 | The Honey Moon |  |
SCENE.
—The Cottage.
Enter the Duke, in a Peasant's Dress.
Duke.
She hath compos'd a letter; and, what's worse,
Contriv'd to send it by a village boy
That pass'd the window. Yet she now appears
Profoundly penitent. It cannot be;
'Tis a conversion too miraculous.
Her cold disdain yields with too free a spirit;
Like ice, which, melted by unnatural heat—
Not by the gradual and kindly thaw
Of the resolving elements—give it air,
Will straight congeal again.—She comes—I'll try her.
Enter Juliana.
Why, what's the matter now?
Juliana.
That foolish letter!
Duke.
What! you repent of having written it?
Juliana.
I do, indeed. I could cut off my fingers
For being partners in the act.
Duke.
No matter.
You may indite one in a milder spirit,
That shall pluck out its sting.
Juliana.
I will, if 'tis your pleasure.
Duke.
Well replied!
I now see plainly you have found your wits,
And are a sober, metamorphos'd woman.
Juliana.
I am, indeed.
Duke.
I know it; I can read you.
There is a true contrition in your looks:—
Yours is no penitence in masquerade.—
You are not playing on me?
Juliana.
Playing, sir!
Duke.
You have found out the vanity of those things
For which you lately sigh'd so deep?
Juliana.
I have, sir.
Duke.
A dukedom!—pshaw!—it is an idle thing.
Juliana.
I have begun to think so.
Duke.
That's a lie.— (Aside.)
Is not this tranquil and retired spot
More rich in real pleasures than a palace?
Juliana.
I like it infinitely.
Duke.
That's another!— (Aside.)
The mansion's small, 'tis true, but very snug.
Juliana.
Exceeding snug!
Duke.
The furniture not splendid,
But then all useful.
Juliana.
All exceeding useful;
There's not a piece on't but serves twenty purposes.
(Aside.)
Duke.
And, tho' we're seldom plagu'd by visitors,
We have the best of company—ourselves.—
Nor, whilst our limbs are full of active youth,
Need we loll in a carriage to provoke
A lazy circulation of the blood;
When walking is a nobler exercise.
Juliana.
More wholesome, too.
Duke.
And far less dangerous.
Juliana.
That's certain!
Duke.
Then for servants, all agree,
They are the greatest plagues on earth.
Juliana.
No doubt on't!
Duke.
Who, then, that has a taste for happiness,
Would live in a large mansion, only fit
To be an habitation for the winds;—
Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders;
See every body, care for nobody;
Lose the free use of limbs by being mew'd up
In a close carriage, next to being bed-rid,
As if, like mummies, we should fall to pieces
By taking air; and, above all, be pester'd
With those voracious vermin call'd attendants;—
When they could live as we do?
Juliana.
Who, indeed!
Duke.
Here we want nothing.
Juliana.
Nothing!—Yes, one thing.
Duke.
Indeed! what's that?
Juliana.
You will be angry.
Duke.
Nay.—
Not, if it be a reasonable thing.
Juliana.
What wants the bird who, from his wiry prison,
Sings to the passing travellers of air
A wistful note—that she were with them, sir?
Duke.
Umph! What, your liberty? I see it now.
(Aside.)
Juliana.
T'were pity that in such a Paradise
I should be cag'd!
Duke.
Why, whither would you, wife?
Juliana.
Only to taste the freshness of the air,
That breathes a wholesome spirit from without;
And weave a chaplet for you, of those flow'rs
That throw their perfume through my window bars,
And then I will return, sir.
Duke.
You are free;
But use your freedom wisely.
Juliana.
Doubt me not, sir!—
I'll use it quickly, too. (Aside, and Exit.)
Duke solus.
Duke.
But I do doubt you.—
There is a lurking devil in her eye
That plays at bopeep there, in spite of her.—
Her anger is but smother'd—not burnt out—
And ready, give it vent, to blaze again!—
You have your liberty:—but, like a cat,
Who gives short respite to a captive mouse,
I'll watch your gambols, lady.
[Exit.
—The Cottage.
Enter the Duke, in a Peasant's Dress.
Duke.
She hath compos'd a letter; and, what's worse,
Contriv'd to send it by a village boy
That pass'd the window. Yet she now appears
Profoundly penitent. It cannot be;
'Tis a conversion too miraculous.
Her cold disdain yields with too free a spirit;
Like ice, which, melted by unnatural heat—
Not by the gradual and kindly thaw
Of the resolving elements—give it air,
Will straight congeal again.—She comes—I'll try her.
Enter Juliana.
Why, what's the matter now?
Juliana.
That foolish letter!
Duke.
What! you repent of having written it?
Juliana.
I do, indeed. I could cut off my fingers
For being partners in the act.
Duke.
No matter.
You may indite one in a milder spirit,
That shall pluck out its sting.
35
I will, if 'tis your pleasure.
Duke.
Well replied!
I now see plainly you have found your wits,
And are a sober, metamorphos'd woman.
Juliana.
I am, indeed.
Duke.
I know it; I can read you.
There is a true contrition in your looks:—
Yours is no penitence in masquerade.—
You are not playing on me?
Juliana.
Playing, sir!
Duke.
You have found out the vanity of those things
For which you lately sigh'd so deep?
Juliana.
I have, sir.
Duke.
A dukedom!—pshaw!—it is an idle thing.
Juliana.
I have begun to think so.
Duke.
That's a lie.— (Aside.)
Is not this tranquil and retired spot
More rich in real pleasures than a palace?
Juliana.
I like it infinitely.
Duke.
That's another!— (Aside.)
The mansion's small, 'tis true, but very snug.
Juliana.
Exceeding snug!
Duke.
The furniture not splendid,
But then all useful.
Juliana.
All exceeding useful;
There's not a piece on't but serves twenty purposes.
(Aside.)
Duke.
And, tho' we're seldom plagu'd by visitors,
We have the best of company—ourselves.—
Nor, whilst our limbs are full of active youth,
Need we loll in a carriage to provoke
A lazy circulation of the blood;
When walking is a nobler exercise.
Juliana.
More wholesome, too.
Duke.
And far less dangerous.
Juliana.
That's certain!
Duke.
Then for servants, all agree,
They are the greatest plagues on earth.
36
No doubt on't!
Duke.
Who, then, that has a taste for happiness,
Would live in a large mansion, only fit
To be an habitation for the winds;—
Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders;
See every body, care for nobody;
Lose the free use of limbs by being mew'd up
In a close carriage, next to being bed-rid,
As if, like mummies, we should fall to pieces
By taking air; and, above all, be pester'd
With those voracious vermin call'd attendants;—
When they could live as we do?
Juliana.
Who, indeed!
Duke.
Here we want nothing.
Juliana.
Nothing!—Yes, one thing.
Duke.
Indeed! what's that?
Juliana.
You will be angry.
Duke.
Nay.—
Not, if it be a reasonable thing.
Juliana.
What wants the bird who, from his wiry prison,
Sings to the passing travellers of air
A wistful note—that she were with them, sir?
Duke.
Umph! What, your liberty? I see it now.
(Aside.)
Juliana.
T'were pity that in such a Paradise
I should be cag'd!
Duke.
Why, whither would you, wife?
Juliana.
Only to taste the freshness of the air,
That breathes a wholesome spirit from without;
And weave a chaplet for you, of those flow'rs
That throw their perfume through my window bars,
And then I will return, sir.
Duke.
You are free;
But use your freedom wisely.
Juliana.
Doubt me not, sir!—
I'll use it quickly, too. (Aside, and Exit.)
37
Duke.
But I do doubt you.—
There is a lurking devil in her eye
That plays at bopeep there, in spite of her.—
Her anger is but smother'd—not burnt out—
And ready, give it vent, to blaze again!—
You have your liberty:—but, like a cat,
Who gives short respite to a captive mouse,
I'll watch your gambols, lady.
[Exit.
| The Honey Moon | |