University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Cottage.
Enter the Duke, leading in Juliana.
Duke.
You are welcome home.

Juliana.
Home! you are merry; this retired spot
Would be a palace for an owl!

Duke.
'Tis ours.—

Juliana.
Ay, for the time we stay in it.—

Duke.
By Heav'n,
This is the noble mansion that I spoke of!

Juliana.
This!—you are not in earnest, tho' you bear it
With such a sober brow.—Come, come, you jest.

Duke.
Indeed I jest not; were it ours in jest,
We should have none, wife.

Juliana.
Are you serious, sir?

Duke.
I swear, as I'm your husband, and no Duke.

Juliana.
No Duke!

Duke.
But of my own creation, lady.

Juliana.
Am I betray'd?—Nay, do not play the fool!
It is too keen a joke.

Duke.
You'll find it true.

Juliana.
You are no Duke, then?

Duke.
None.

Juliana.
Have I been cozen'd? (Aside.)

And have you no estate, sir?
No palaces, nor houses?

Duke.
None but this:
A small snug dwelling, and in good repair.

Juliana.
Nor money, nor effects?

Duke.
None, that I know of.

Juliana.
And the attendants who have waited on us—

Duke.
They were my friends; who, having done my business,
Are gone about their own.

Juliana.
Why then 'tis clear.— (Aside.)

That I was ever born!—What are you, sir?

Duke.
I am an honest man—that may content you:
Young, nor ill-favoured. Should not that content you,
I am your husband, and that must content you.

Juliana.
I will go home! (Going.)


Duke.
You are at home already. (Staying her.)


Juliana.
I'll not endure it!—But, remember this—
Duke or no Duke, I'll be a Duchess, sir!

Duke.
A Duchess! you shall be a Queen,—to all
Who, by the courtesy, will call you so.

Juliana.
And I will have attendance!

Duke.
So you shall,
When you have learnt to wait upon yourself.

Juliana.
To wait upon myself! must I bear this?
I could tear out my eyes that bade you woo me,
And bite my tongue in two for saying, yes!

Duke.
And if you should, 'twould grow again.—
I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife
(For such, my would-be Duchess, you will find me),
You were cut out by nature.

Juliana.
You will find, then,
That education, sir, has spoilt me for it:
Why! Do you think I'll work?

Duke.
I think 'twill happen, wife.

Juliana.
What! rub and scrub
Your noble palace clean?

Duke.
Those taper fingers
Will do it daintily.

Juliana.
And dress your victuals
(If there be any)? Oh! I could go mad!

Duke.
And mend my hose, and darn my night-caps neatly;
Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to—

Juliana.
Or, like a clock, talk only once an hour?

Duke.
Or like a dial; for that quietly
Performs its work, and never speaks at all.

Juliana.
To feed your poultry and your hogs!—oh, monstrous!
And when I stir abroad, on great occasions,
Carry a squeaking tythe pig to the vicar;
Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot,
To sell your eggs and butter!

Duke.
Excellent!
How well you sum the duties of a wife!
Why, what a blessing I shall have in you!

Juliana.
A blessing!

Duke.
When they talk of you and me,
Darby and Joan shall be no more remembered;—
We shall be happy!

Juliana.
Shall we?

Duke.
Wond'rous happy!
Oh! you will make an admirable wife!

Juliana.
I'll make a devil.

Duke.
What?

Juliana.
A very devil.

Duke.
Oh, no! we'll have no devils.

Juliana.
I'll not bear it!
I'll to my father's.

Duke.
Gently: you forget
You are a perfect stranger to the road.

Juliana.
My wrongs will find a way, or make one.

Duke.
Softly!—
You stir not hence, except to take the air;
And then I'll breathe it with you.

Juliana.
What! confine me?

Duke.
'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad.

Juliana.
Am I a truant school-boy?

Duke.
Nay, not so;
But you must keep your bounds.

Juliana.
And if I break them
Perhaps you'll beat me.—

Duke.
No; I'll talk to you,
The man that lays his hand upon a woman,
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward.—

Juliana.
Well, if I may not travel to my father,
I may write to him, surely!—and I will—
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom
Three such unhop'd-for miracles at once
As pens, and ink, and paper.—

Duke.
You will find them
In the next room.—A word, before you go.—
You are my wife, by ev'ry tie that's sacred;
The partner of my fortune and my bed—

Juliana.
Your fortune!

Duke.
Peace!—no fooling, idle woman!
Beneath th' attesting eye of Heav'n I've sworn
To love, to honour herish, and protect you.
No human power can part us. What remains, then?
To fret, and worry, and torment each other,
And give a keener edge to our hard fate
By sharp upbraidings and perpetual jars?
Or, like a loving and a patient pair
(Wak'd from a dream of grandeur to depend
Upon their daily labour for support),
To sooth the taste of fortune's lowliness
With sweet consent and mutual fond endearment?—
Now to your chamber—write whate'er you please;
But pause before you stain the spotless paper
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal!

Juliana.
Why, what a patient worm you take me for!

Duke.
I took you for a wife;—and, ere I've done,
I'll know you for a good one.

Juliana.
You shall know me
For a right woman, full of her own sex;
Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger;
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns
By the proud reason of superior man
To be taught patience, when her swelling heart
Cries out revenge!

[Exit.
Duke
(solus.)
Why, let the flood rage on!
There is no tide in woman's wildest passion
But hath an ebb.—I've broke the ice, however.—
Write to her father!—She may write a folio—
But if she send it!—'Twill divert her spleen.—
The flow of ink may save her blood-letting.
Perchance she may have fits!—They're seldom mortal,
Save when the doctor's sent for.—
Tho' I have heard some husbands say, and wisely,
A woman's honour is her safest guard,
Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key.—
(Locks the door.)
So, thus begins our honey moon.—'Tis well!
For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds,
She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps,
Like April, she may wear a changeful face
Of storm and sunshine:—and, when that is past,
She will break glorious as unclouded May;
And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms
Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness.—
Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy,
Buy a dull age of penance; we, more wisely,
Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup,
That after to the very lees shall relish;
And to the close of this frail life prolong
The pure delights of a well-govern'd marriage.

[Exit.