my nephew is a pretty fellow! don't you
know him, madam?
Pen.
Not I, sir.
Bar.
Not know my nephew!—I'll send him to you.
Pen.
What to do, sir?
Bar.
He shall do any thing—the town's afraid of
him.
Pen.
O, pray keep him from me then.
Bar.
He'll hurt no woman—But for the men—
Pen.
Can he make 'em better, sir? if he cou'd, we
shou'd be much oblig'd to him.
Bar.
And he shall, lady.
Pen.
Then let it be quickly, for I'll stay 'till they are
mended, before I think of a husband.
Bar.
What think you, sweet lady, of the hero, himself?
Pen.
My thoughts must not run after such costly
fruit.
Bar.
My nephew is dying for you.
Pen.
Poor young man! but if we were both dying,
my guardian would see us at our last gaspings before he'd
consent.
Bar.
Would he! then my nephew shall talk to him—
Let him alone to get the consent.
Enter Servant.
Serv.
Your nephew, sir, is below, and begs to be admitted
to the idol of his affections.
Pen.
Shew the gentleman up.
[Exit Serv.
Bar.
Idol of his affections! there's an expression for
you—my nephew is a fine scholar and a great heroe—
here he is—I shall leave you together—your servant,
madam.
To her, nephew, now is your time—I have clear'd the
way—she is your own—you'll have a fine reception—I am
glad to see you are half drunk—be bold and conquer.
Neph.
Ne'er fear me, uncle, when I am rocky I defy
any woman in Christendom—I have not been in bed tonight
—when I am bosky I never flinch.
Dwin.
To her, to her, sir.
Neph.
Shall I attack her with a little learning, Dwindle;
if I could but put her into confusion, the town's my own.
Dwin.
Give her a broad-side then.
Neph.
I had rather beat the watch, than talk to her—
my courage fails me, Dwindle.
Pen.
I must send this fool a packing—do you trust
yourself abroad, sir, without your uncle?—you are very
young, and there are a great many coaches and carts, in
this metropolis!
Neph.
Coaches and carts, Dwindle! I am dumb, et
vox faucibus hæsit.
Dwin.
Give her one fire first.
Neph.
I had rather go back again, Dwindle.
[Going.
Dwin.
What, turn your back upon the enemy!
Neph.
I can't face her, per dios immortales!
Pen.
If you have any matter to communicate, let me
beg to know it immediately, for I am in haste.
Neph.
I had much matter to communicate, but your
coaches and carts have drove it quite out of my head.
Pen.
Poor gentleman! when you have recovered your
senses, and the use of your tongue, return to me again,
and I shall be at your service; in the mean time, I would
recommend a gentle nap to you, and I'll pay a visit to
my monkey; and so, sir, your servant.
[Exit.
Neph.
This is a fine reception truly, Dwindle.
Dwin.
So, so, sir.
Neph.
I am in a damn'd passion, Dwindle—I'll go and
kick her monkey.
Leave that to me, sir, and I'll do his business.
[Touching his sword.
Neph.
But this must not pass so! what does my uncle
mean, and Mr. Wilding mean, by sending me here to
be laugh'd at—if I meet 'em, woe betide 'em—I am
so full, that unless I have some vent, I shall burst—don't
speak to me, Dwindle, or I shall certainly fall upon you—
O for a man, woman, or child now!—I must beat something.
[Exeunt.
SCENE the street, Enter Hazard and Wilding.
Wild.
How now, Will, thou look'st desperately this
morning, did'st sleep well to-night.
Haz.
Do not enquire, but curse yourself 'till noon. I
am charitable; I do not bid thee hang thyself: and yet I
have cause to thank thee. I would not have lost the turn,
for all the money I won last night,—such a delicious
theft!
Wild.
I think so.
Haz.
I found it so, and dare make my affidavit.
Wild.
Thou didst not see her?
Haz.
Nor speak to her: to what purpose?
Wild.
Now do I
Grow melancholy.
Haz.
If thou do'st envy me,
There is some reason for't; thou dost imagine
I have had pleasure in my days; but never,
Never, so sweet a skirmish! not a kiss,
But had elysium in't.
Wild.
I was a rascal!
Haz.
If thou didst know but half so much as I,
Or couldst imagine it, thou wouldst acknowledge
Thyself worse than a rascal on record.
Wild.
Hold your tongue.
Haz.
I have not words t'express, how soft, how bounteous,
How every thing a man with full desires
Could wish a lady.
Prithee be quiet—but tell me, Will—
Haz.
Don't question me farther;
It is too much happiness to remember;
I am sorry I have said so much.
Wild.
Was not I curs'd
To lose my money, and such delicate sport?
Haz.
But that I love thee well, shouldst ne'er enjoy her.
Wild.
Why?
Haz.
I would almost cut thy throat.
Wild.
You wou'd not.
Haz.
But take her! and if thou part'st with her one
night more, for less than both the Indies, thou'lt lose by
her; she has paid me for my service; I ask nothing
else.
Wild.
If she be such a precious morsel, Will,
I think you may be satisfied.
Haz.
Take heed,
And understand thyself a little better:
I think you may be satisfied—with what?
A handsome wench! 'tis heresy; recant it;
I never shall be satisfied.
Wild.
You do not purpose
A new encounter.
Haz.
For thy sake,
'Tis possible I may not; I would have
My game kept for me. What I have done, faith,
Was upon your entreaty; if you have
The like occasion hereafter, I
Should have a hard heart to deny thee, Jack.
Wild.
Thou hast fir'd my blood! that I could call back time,
To be possess'd of what my indiscretion
Gave up to thy enjoying! but I am comforted;
She thinks 'twas I; and we hereafter may
Be free in our delights—Now, sir, the news
With you?
Page.
My mistress did command my diligence
To find you out, and pray you come to speak with her.
Wild.
When I am at leisure.
Page.
'Tis of consequence.
Wild.
Is Penelope with her?
Page.
Not when she sent me forth.
Shall I tell my mistress you will come to her?
Wild.
How officious you are for your mistress, sirrah—
What said she, I came not home all night?
Page.
Nothing to me—but my eyes ne'er beheld her
look so pleasantly.
Wild.
Well, well, say I'll come.
[Exit Page.
Haz.
Now farewel, Jack.—I need not urge your secresy
touching your mistress—I must laugh at thee, and
heartily, ha, ha, ha!—So farewel, farewel, Jack, ha,
ha, ha!—
[Exit Haz.
Wild.
To say the truth, I have shew'd myself a cox-comb.
A pox o' play! that made me double loser. For
aught I know, she may admit me never to such a turn
again—And then I ha' punish'd myself ingeniously—
O fool! fool! fool!
[Exit.
SCENE, Wilding's House.
Enter Mrs. Wilding and Penelope.
Mrs. Wild.
Is he coming, say'st thou?
Pen.
I saw him turn at the corner of the square.
Mrs. Wild.
Is he alone?
Pen.
Alone, and seems disorder'd; with his eyes upon
the ground, and his arms folded thus; he walks by starts,
and shews all is not right within.
Mrs. Wild.
Now comes the trial—Hark! I hear him
—You must away—Now for it.
Enter Wilding.
So, my good penitent man—I find your conscience was
sincere; you have at last taken a farewel to your follies,
in parting.
Wild.
I have bid farewel to 'em for ever—It was the
last effort of expiring passion, but 'tis gone, and now I'm
a new man.—Heigho.
[Sighs.
Mrs. Wild.
Why do you sigh, husband?
How d'ye, sweetheart?
[Smiling.
Wild.
Well; but a little melancholy.
You look more sprightfully, wife; something has pleas'd you.
Mrs. Wild.
It has indeed; and if it be no stain
To modesty, I would enquire how you
Sped the last night.
Wild.
I lost my money.
Mrs. Wild.
I don't mean that.
[Smiling.
Wild.
Don't mean that?—I am not betray'd, I hope!
what do you mean?
Mrs. Wild.
Y'are a fine gentleman!
Wild.
'Tis so; could she not keep her own counsel?
[Aside.
Mrs. Wild.
And have behav'd yourself most wittily,
And I may say most wrongfully: this will
Be much for your honour, when 'tis known.
Wild.
What will be known?
Mrs. Wild.
Do you not blush? oh fie!
Is there no modesty in man?
Wild.
Riddle my riddle my re—Pox of your ambiguities:
what would you have?—I would not yet seem
conscious.
Mrs. Wild.
'Tis time then to be plain; it was a wonder
I could be so long silent: did you like
Your last night's lodging?
Wild.
Very, very well;
I went not to bed all night.
Mrs. Wild.
Not to bed, all night!—think again, my
dear—your mem'ry may fail you.
Wild.
What do you mean?—I say I have not been in
bed to-night—and had you any eyes but jealous ones,
you'd see by mine I have not slept to-night.
Look at me, husband.
Wild.
So I do—there! there!—What mummery's
this?
Mrs. Wild.
Now tell me—do you feel no small compunction
at thus looking in my injur'd face?
Wild.
A pox upon these stale expostulations; must I
ever be dinn'd with 'em? and can't my reformation work
a change in you?—thou art the strangest woman.
Mrs. Wild.
Soft, soft, my good husband—did not
you meet Penelope last night?
Wild.
No, I met no Penelope last night.
Mrs. Wild.
And were you not to meet her?—speak,
my dear.
Wild.
Prithee, let me alone, my head aches.
Mrs. Wild.
No, no, 'tis my head that aches—did
you not pass the night, the live-long night, in wanton,
stolen embraces?
Wild.
Refuse me if I did.
Mrs. Wild.
You did not lie with Mrs. Penelope, my
kinswoman?
Wild.
Cuckold me, if I did. I swear—
Mrs. Wild.
Come, come, don't swear—but 'twas
no fault of yours, no fault, no virtue—but this is no
time to expostulate these actions—in brief, know 'twas
my plot.
[Smiling.
Wild.
What plot?
Mrs. Wild.
Yes, yes, my plot, my dear.
[Smiling.
Wild.
My plot, my dear! what do you smirk and
giggle at?—Leave your ideot tricks and tell me what
you mean.
Mrs. Wild.
You are so testy—but I shall please
you.
Wild.
Shall you? I wish you would—
Mrs. Wild.
Thus then—I have with sorrow long
observ'd which way your warm affection mov'd, and
found 'twould be in vain with open pow'r t'oppose you;
I therefore work'd by stratagem—I got the secret of
your meeting, and I wrought so with my honest cousin,
I might deceive your hard heart into kindness.
Wild.
That, that again, sweet wife; and be a little
Serious—Was it your plot to excuse your cousin,
And be the bedfellow?
Mrs. Wild.
'Twas indeed, my dear.
Wild.
'Twas in hell, my dear.
Mrs. Wild.
Bless me!
Wild.
I am fitted, fitted with a pair of horns
Of my own making!
Mrs. Wild.
What, do you take it thus?
Should you not rather thank, and think upon
That providence, that would not have you lost
In such a forest of loose thoughts: come, be
Yourself again; I am your handmaid still;
And have learn'd so much piety to conceal
Whatever should dishonour you.
Wild.
It buds—
It buds already! I shall turn starkmad—
Horn mad!—
Mrs. Wild.
What ails you? are you vex'd
Because your wantonness has thriv'd so well?
Wild.
Well with a vengeance! and did you really contrive
the plot yourself?
Mrs. Wild.
I did.
Wild.
You lie—I contriv'd some part of it—and can
you prove all this to be true?
Mrs. Wild.
I can—witness those tender joys, which,
tho' not meant for me—
Wild.
O damn your description!
I am satisfied.
Mrs. Wild.
You seem angry—I did expect your
thanks.
Wild.
Yes, I do thank you, thank you heartily;
Most infinitely thank you.
Mrs. Wild.
Doth this merit
No other payment but your scorn? then know,
Bad man, 'tis in my power to be reveng'd;
And what I had a resolution
Day in the face; I'll publish to the world
How I am wrong'd, and with what stubbornness
You have despis'd the cure of your own fame;
Nor shall my cousin suffer in her honour.
I stoop as low as earth to shew my duty;
But too much trampled on, I rise to tell
The world, I am a woman.
Wild.
No, no; hark you,
I do not mock you. I am taken with
The conceit; what a fine thing I have made myself?
Ne'er speak on't, thy device shall take; I'll love thee,
And kiss thee for't; thou'st paid me handsomely:
An admirable plot, and follow'd cunningly.
Mrs. Wild.
Then I'm happy, husband, if you're sincere.
Wild.
O very sincere, and very happy.
Mrs. Wild.
In earnest then of that sincerity,
Vouchsafe the kiss you promised—
Wild.
There—there.—
[Kisses her.
I'll see thee anon again; and lie with thee
To-night, without a stratagem. Penelope
Expects thee; keep all close; dear wife, no sentences.
[Hurries Mrs. Wild. off.
I'm trick'd and trimm'd at my own charges rarely!
[Exit.
| The Gamesters | |