 | The Love-Chase |  |
SCENE III.
—Sir William Fondlove's House.—A Room.Enter Sir William Fondlove.
Sir Wil.
At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings,
Is an old child—and with a daughter, too!
Her mother held me ne'er in check so strait
As she. I must not go but where she likes,
Nor see but whom she likes, do anything
But what she likes!—A slut, bare twenty-one!
Nor minces she commands!—A brigadier
More coolly could not give his orders out
Than she! Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp,
My steward adjutant; my lacqueys serjeants,
That bring me her high pleasure how I march
And counter-march—when I'm on duty—when
I'm off—when suits it not to tell it me
Herself—“Sir William, thus my mistress says!”
As saying it were enough—no will of mine
Consulted! I will marry. Must I serve,
Better a wife my mistress, than a daughter!
And yet the vixen says, that if I marry,
I'll find she'll rule my wife, as well as me!
Enter Trueworth.
Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth!
True.
Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!
Sir Wil.
Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill,
'Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps;
7
And guess my age.
True.
Turn'd fifty.
Sir Wil.
Ten years more!
How marvellously well I wear! I think
You would not flatter me!—But scan me close,
And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing
He means to find—What signs of age dost see?
True.
None!
Sir Wil.
None about the corners of the eyes?
Lines that diverge like to the spider's joists,
Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?
They call them crow's feet—Has the ugly bird
Been perching there?—Eh?—Well?
True.
There's something like,
But not what one must see, unless he's blind
Like steeple on a hill!
Sir Wil.
[after a pause.]
Your eyes are good!
I am certainly a wonder for my age;
I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?
True.
A plummet from your head would find your heel.
Sir Wil.
It is my make—my make, good Master Trueworth;
I do not study it. Do you observe
The hollow in my back? That's natural.
As now I stand, so stood I when a child,
A rosy, chubby boy!—I am youthful to
A miracle! My arm is firm as 'twas
At twenty. Feel it!
True.
[Feeling Sir William's arm.]
It is oak!
Sir Wil.
Flint—flint
Isn't it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known me
Ten years and upwards. Think'st my leg is shrunk?
True.
No.
Sir Wil.
No! not in the calf?
True.
As big a calf
As ever!
Sir Wil.
Thank you, thank you—I believe it!
When others waste, 'tis growing-time with me!
I feel it, Master Trueworth! Vigour, sir,
In every joint of me!—could run!—could leap!
Why shouldn't I marry? Knife and fork I play
Better than many a boy of twenty-five—
Why shouldn't I marry? If they come to wine,
My brace of bottles can I carry home,
And ne'er a headache. Death! why shouldn't I marry?
True.
I see in nature no impediment.
Sir Wil.
Impediment? She's all appliances!—
And fortune 's with me, too! The Widow Green
Gives hints to me. The pleasant Widow Green!
Whose fortieth year, instead of autumn, brings
A second summer in. Odds bodikins,
How young she looks! What life is in her eyes!
8
Her waist, still tapering, takes it pliantly!
How lollingly she bears her head withal:
On this side, now—now, that! When enters she
A drawing-room, what worlds of gracious things
Her curtsey says!—she sinks with such a sway,
Greeting on either hand the company,
Then slowly rises to her state again!
She is the empress of the card-table!
Her hand and arm!—Gods, did you see her deal—
With curved and pliant wrist dispense the pack,
Which, at the touch of her fair fingers flies!
How soft she speaks—how very soft! Her voice
Comes melting from her round and swelling throat,
Reminding you of sweetest, mellowest things—
Plums, peaches, apricots, and nectarines—
Whose bloom is poor to paint her cheeks and lips.
By Jove, I'll marry!
True.
You forget, Sir William,
I do not know the lady.
Sir Wil.
Great your loss!
By all the gods I'll marry!—but my daughter
Must needs be married first. She rules my house;
Would rule it still, and will not have me wed.
A clever, handsome, darling, forward minx!
When I became a widower, the reins
Her mother dropp'd she caught,—a hoyden girl;
Nor, since, would e'er give up; howe'er I strove
To coax or catch them from her. One way still
Or t'other she would keep them—laugh, pout, plead;
Now vanquish me with water, now with fire;
Would box my face, and, ere I well could ope
My mouth to chide her, stop it with a kiss!
The monkey! what a plague she's to me! How
I love her!—How I love the Widow Green!
True.
Then marry her!
Sir Wil.
I tell thee, first of all
Must needs my daughter marry. See I not
A hope of that. She nought affects the sex:
Comes suitor after suitor—all in vain.
Fast as they bow she curtsies, and says “Nay!”
Or she, a woman, lacks a woman's heart,
Or has a special taste which none can hit.
True.
Or taste, perhaps, which is already hit.
Sir Wil.
Eh!—how?
True.
Remember you no country friend,
Companion of her walks—her squire to church,
Her beau whenever she went a-visiting—
Before she came to town?
Sir Wil.
No!
True.
None?—art sure?
No playmate when she was a girl?
9
O! ay!
That Master Wildrake, I pray'd thee go
And wait for at the inn; but had forgotten.
Is he come?
True.
And in the house. Some friends that met him,
As he alighted, laid strong hands upon him,
And made him stop for dinner. We had else
Been earlier with you.
Sir Wil.
Ha! I am glad he is come.
True.
She may be smit with him.
Sir Wil.
As cat with dog!
True.
He heard her voice as we came up the stairs,
And darted straight to join her.
Sir Wil.
You shall see
What wondrous calm and harmony take place,
When fire meets gunpowder!
Con.
[without].
Who sent for you?
What made you come?
Wild.
[without].
To see the town, not you!
A kiss!
Con.
I vow I'll not.
Wild.
I swear you shall.
Con.
A saucy cub! I vow, I had as lief
Your whipper-in had kiss'd me.
Sir Wil.
Do you hear?
True.
I do. Most pleasing discords!
Enter Constance and Wildrake.
Con.
Father, speak
To neighbour Wildrake!
Sir Wil.
Very glad to see him!
Wild.
I thank you, good Sir William! Give you joy
Of your good looks!
Con.
What, Phœbe!—Phœbe!—Phœbe!
Sir Wil.
What want'st thou with thy lap-dog?
Con.
Only, sir,
To welcome neighbour Wildrake! What a figure
To show himself in town!
Sir Wil.
Wilt hold thy peace?
Con.
Yes; if you'll lesson me to hold my laughter!
Wildrake.
Wild.
Well?
Con.
Let me walk thee in the Park—
How they would stare at thee!
Sir Wil.
Wilt ne'er give o'er?
Wild.
Nay, let her have her way—I heed her not!
Though to more courteous welcome I have a right;
Although I am neighbour Wildrake! Reason is reason!
Con.
And right is right! so welcome, neighbour Wildrake;
I am very, very, very glad to see you!
Come, for a quarter of an hour, we'll e'en
Agree together! How do your horses, neighbour?
10
Pshaw!
Con.
And your dogs?
Wild.
Pshaw!
Con.
Whipper-in and huntsman?
Sir Wil.
Converse of things thou know'st to talk about!
Con.
And keep him silent, father, when I know
He cannot talk of any other things?
How does thy hunter? What a sorry trick
He play'd thee t'other day, to balk his leap
And throw thee, neighbour! Did he balk the leap?
Confess! You sportsmen never are to blame!
Say you are fowlers, 'tis your dog 's in fault!
Say you are anglers, 'tis your tackle 's wrong;
Say you are hunters, why the honest horse
That bears your weight, must bear your blunders too!
Why, whither go you?
Wild.
Anywhere from thee.
Con.
With me you mean.
Wild.
I mean it not.
Con.
You do!
I'll give you fifty reasons for't—and first,
Where you go, neighbour, I'll go!
[They go out—Wild. pettishly—Constance laughing.
Sir Wil.
Do you mark?
Much love is there!
True.
Indeed, a heap, or none!
I'd wager on the heap!
Sir Wil.
Ay!—Do you think
These discords, as in the musician's art,
Are subtle servitors to harmony?
That all this war's for peace? This wrangling but
A masquerade where love his roguish face
Conceals beneath an ugly visor!—Well?
True.
Your guess and my conceit are not a mile
Apart. Unlike to other common flowers,
The flower of love shows various in the bud;
'Twill look a thistle, and 'twill blow a rose!
And with your leave I'll put it to the test;
Affect myself, for thy fair daughter, love—
Make him my confidant—dilate to him
Upon the graces of her heart and mind,
Feature and form—that well may comment bear—
Till—like the practised connoisseur, who finds
A gem of heart out in a household picture
The unskill'd owner held so cheap he grudged
Renewal of the chipp'd and tarnish'd frame,
But values now as priceless—I arouse him
Into a quick sense of the worth of that
Whose merit hitherto, from lack of skill,
Or dulling habit of acquaintanceship,
He has not been awake to.
Con.
[without].
Neighbour Wildrake!
Sir Wil.
Hither they come. I fancy well thy game!
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I'll call her hence, anon—then ply him well.
[Sir William goes out.
Wild.
[without].
Nay, neighbour Constance!
True.
He is high in storm.
Enter Wildrake and Constance.
Wild.
To Lincolnshire, I tell thee.
Con.
Lincolnshire!
What, prithee, takes thee off to Lincolnshire?
Wild.
Too great delight in thy fair company.
True.
Nay, Master Wildrake, why away so soon?
You are scarce a day in town!—Extremes like this,
And starts of purpose, are the signs of love,
Though immatured as yet.
[Aside.
Con.
He's long enough
In town! What should he here? He's lost in town:
No man is he for concerts, balls, or routs!
No game he knows at cards, save rare Pope Joan!
He ne'er could master dance beyond a jig;
And as for music, nothing to compare
To the melodious yelping of a hound,
Except the braying of his huntsman's horn!
Ask him to stay in town!
Sir Wil.
[without].
Hoa, Constance!
Con.
Sir!—
Neighbour, a pleasant ride to Lincolnshire!
Good bye!
Sir Wil.
[without].
Why, Constance!
Con.
Coming, sir, Shake hands!
Neighbour, good bye! Don't look so woe-begone;
'Tis but a two-days' ride, and thou wilt see
Rover, and Spot, and Nettle, and the rest
Of thy dear country friends!
Sir Wil.
[without].
Constance! I say.
Con.
Anon!—Commend me to the gentle souls,
And pat them for me!—Will you, neighbour Wildrake?
Sir Wil.
[without].
Why, Constance! Constance!
Con.
In a moment, sir!
Good bye!—I'd cry, dear neighbour—if I could!
Good bye!—A pleasant day when next you hunt!
And, prithee, mind thy horse don't balk his leap!
Good bye—and, after dinner, drink my health!
“A bumper, sirs, to neighbour Constance!”—Do!—
And give it with a speech, wherein unfold
My many graces, more accomplishments,
And virtues topping either—in a word,
How I'm the fairest, kindest, best of neighbours!
[They go out severally.—Trueworth trying to pacify Wildrake—Constance laughing.
| The Love-Chase | |